Malini sridharan
Raised first in a rural, forest town and then on the shores of Lake Michigan by an Indian father and an amateur historian mother, Malini Sridharan was immersed in both Western and Indian classical music and medieval music from a young age. Sridharan's lifelong fascination with devotional music and literature informs both the subjects of and her approach to making music, at once deeply rooted in tradition and experimentation. The composer and multi-instrumentalist lives in Brooklyn and has released three full-length recordings, the latest of which, Tombeaux, was composed for a large ensemble and produced by Julia Holter.
The seven songs of Tombeaux comprise the Brooklyn-based composer and multi-instrumentalist’s third full-length recording, and her first written and arranged for a large ensemble. The record’s subject is as expansive as the ensemble; each song is a discrete tale of a death, imagined by Sridharan and told in the first person. From reimagining the work of 16th-century Indian poet Mirabai to exploring Ursula K. Le Guin’s Earthsea afterworld, The Dry Land, to writing about her own grandmother’s death, Sridharan teases out the varied nature of death, applying a broad range of historical and cultural lenses.
Tombeaux features:
Kate Amrine on Trumpet, Nikita Solberg on French Horn, Chris Piro on Euphonium, Julie Dombroski on Trombone, Heather Ewer on Tuba, Lily Pfeifer on Oboe, Leia Slosberg on Flute, Ford Fourqurean and Allison Heim on Clarinet, Sara Schoenbeck on Bassoon, Concetta Abbate on Violin and Viola, Lenna Pierce on Cello, James Gibson on Bass, and Jon-Michael Reese on Piano.
Produced by Julia Holter, Mixed, mastered, and fixed up by Ryan Beppel, Recorded by Lorenzo Wolff at Restoration Sound.
Photos by Roc Morin and Jillian Kron. Album Design by Jules Evens.
Mote
My lord used to come to me
He’d strike me like a match and leave me glowing
But he would not stay and love me only
So I scrubbed the vermillion from my hair
And went out into the world alone
I ran rampant through the streets, gone whore for love of him
If he would not be mine, I would taste everything
But the further I flung, the less I held onto
And now I have only the loss of his love
I am a mote in his eye
I am a catch in his sigh
I wanted too much
And I left him behind
I tear at myself but he gives me no comfort
I swear at myself but he makes no reply
If he will not find me then I will go to him
There’s only one road to the place he resides
I am a mote in his eye
I am a catch in his sigh
I wanted too much
And I left him behind
PLains
Gray on gray
Our dust leached bare by the days
The no longer precious porcelain
Of cast-off human clay
On the cold, hard, far side of nowhere
Our shades roam, rueful and knowing
There’s nowhere for us to be going
Except through time
All bars hold
There’s no tune left to unfold
An endless coda
Streams off the page, an alluvial plain
On the cold, hard, far side of nowhere
Our shades roam, rueful and knowing
There’s nowhere for us to be going
Except through time
rivers
From constant throb
To forgotten pulse
I’m losing my rhythm
From soft escape
To shallow scrape
Collapsing my hollows
In a cold nest of blankets
I’m cracking wide open
And rivers, and rivers, and rivers
Of all that I’ve known
Flow from me
On my own overflowing
I skip like a stone
Til I’m drawn into eddies of long ago