- Walking by 1426 Broadway in Seattle's Capitol Hill neighborhood last Tuesday, you could be forgiven for thinking that the queue snaking out the door was heading into a yoga studio. Plenty of people were toting mats and blankets, but as the rope and security guard attested, this was no vinyasa class—this was a nightclub.
The reason for all the comfy gear? Rare Air, an occasional Tuesday night session that invites punters to experience ambient music through Q Nightclub's heavyweight Funktion-One soundsystem. Seattle's underground is a hotbed for experimental, spaced-out weirdness, and sometimes these sounds bubble up to the surface, taking up residence at the city’s most mainstream club. This time around, Rare Air had teamed up with the Elevator crew.
With the city still reeling from the election, the arrival of ambient pioneer Laraaji was like a gift from above. The Philadelphia-based musician's fabled backstory involves a chance discovery by Brian Eno back in the '70s, and his star has been resurrected recently with help from labels like RVNG Intl. But Laraaji's New Age mysticism remains just as popular on the ashram circuit as it does in clubland. He's more likely to play a laughter yoga class or meditation workshop than a nightclub, which made his appearance at Q all the more exciting.
Tea was more popular than beer as patrons settled into their cushioned spots on the floor, waiting for Laraaji to deliver them to inner bliss. He set up behind a table that cradled a zither and a kalimba connected to digital effects modulators. With brushes, mallets, drumsticks and other implements all laid out neatly before him, he was like a surgeon heading to the operating table.
But before he used any of them, he strode over to a loose hanging gong, brushing it lightly then playing it like a drum. This triggered a storm cloud of sound as he engaged in a slow, rhythmic exploration of the gong's round surface. While it reverberated, Laraaji began plucking the zither and intoning a made-up language over the mic. Later, he worked in fragments of soft-spoken poetry: "I walked in the peace garden / The light was everywhere."
The set was mellifluous, enveloping the listener like a warm blanket (indeed, many of the crowd were wrapped in blankets on this below-freezing night). It was more like jazz improv than the seamless ambience of digital productions, with Laraaji showing that he has as much in common with London's dub poets, Gil Scott-Heron or his Philadelphia compatriots in Sun Ra Arkestra as he does with Aphex Twin or The Orb.
The powerful soundsystem proved both friend and foe. It coaxed out extra oomf from the treble tones but with the gong, there was too much reverb to appreciate the subtleties of the sounds. In the end, it was the visuals that brought the venue to life, as wall-sized projections of nature scenes and blinking blue lights provided a soothing backdrop to the music.
Afterwards, grateful fans went up to Laraaji one by one and thanked him with bows, their hands clasped together. It was a far cry from the rowdy mess that usually follows the end of a dance party and another reminder of how flexible club spaces can be. While Rare Air host DJ Explorateur steered the night to its conclusion, most people packed up their things and stood about idly chit-chatting. More than one couple, though, remained entwined in a cuddle puddle on the floor—the same dance floor that in 48 hours would be home to thousands of ravers getting loose to John Digweed.
Photo credit /
Valerie Calano