Get thee to yond masterpiece: Extraordinary duo reinvents Twelfth Night

I thought we'd come to the wrong theater. Upon taking our seats for an evening of Shakespearean comedy one night a couple of months ago, my 8-year-old daughter whispered, "The stage is a mess!" It was a modern mess, at that, which also didn't make sense as "Twelfth Night" was written more than 400 years ago.

Instead of Illyria — the fictional town on the Adriatic Coast in which Duke Orsino's love for Olivia blooms amidst a complex web of deceit, disguises and general Renaissancian folly — the scene before us was clearly the unkempt bedroom of a contemporary female teenager.

My kids marveled at the epic disarray, replete with unmade bed, boom box, backpack, magazines, bottles of water, stuffed animals, jewelry, accessories and clothes strewn everywhere.

Clearly, this was not going to be your average interpretation of the Bard and yet the chaotic set proved to be not so much a hint as a foil of what was to follow, for the actors who inhabited it would proffer a level of theatrical harmony and orderliness I'd never quite encountered before.

The cast size alone was astounding. Two actors were it, each masterfully shouldering seven full roles in a production that was faithful to every last "nay," "bade" and "troth" with which W.S. peppered this, one of his most celebrated comedies.

Such remarkable feats of thespian versatility always intrigue me but that's only part of the reason I'll be returning to attend one of the command performances taking place in Brattleboro this Saturday and Sunday.

It would be more than enough to wow every wench and knave in the house to simply have a pair of capable actors shifting nimbly from youthful protagonist Viola to staid Malvolio to hapless Sir Andrew Aguecheek to the quixotic duke. Such rapid-fire stagings often result in a delightful sort of bedlam that seems intended to pleasantly befuddle more than tenaciously engage the viewer.

In this case, though, not only is a complex, robust plot authentically explicated with an impossibly broad constellation of verbal and gestural nuances emanating from 14 clearly defined characters, it is all orchestrated by — remember the set? — two teenage girls.

Allie Bliss, 16, and Rosa Palmeri, 17, to be exact, and not to put too fine a point on it but Emma Thompson and Dame Judy Dench have some mighty strong protégés over here on this side of the pond and they had better make way.

Consummate actors and longtime friends, Bliss and Palmeri have been performing with the New England Youth Theatre in Brattleboro for about five years and their bonds, both professional and personal, were what inspired NEYT director Peter Gould to come up with the concept of the pair taking on the whole of "Twelfth Night."

"The play itself is so zany and it lets both of the actresses explore a wide range of characters," Gould said during a recent conversation.

Indeed. What is so remarkable about this production is not simply the acting prowess of these young women, for their ability to completely transform voice, carriage and countenance from one moment to the next is a marvel in and of itself.

Add to that a seamless execution of intricate choreography involving props, outfits, movement and makeup and what Gould, Bliss and Palmeri have mastered is not simply a madcap adaptation of Shakespearean comedy but an evocative amalgam of various performing arts disciplines as well.

When Palmeri sheds Malvolio's cloak and stuffs a pillow under her shirt to become the rotund Sir Toby Belch, or Bliss trades Orsino's leather jacket for Olivia's elegant negligee, it isn't just a costume change but an invitation to the audience to join in as co-conspirators in the fluent distillation of various symbols into powerful theatrical instruments. Apparel, objects and furniture become pragmatic devices and we're all deliciously privy to this inventive, albeit elaborate, storytelling process. This method, in all its seemingly untethered yet brilliantly constructed absurdity, is manifest throughout the play.

Malvolio's imprisonment, as ordered by a perplexed Olivia after his "midsummer madness" obscures his misguided love for her, is conveyed when Palmeri grimaces from behind the bars in the bed's headboard. A free-standing mirror becomes Viola's twin brother Sebastian when the same actress speaks to her own image in it, moving a small black faux-goatee to and from her chin to shift from male to female sibling.

