Turner Williams creates ageless worlds of drifting sonic memory, building them slowly, through restraint and textured resonance rather than accumulation. The shahi baaja suits this perfectly. Its tone sits in an interesting place, sometimes familiar and warm, often strange and beguiling, and Williams has developed an intimate feel for what the instrument can express. Vipérine, his latest album, moves between melted folk ruminations and swelling drones, with moments of drama punctuating stoic laments. There’s a real tenderness that keeps pulling back into something quiet and reflective. Repetition etches this music into my brain in ways I can’t fully explain, only feel. I’ve explored Williams’s music for years, but Vipérine has connected to a deeper layer. It’s a gem.
Vipérine is out now on mistralph0ne. Pick up a copy HERE.
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What are some of your earliest sound memories? Were there particular sounds from childhood that shaped how you hear music now?
I used to dance in the womb at Alabama football games when the Crimson Tide Million Dollar Band kicked in. Pascal Quignard says that the pre-birth acoustical experience defines our relationship to music, making us deeply vulnerable to its power. Before we are born, we live in a shadow world of vibrations. I think that’s gotta be the first sound memory that impacts us all. We’re born already enthralled by sound.
When did you first start making music, and what drew you to it initially? Was guitar your first instrument?
Yes, I started alone on mom’s classical guitar, imitating Richie Havens at the beginning of the Woodstock movie. I tried to take lessons, but my teacher quit on me, two lessons into “Babe I’m Gonna Leave You” by Led Zeppelin lol. I started tuning all of the strings to D and strumming out. But I also craved the social side of music. Picking up an instrument was a way of making art into a group sport.
How did you first encounter the shahi baaja? That’s not an instrument most people stumble across casually. What was it about that sound that pulled you in?
Fortunately, I did stumble across it casually. In 2005, I played at a noise festival called FreeDumb Fest outside of Atlanta. I had to drive back to school early and miss the final performances, which included Sunburned Hand of the Man and Majik Markers. Afterwards, I heard stories about this insane solo set by a mystery musician from the UK who played an insane, unknown instrument. I eventually saw some camcorder footage: it was Mick Flower shredding a “Japanese Banjo” (shahi baaja) on an ironing board. Not long after, I heard the first Flower-Corsano LP, “The Radiant Mirror” (Textile), and immediately fell in love with the sound. There’s something uncanny and superimposed about the sound of the instrument that syncs up with something that was already rattling around in my imagination. I was searching for an instrument to devote myself to, but not something to master. Once I knew what I was looking for, I found a cheap variation called a bulbul tarang on eBay and was off to the races. Jumping to the present, my current shahi baaja is one that I truly stumbled across. In 2013, I had moved back to Alabama and met a retired “exotic” instrument importer. I walked into his shop, and there she was, covered in dust.
Can you explain what a shahi baaja is for listeners who might not be familiar? How does it differ from other stringed instruments you’ve worked with?
The shahi baaja (“royal instrument” in Hindi) is an amplified keyboard-zither from India. The body of the instrument sits across the lap like a dulcimer and a typewriter-style keyboard frets a pair of melody strings while 13 open strings, which serve as a swarmandal (drone harp), all amplified by an electric pickup. It descends from the taishōgoto, a Japanese keyboard-zither designed in the early 20th century. The inventor of the taishōgoto took inspiration from European and American instruments, so there’s a real global feedback loop at the root of the shahi baaja. At the core, it’s an affordable, portable alternative to the heavier, expensive keyboard instruments of the time. The horizontal layout of the instrument is the biggest difference for me. It’s all laid out in front of you in a very intuitive way.
vipérine is described as your shahi baaja “alone, more than ever” – I really love that. What prompted that stripping away? Was it a conscious decision to work with such minimal means?
I came of age playing in bands and really conceiving of music as a social art project. You draw and paint alone, but play music together. When I moved to France 6 years ago, I embraced the solo music practice by choice and necessity, but still used a lot of live looping to keep that group feeling alive. But the stripping away comes naturally. I find that my melodies and gestures with the instrument need more negative space to resound now than before. I really like the people that I get to perform for here, and somehow they’ve given me permission to slow down and lighten up… Also, when I perform here, I usually travel by public transport, so I keep my gear extremely portable. Paring things down materially might echo elsewhere.
The album title vipérine is evocative. What does that word mean to you, and how did it become the title for this work?
I found a tiny silver snake in a pool of water carved into a granite riverbank. It was swimming and catching the light as it moved. It was minuscule yet somehow reflecting this very strong white afternoon summer light. I was dumbstruck. My wife’s cousin called it a vipérine. Then my wife told me that vipérine was also the name for a purple flower that grew wild in our garden. I started thinking about the snake and flower being two expressions of the same striking word. Then I experienced some heavy things in life, the word “vipérine” seemed more like a veil that separates or connects two different worlds, in this case, animal and plant life, but, on another level, existence and non-existence. So, for me, vipérine became a fragile something that exists in two states, which was a concept that I really needed to discover for myself. All of the tracks on the album follow this template.
The album is described as “splendid mosaics of improvisations.” Can you walk me through your process? Are you recording long improvisations and then shaping them afterward, or is there more structure going in? And how do you know when an improvisation has captured something worth keeping? What are you listening for in those moments?
All of my tracks come from live improvisations. I am always improvising, period. I’m also tweaking my gear, my sound, and my set. I never really practice, but I soundcheck often. So there are natural intervals where things get interesting, and I start recording my concerts and soundchecks, and a new body of work or mosaic comes together. My music is very physical, so small changes to my gear, tuning, or body position always reveal a new musical possibility. I usually work from concert material because the audience adds more tension, even when you can’t hear them. I’m rolling the dice, but a big part of my practice is preparing to get extremely inspired on the spot. Trying to give myself goosebumps. An improvisation that becomes a “keeper” captures something that emerges spontaneously, develops, and runs its course. It feels like I’ve tuned into something organised and beyond myself, but then I lose the signal, haha. Then I search for the beginning and ending of the track, which filters into the sequencing of tracks which coheres into whatever form the new mosaic takes.
You’ve spent years touring DIY across the world. What has that experience taught you about the music itself? Does performing these pieces night after night in different spaces change how you understand them?
The experience has taught me that music is a living thing. It exists one show at a time. I love this ritual aspect of it. Recordings aren’t the same. Participation is essential. Even when I’m not performing, I feel the need to help put on gigs, host people, etc. The social fabric is just as important. When you’re engaged, you’re always meeting new people, finding new inspiration. Yes, I think performing somewhere shapes my understanding of that place, but in a very personal way that I can’t really translate into meaning, only feelings. Good feelings!
There’s this line: “simplicity is a path, and revelation is only possible at the price of abandonment.” That feels like it could be describing a spiritual practice as much as a musical one. Does making this music function that way for you?
Definitely.
And lastly, to close as always… What are some of your favorite sounds in the world?
– Le Mistral, the most wild and brutal of the Marseille winds
– Underwater sounds of the Mediterranean Sea while snorkeling
– Cicadas & frogs in the valley where I live
– French baroque music on the Astrée label
– Late era works of Harvey Milk & Coil
– the new Hans Reichel compilation Dalbergia Retusa on Black Truffle
– Frank Hurricane live
– Susan Alcorn live (RIP)
Foxy Digitalis depends on our awesome readers to keep things rolling. Pledge your support today via our Patreon or subscribe to The Jewel Garden. You can also make a one-time donation via Ko-fi.
