Henry Birdsey - Live in Brussels (CD)

Henry Birdsey
Live in Brussels
Memory Waste
USA, 2026
Compact Disc

First release on an exciting new label out of Western Mass!


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FROM THE LABEL:

Performance and venue coalesce into a more complex third thing on Live in Brussels, the first live solo album by drone-based composer and musician Henry Birdsey (Tongue Depressor, Old Saw, Glasspack). It documents a gig that took place on the cold and rainy Belgian evening of November 19th, 2024 in Église Saint-Rémy, an early 1900s neo-gothic church that had been recently condemned due to water damage from severe leaks in the roof. The promoter, Daniel Zimmer (Ekumen), gained access to the historic building through a friend who had been given permission to maintain and protect a large library in one of the dry rooms in the basement.

“The cathedral was low-lit and there were puddles everywhere of dark water reflecting the ceiling,” recalls Birdsey of the sanctuary space, where the audience sat in a horseshoe shape around the altar, with a few scattered in the pulpits. “We were all gathered in this cold and there were sounds of dripping water all around like it was a rainforest of stone architecture. The old sacristy had been made into a makeshift green room with a space heater where I warmed my hands before playing.”

This setting enmeshes itself in Birdsey’s set like a musique concrète layer, shading and deepening his already heavily-textured drones. During the opening segment where he plays harmonica, the clicking footsteps of late-arriving audience members are heard interspersed with the blade-like planks of sound he’s laying down. Metallic and quavering, these drones move in a step-like motion of their own: careful strides across a dark abyss, each new one eeking out only after its predecessor has fully stilled. Suddenly, one of the cathedrals' heavy doors booms shut mid-drone, adding off-kilter punctuation to the proceedings. At other points during the show: dogs bark, throats clear, chair legs scrape, Birdsey’s instrument buzzes and whines like a tablesaw. Raindrops, more footsteps…

But a few minutes in, when Birdsey switches to bagpipes, all attention shifts to the mammoth, strangely emotional new sound that fills the room. Like some sort of alien hunting call, he holds this bracing first note until any initial oppressiveness gives way and it becomes undeniably beautiful and even soothing. There’s something about this moment—the juxtaposition between the bagpipe and harmonica tones, and not knowing exactly when the instrument change is coming—that has the power to send chills.

It’s surreal and a little disorienting how quickly you find yourself deep inside this ballooning new sound, and for such dramatic duration. A calming, hypnotic feeling soon sets in, but also one of gentle anticipation: of when the next note, or shift in pitch, or subtle embellishment is coming and what form it will take. You find your attention drawn to the outer edges of this slow-shifting mass where things start to warp and blur and shift; hum and pulse and tilt. Meanwhile, just underneath it, you start to notice the hushed rumblings of the room bleeding back in and even the sounds outside, the wet hiss of traffic.

Part of what makes the piece feel so rounded and alive comes from the way it was recorded. “A handful of people recorded the show on phones and handheld recorders, which were passed along to me to sort through,” explains Birdsey, who is a recording engineer. “It’s not a collage by any means, but the recordings came from these different sources and I tried to layer them together in a way that sounded true to the room that evening.”

And then, of course, there’s the magical effect the cathedral itself has on the sound, with each breath from the instrument—even the thinner, more quickly-clipped tones that start to arrive midway through as the tension increases—transforming inside the open airspace, and carrying rich and full all the way up to the coffers.

-Chris Liberato