Likewise, Bliss, deftly conducting a conversation between Sir Andrew Aguecheek and Olivia's maid Maria, both of whom she inhabits fully, holds out the servant's dress, which sways from a hanger and asks of it, "Wherefore, sweetheart? What's your metaphor?" while wearing Aguecheek's preposterous but apt lampshade chapeau.

As the play hums along, the pace increases with visual codes and physical cues synthesizing into ever-tighter exchanges as we audience members become tacitly complicit in what is a fine-tuned, mirthful and decidedly transparent comic ruse.

The fluidity of these subtle signs and the meaning packed into them gets further honed down to understated flourishes of characters' accoutrements so that when Bliss, having scribbled a black moustache under her nose, dangles an ostrich feather boa and addresses it with an earnest speech about "my soul the faithfull'st off'rings," we know in an instant that it's Orsino pleading with the opulent Olivia, the object of his unrequited love.

I asked Gould about how this streamlined comedic efficacy evolved.

"I came up with idea and as we rehearsed it, we'd have situations where we'd say 'We need to keep this character on stage — what can we do to represent him or her?' And we worked on it together. It's faithful to the text and the girls know they have a winner."

As the director of more than 40 Shakespearean plays and, having taken the New England Youth Theatre's production of "King Lear" to Shakespeare's high school in Stratford-Upon-Avon a few years ago, Gould is well aware that the caliber of this production merits a revisit to the United Kingdom's cradle of iambic pentametre and hopes to be able to bring it there one day.

For now, this weekend we lucky few have the privilege to see Bliss and Palmeri shift from 17 to 70, man to woman, servant to sailor and privileged to pauper in mere moments and to savor the rare fellowship they cultivate between actor and audience.

NEYT's production of "Twelfth Night" integrates superb dramatic acting with fruitful physical comedy and a kind of subtle yet beautifully allusive facial miming, along with a dose of Japanese noh theater in the form of blatant changes happening right in front of the audience, mid-performance.

This multilayered, potent presentation yields a satiating performance that's as abundant with twists, characters and pathos as a Russian novel, but — 'O heavens themselves!' — a lot more fun. It's easy to follow, as well.

"It should be said that as a director I'm really into clarity and the audience has no trouble understanding it," Gould asserted. "And I bet Shakespeare would have loved it."

Too right he would. He likely would have howled with laughter at the very notion of two young waifs tackling his play and yet would also probably have had to set down his cakes and ale in utter awe upon witnessing the well-oiled, rousing game of emotive hot-potato these two agile, old-souled young women sustain, using his verbiage as poetically delectable, fragrant said tuber.

Online: www.neyt.org
Annie: annieguyoncommunications.com

Springtime summit for the literary crowd: Manchester hunts down muse, means and the next great novel

My favorite New Yorker cartoon, by Lee Lorenz, depicts a haggard man leaning against a wall during a party while a chipper, cocktail-wielding gentleman chimes, "A writer? Terrific. I wish I had time to write."

That image, for all its sardonic mirth, is an all-too accurate if not painful summation of a mindset most writers encounter at one time or another. Writing is an oft-misunderstood, sometimes stigmatized vocation and, because it is a solitary endeavor as well, it can sometimes seem as if we're each on our own deserted, computer-equipped island launching painstakingly crafted verbiage out into the ether, hoping someone's going to read it and take it seriously.

Even in a place like Vermont, which is purported to have the highest population of writers per capita than any other state, writing can be a mighty lonely business. When a deadline looms and the kids are at school and calls are being screened, the only sound rattling through this big house is my fingers tapping the keyboard, an occasional "meow" from Dudley the cat and the kettle boiling every couple of hours.

Author Jessamyn West said, "Writing is a solitary occupation. Family, friends, and society are the natural enemies of the writer. He must be alone, uninterrupted and slightly savage if he is to sustain and complete an undertaking."

Okay, but can't we get together every once in a while despite our apparent savagery?

