668: Next Door Neighbor Of The Beast (Or Learning To Love Diamanda Galas), Pt.1

Diamanda Galas has always been a mystery. A paradox wrapped in a puzzle. A Southern California girl from suburban San Diego who produces some of the most somber, intense, and compelling music that one is likely to hear in their lifetime. But let's double back here. Not all of her material falls into what is conventionally acknowledged as music per se. A gross understatement as you will soon learn. Her earliest conceptual work was largely solo vocalese under highly processed electronic manipulation (in quadraphonic sound, no less). Performance art, if you will. With a three and a half octave range, her 'singing,' however operatic in scope, consisted primarily of shrieks, screams, moans, and howls, which have been described as "capable of the most unnerving vocal terror." With the aforementioned processing, this most certainly was correct. Silently entering a darkened stage, long black hair teased to resemble a fright wig, and draped in a simple form fitting black gown, she would wield two microphones as though they were sabers, or more fittingly, sacramental artifacts, and begin a vocalized 20 minute exorcism, speaking in tongues, and conjuring up demonic sounds that seemingly came from the very depths of hell itself. It was overwhelming to say the least, and unsettling in the extreme, particularly for the uninitiated.

I first saw and heard Diamanda Galas during this early period of her career. Although my ears were close to bleeding by the end of her performance, I nonetheless sat mesmerized by the power and command she exuded. The pieces were socially and politically charged statements ranging from 'The Litanies of Satan,' to 'Wild Women with Steak Knives (A Homicidal Love Song),' 'Panopticon,' and 'Song from the Blood of Those Murdered.' Her subject matter, striking stage persona, and the shear intensity of her work were enough to spark my interest, and my curiosity.

At the time, I had just returned from a stint abroad and began volunteering at a local, cutting edge (and award winning) college radio station, where my intention was to create a demo tape for submission to commercial stations. I had been off the air for a bit, and I now needed to regain my chops in order to pursue a new position (and one that paid!). I contacted Diamanda's management, and arranged for an interview with her in advance of an upcoming performance she was about to make. I was relatively rusty, and the new music scene was a still a bit foreign to me, so I felt a little uneasy there, but the prospect of coming face to face with Diamanda Galas while highly intriguing to me, was also daunting. I really didn't know just what to make of her. I knew next to nothing about her, and in a new approach for me, I decided not to do any research on her background. No press releases, no record label bio, nothing. It was a bold move on my part, but I felt like starting anew. Just sitting down with a complete stranger and start asking questions that come naturally in the course of conversation, all without the benefit of a safety net. Why I chose her as my starting place? I don't honestly know, but I came to regret it.

It was early winter. The evening prior to our scheduled interview, I felt myself coming down with a cold. I was tired, achy, and feeling altogether miserable. I swigged a six-pack of Vick's Formula 44 and went to bed early in the hope of feeling better by the following day. When that day came, I didn't, my cold symptoms being the least of it. More than the sinus headache and the medication, it was the event which was about to transpire that very night which affected me most. As I had laid down to rest, I began to ponder the subject I was about to meet. "Just who was Diamanda Galas? What sort of a name was that? Unusual, certainly. From her looks, she might be of some Eastern European descent. Hungarian maybe? Or maybe that weird place somewhere beyond the Romanian forest? What did they once call it? Transylvania? Wow! Spooky. And where does she conjure up all this bizarre stuff? Litanies of Satan? Steak Knives? Pretty intense, all of it. What is she, some sort of conduit for the netherworld? And what about that brother of hers?"

I had recently stumbled upon a homemade Christmas card with a photo of Joan Crawford taken from 'Mommy Dearest.' In it, she's holding a butcher's knife with a crazed, maniacal look in her eyes, and the caption read, 'Have an oh so Merry Christmas, you bastard!" When I flipped it over, I discovered that it had been designed by none other than playwright, Phillip Dimitri Galas, Diamanda's late brother! I considered (possibly aloud), "Wow! These two really have a monopoly on the macabre. What are they, the Addams Family, or something?" With all these thoughts running through my head, and the Formula 44 coursing through my system, I fell into a deep dream state that as you might imagine, served to bring out my worst, and deepest fears. I was about to enter into the heart of darkness.

Imagine this, if you will, in a cinematic approach:

Fade in to an overhead shot of a bed holding a sleeping couple. There is no sound. The man (myself) lays on his back with his hands clasped behind his head. To his left sleeps his partner, a slender woman with long black hair. She is on her side with her back toward him. As her hair partially covers her face, it is impossible to clearly make out her features. Both appear at ease with one another, allowing us to naturally assume that they are friends and lovers.

The camera begins to slowly zoom in, swinging to the left it does, ending with a side view just slightly above being directly horizontal with the bed. We clearly see the sleeping man (myself) in the forefront, and the woman, slightly out of focus in the background. Hold the shot. Still no sound. Quite suddenly, and without explanation, the woman bolts upright to a seated position. The camera focuses in to the accompaniment of jabbing strings (something like Hitchcock's 'Psycho'). Her head begins to slowly swivel towards her partner (think: Linda Blair in 'The Exorcist') now revealing for the first time that it is Diamanda Galas. Otherworldly whispers begin to fill the room (much like her 'Litanies of Satan'), growing in intensity. Her eyes are wild and possessed, rolling back into their sockets to display only the whites. With one deft swoop of her hand, she grabs the unsuspecting man's (myself) vulnerably exposed trachea with the power of an iron claw. Cue suspense music. Digging her two inch long, razor sharp fingernails deep into his gullet, she proceeds to violently rip his throat from his neck, leaving him helpless, gasping for air, and begging for mercy. The music swells, and cut. End of scene, but the nightmare had only begun.

I awoke in a cold sweat, feeling panicked, and not without good reason. Later that afternoon, I was scheduled to meet singer, performance artist, and leading lady of my disturbing dream, Diamanda Galas, the next door neighbor of the Beast.

To be continued...

668: Next Door Neighbor Of The Beast, Pt.1

1) Heaven Have Mercy
2) The Litanies Of Satan
3) Birds Of Death
4) Deliver Me From Mine Enemies
a) This Is The Law Of The Plague
b) Deliver Me From Mine Enemies
c) We Shall Not Accept Your Quarantine
d) Deliver Me
e) Yiati O Ozoe
f) Psalm 22
5) Double-Barrel Prayer

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