Thanks to the folks at the Greater Manchester Arts Council, the answer is a resounding "yes." From April 25 to April 27, the first Poets and Writers Weekend will take place in various locations throughout Manchester and the impressive agenda is vibrant and varied.

Though this year's focus is The Emerging Writer, authors of every rank and genre — established novelists, young poets and mid-career journalists alike — will find professional succor and creative sanctuary in the weekend's well-rounded roster of celebrated scholars, esteemed authors, self-publishing entrepreneurs and organizational leaders in the literary arts.

One needn't be a writer to attend and, in fact, readers are heartily encouraged to take in the colorful spectrum of lectures, workshops, discussions and readings as well, all of which promise to offer rare insights into the experiences, motivations and muses of writers, from various viewpoints.

Commencing the proceedings is a talk by Dr. Peter Stanlish — author of "Robert Frost: The Poet as Philosopher" and longtime friend of the man himself — who will discuss his book and the promise he made to Frost in 1944 to write it. The next day offers workshops by writers such as poet Elena Giorgiou, novelist Jon Katz and eco-writer William Shutkin, who will explore the writer's experience through a number of lenses, whether it's finding your distinctive voice, a reputable publisher or a reliable source of that elusive well-spring of all things creative: inspiration.

From the perspectives of both avid reader and ardent writer, I find myself most intrigued and sometimes confounded by this latter notion and, upon doing a little digging, found I'm not alone. It would seem that, simply by definition, writers are an opinionated lot and not only in the context of literary output but also in terms of personal methodologies and attendant advice to peers.

Somerset Maugham, for instance, once said, "The professional writer creates the mood. He has his inspiration too, but he controls and subdues it to his bidding by setting himself regular hours of work." Italian author Alberto Moravia was of a similar mindset when he said, "I trust in inspiration, which sometimes comes and sometimes doesn't. But I don't sit back waiting for it. I work every day."

Pearl S. Buck concurred, "I don't wait for moods. You accomplish nothing if you do that. Your mind must know it has got to get down to work." And Jack London had a rather more aggressive approach when he insisted, "You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club."

I find Flannery O'Connor's credo particularly comforting, which is, "Anybody who has survived his childhood has enough information about life to last him the rest of his days."

Of course, then there's Lillian Hellman, whose philosophy is decidedly rich and prickly in this inverted oxymoron. "If I had to give young writers advice, I would say don't listen to writers talking about writing or themselves."

No disrespect but I beg to differ. As a writer, I find the wisdom, camaraderie and — let's be honest — commiseration of fellow writers singularly invigorating and validating. My friend Elayne Clift, a prolific Vermont writer who has authored more than a dozen books of fiction, non-fiction and poetry, is one of several cherished sounding-boards who keeps me on course, fielding my frustrations, hopes and triumphs with equal acuity and warmth. Her input is like gold to me, whether it's her fearless aplomb on the topic of agents and publishers, her openness about the writing process itself or her helpful comments on my work in particular.

According to Beth Meachem, executive director of GMAC, the programs planned for the Poets and Writers' Weekend are geared to offer the same type of support, with lively discourse and innovative writing exercises as well.

"They're very interactive events," she said during a recent conversation, "and the benefit for emerging writers is to be able to work in small groups and have access to more established writers. It's also for people who just enjoy the spoken or written word. The more the merrier. The more dialogue, the more participants, the more fun."

When I asked about the community's support of the venture, she was enthusiastic on all fronts. "The response has been really good and I see this growing in years to come. We have great sponsors and that's how we get a program out there that's accessible to everybody."

With many of the events are free of charge and others very affordable for a literary convergence of this caliber, the entire enterprise seems like the perfect fit for a region that supports an abundant creative economy, including a strong literary scene.

With Middlebury's renowned Bread Loaf Writers' Conference in the summer and the Brattleboro Literary Festival in the fall, spring was ripe for just this type of event and I asked Meachem about the evolution of the concept. "Clemma Dawsen is a writer who's on the GMAC Board and she felt we should try to address all the arts and bring the literary arts to greater visibility."

An award-winning nonfiction writer, Dawsen is teaching the workshop I could use most, entitled "Keeping That Appointment With Your Desk: The Writers' Daily Practice."

While I have no problem meeting other people's deadlines, such my editor at this fine paper, that "book" I've been "writing" since before the millennium is definitely getting the short shrift in the sea of other obligations like kids, clients and clutter that inundates my life. Having written more grocery lists than fiction over the last decade, I could use a little nudge to break out of the "procrastinate, procrastinate, panic and produce" methodology that I fine-tuned so well in college and, instead, make a daily date with my novel.

On that note, I encourage all hungry readers and emerging, established and closet writers to explore next week's inaugural of what is likely to be another outstanding, long-lived cultural tradition in this most literary of states.

Remember what Albert Camus said, "The purpose of a writer is to keep civilization from destroying itself." And the world needs all the help it can get right about now but hey, no pressure.

Online: www.greatermanchesterarts.org
Annie: annieguyoncommunications.com

Indie glitterati in our own backyard: Pavement's Stephen Malkmus scorches MassMoCA

Since most major musical artists who come through this area are roots, rock and singer-songwriter luminaries gracing the stages of outdoor festivals or restored opera houses, it's easy for us indie/punk/alt disciples to assume that the only way to hear masterfully edgy, artfully erudite and mind-scouringly thunderous favorites is to head to Boston or NYC.

For those of us entrenched in a non-clubbing phase of life — raising children, cultivating careers and grumbling when the satellite signal scrambles a Jon Stewart rant — it's no mean feat to mobilize our multitasking selves into the city, even for venerated alt royalty. So, instead, we blast Radiohead, Sonic Youth, Coldplay or The Clash in our kitchens while making pasta for the kids.

A few years ago, however, I discovered a mini-indie mecca, of sorts, right under our noses just a half hour south of Bennington. It turns out that MassMoCA — North Adams' spacious, innovative haven of heavy-hitting high art — has a fantastic music series and two über-mod concert venues that regularly host some of the best indie music going.

In the nine years since Mass MoCA opened, numerous darlings of the genre have inhabited its stages, including Yo La Tengo, Ollabelle, They Might Be Giants and Freedy Johnston. With the upcoming line-up boasting Son Volt, Clem Snide, Gutbucket and The Teenage Prayers, we rural indie-ites are mighty fortunate that Mass MoCA is a stop on a lot of national tours.

Their Alt Cabaret series takes place in the more intimate Club B-10 while heavy hitters play the museum's 800-capactiy Hunter Center, a cavernous black hall which is also the site of popular dance parties that always have imaginative themes like Retro Soul, Bollywood or tomorrow's Zydeco fest with C.J. Chenier.

Last Friday, the Hunter had a personage on its stage considered by indie brethren everywhere to be one of the masterminds of the entire genre. Coming off three sold-out New York City shows, Stephen Malkmus — co-founder of the seminal 1990s band Pavement — played two of the most adroit, dynamic, incandescent hours of live music I've heard in years (told you we're lucky) and, with his superlative current band, the Jicks, making his songs gleam yet more blindingly, it was indie/punk/alt paradise.

Malkmus, a songwriting demi-god and demon guitarist, was as savvy and roguish as when I saw Pavement during its final tour in 1999, bangs drooping down over a pale, narrow countenance, oversized T-shirt and skinny arms fiercely wielding various axes. Hailing from suburban sidebar, Stockton, Calif., Pavement became — counterintuitive as it sounds — eminent pioneers of independent music, lodging lo-fi principles, smart, wry lyrics and unapologetically fractured compositions into the hallowed lineage of alternative rock.

Malkmus' credibility is in his profoundly dexterous, consistently defiant departure from formal songwriting templates and equally muscular yet breathtakingly nuanced command of his instrument. I was glad to find that — touring on "Real Emotional Trash", his fourth solo album — he's still blazing an authentic, unconventional trail, crafting tunes that cannot be categorized beyond that they are simply his.

Every cut on this disc is strong enough to withstand any treatment (Malkmus' writing has always passed the solo acoustic test in my book), but the powerhouse force of the Jicks catapults each of them into a sonic stratosphere, with Mike Clark on keyboards, Joanna Bolme on bass and indie guru in her own right, Janet Weiss, on drums. The sound of this CD has me convinced that The Velvet Underground, Deep Purple and Neil Young's "Live Rust" have been pulsing through Malkmus' iPod lately, with tectonic bass lines that rumble and pop like an English engine, acidic keyboards lilting and liquefying, and behemoth drumming that rends the sky wide open.

"Dragonfly Pie," one of several prog-drenched tunes, is a fortress of bristling guitar, shaggy bass, synthesized striations and controlled avalanches of percussion that, as a musician pal of mine puts it, "has a lot of pudding." Blistering waves of Malkmus' searing, single coil swagger on guitar propel his vocals from earnest wordsmithery to falsetto choruses to finally screeching the final lines in a refreshing nod to Pavement's more raucous moments.

"Baltimore," another bottom-heavy beauty, roars and rages like a woolly mammoth in heat between storyteller lyricism and dreamy harmonizing, cascading into the kind of complex power-jam for which Malkmus is known. As someone who's basically allergic to anything remotely resembling extended, improvised solos or jams, I've always savored the way Malkmus manages to infuse his songs with tight, instrumental forays in just the right dosages, long before anyone indulges or ODs.

Every ingredient in a Malkmus concoction is meticulously measured, binding melodious, sometimes familiar patterns, palettes and phrasing together the way a chemist carefully weighs his powders and potions, inventing potent elixirs whose effects are exponentially greater than the sum of their parts.

"We Can't Help You" starts out sounding like "The Weight" at half-speed, but moves away from The Band into its own temperate idyll, floating contemplative phrasing over a calm, knowing cadence and wistful key changes. The album's sumptuous 10-minute title song hitches a ride on the brooding mare of Neil Young's "Powderfinger," ducks into Hendrix's psychedelic "Eden" and then charges into an Allman Brothers corral before jumping off and crossing the finishing line by its own untethered volition.

Likewise, the twin-guitar thread that weaves through "Walk Into the Mirror" pays homage to Television's Richard Lloyd, while "Cold Son" is a ripened sequel to Pavement's "In the Mouth a Desert" from its 1992 debut album, "Slanted and Enchanted."

Two of the strongest tunes from the new CD were yet more exquisitely sculpted in concert, the band nimbly displaying its collective genius from opposite ends of the emotive spectrum. "Gardenia," a whimsical, Kinks-fueled skip through pop history veered from airy, carefree '60s intonations into shameless '70s noodling, blowing sugary bubbles while still spitting a few sardonic daggers. And "Out of Reaches," one the most crushingly exquisite songs Malkmus has ever written, had the crowd riveted, with Clark's glowing Three Dog Night organ-playing, Weiss' wrenching, syncopated waves of drum rolls, and Malkmus' obtuse verses putting a decided lump into this ex-punk's throat.

I can see you hiding out
shrinking like the daisy that you were born to be
you did your thing and now you deserve
the voltage was the best thing that I ever knew
out, out of
reaches out

Blunt, wry and smoldering to a close with guitar that splinters into ruefully frayed edges before washing over a hopeful "I know the tide will turn" hymn, this languid, voluptuous opus aches and pierces deeper than anything else in Malkmus' fertile songbook.

As compelling as Malkmus himself was during the show, Weiss was utterly mesmerizing, constructing the armature of every song by peppering buttresses and beams of percussive iron with perfectly molded empty spaces. Displaying the same prowess that made her famous as a member of Sleater-Kinney, Weiss was more brutally eloquent than ever, spewing clouds of propulsive vigor from her kit, then backing away at precisely the right moments, allowing Malkmus' poetry to step forth, Bolme's bass to darken the mood or Clark's keyboard to paint a fresh canvas of air.

Stephen Malkmus & the Jinks isn't just a top-notch indie band, it's a musical think tank, mining resonant, evocative hooks, textures and soundscapes from the past few decades and soldering them together into beautifully eclectic, scrupulously structured songs that are enigmatic, thorny and sublime.

Standing in MassMoCA's sea of hipster newbies, wide-eyed latecomers and balding diehards, whose ages spanned 16 to 60, there was something fortifying about seeing Malkmus — a fellow 40-something parent of two — still bestowing impenitently fearless, expansive music upon audiences that are just as fervent as they used to be. Nice to know some things never change.

Online: www.massmoca.org

Annie: annieguyoncommunications.com

Haale-lujah: Mesmerizing singer rocks Bellow Falls

Condi Rice has met her musical match in Haale — the Bronx-born, Iranian-American singer who's been gathering a devout following here and across the country for the past few years with her distinctly diplomatic, transnation-building sound. And, like so many immigrants and their descendants, Haale (as in "jala"-peño) is fearless.

At last year's Bonnaroo Music Festival, there she was playing to tens of thousands of concertgoers in the middle of Tennessee alongside musicians such as The Police, The Flaming Lips, The White Stripes and Lily Allen, all the while happily educating her audience on the difference between a sitar and a setar.

In sewing together the various elements that make up her signature style, from Persian poetry to arena rock bravado, she is helping to redefine the very notion of world music. Though some of the greatest rock'n'roll ever made has come from the basic guitar-bass-drums triumvirate and "baby-don't-leave" lyrics, this talented trio regularly pushes words and music across emotional, intellectual and geographic borders with diverse instruments, eclectic themes and enthralling, if not edifying, results.

Take the song "Chenan Mastam"— my favorite cut on her new CD, "No Ceiling"— and, in particular, this description in the liner notes: "'Masti' is a state of ecstasy and intoxication. It's a feeling of serenity, connection and love, our natural state of being according to many Persian mystical poets. 'Chenan Mastam' means 'I'm so mast' or 'smashed on the Great Big Everything,' as Kurt Vonnegut once said."

Hold on … Vonnegut? Yup, so then one has to consider the full quote itself, which comes from a reference he made to children at play in the preface to his 1987 novel "Bluebeard": "They get smashed for hours on some strictly limited aspect of the Great Big Everything, the Universe, such as water or snow or mud or colors or rocks, or echoes or funny sounds from the voice box or banging on a drum and so on."

Add to that a few intriguing morsels about Haale's myriad influences — who range from theoretical physicist Michio Kaku, sage Iranian philosopher and musician, Ostad Elahi, and renowned American Imagist poet, Hilda Doolittle, known as H.D. — and you get the idea that Haale isn't your average rock star.

On Saturday night, however, when she and her bandmates shake up the Bellows Falls Opera House, her particular brand of star power will become evident the moment she takes the stage. Commanding the spotlight with the confidence of a seasoned icon, whether wielding an electric guitar, traditional Persian instruments or just a mic stand while in the throes of a powerpop crescendo, Haale is a consummate professional who is wise and worldly as well.

When we spoke earlier in the week, her clarity on everything from politics to purpose was manifest. "I don't believe in war and I think that we know when we look at a family unit or a small community," she asserted. "We know violence isn't a solution to anything and also on a global scale. We should evolve past that."

At the suggestion that music can bridge chasms between two nations, she was ardent. "Exactly. If anything can heal, music and art can. I feel fortunate to be in the world of music and, being from two cultures, I guess I'm inherently a bridge. I want people to come to the shows and enjoy the music and feel the beauty of both cultures and see how wonderfully they integrate."

"No Ceiling," her lush, sonorous debut album, is a vibrant immersion into that amalgam of musical sensibilities, with fresh textures, temperatures and tones not often juxtaposed against traditional guitar riffs and stadium decibels. Haale and her skillful comrades deliver all of it in one invigorating ocean of sound that weaves other genres as well — grunge, folk, alternative, African, even spiritual music — into a cohesive, potent cocktail of flavors.

With Matt Kilmer on percussion, including cajons, djembe, floor toms and cymbals, and cellist Brent Arnold providing deep, cavernous tones throughout the CD, this is an exotic collection of original tunes that manage to strike a compelling balance between ancient and modern, East and West. Binding it all together is Haale herself.

"Off Duty Fortune Teller" showcases the luminous, slightly girlish core of her voice and lucid story-telling skills, all buoyed by an unapologetic splash of phrasing from The Beatles' magical mystery paint box. Shades of raspy blues temper whimsical lines in what is a sweet-and-salty nod to "I Am the Walrus," one of Haale's many dips into '60s psychedelia. Her sound is all her own, charging forth from whispers to wails to meditative chants, but with distinct hints of Grace Slick's soaring delivery, Joan Osborne's melodic grit and a touch of Heart at their fierce "Barracuda" best.

The songs are almost sculptural, shaped and molded by strong lyrics and surreal auralscapes. In "Zero To One," Pink Floydian warnings and bleak, unstructured spaces render a raw dreamscape roiling with anguished moans, atonal murmurs and surreal imagery that reads like über-obtuse haiku:

Everything is surprising from zero to one
Where were you hiding?
The empty house just saw the sun

"Middle of Fire" grows from the rich poetic soil of Patti Smith's songbook, specifically "Dream of Life," and the gorgeous lament "Hastee," based on a poem by Forugh Farrokhzad, one of Iran's most celebrated female poets, is yet more hypnotic.

One recurring intoxicant is Haale's nimble work on setar. With roots going back to the tanbur, a pre-Islamic Persian lute, it has a small, fig-shaped belly and a long, delicate neck spanned by 4 strings — c, c, g and c. The tremolo drone it emits is known as a "shorr," which translates to "the pouring of water," and is lighter and brighter than the sitar.

"I use it for its timbre as a rhythmic instrument," Haale said, "but I'm not classically trained on it." Her overall evolution as a musician, in fact, was not typical either. "I was studying biology at Stanford and during my time there I realized 'Wow, I don't want to do this for the rest of my life.'"

Raised by Iranian parents who emigrated to the U.S. more than 30 years ago, Haale was on a path more academic than artistic. "I didn't pursue music as a child, but then a friend gave me a guitar," she explained. "And I always wanted to be a singer."

It is in the context of her Persian singing that Haale achieves her most primal, intuitive vocalizations, reaching beyond those sung in English with dazzling authority and moving, earthy resonance.

"Ay Dar Shekasteh," set to reflections on the metaphysical by 13th-century Persian mystic Rumi, pulses with ecstatic praise and percussive energy, eloquently illustrating why the setar was originally reserved for devotional or "djamm" gatherings and why Sufi mystics play it in their liturgical ceremonies today.

Motivated by a long list of great minds and talents, Haale has also collaborated with a number of celebrated contemporary musicians, including David Byrne, who invited them to perform in his Carnegie Hall shows last year. All of them, past and present, fuel her work and her philosophies.

"They're all people who were and are authentic creators and thinkers, taking their world seriously enough to make better and better art."

With charismatic stage presence, a versatile, soulful voice and a bold, inventive band, Haale cross-pollinates the musical traditions in her heritage with a decidedly modern moxie, following her own path and focusing on that Great Big Everything.

As Ostad Elahi wrote, "Truth, for every human being, consists in knowing who we are, where we have come from, what we must do, and where we should be going."

Clearly, Haale has found her truth.

Online: www.haale.com
Annie: annieguyoncommunications.com