Involved in countersuing music. Scandalous machine noise. silent fits of nocturnal violence. Hammers falling over a human voice. Branch out an experiment--military science, overcome. Problemist started to end the mess.
Never could seem to play what would be called music. Always in noise, with rubber cement. Twenty-two tape loops. Stunted bass strings, bent nails, guitar manipulations. Copper gong stands. Never drawing a salary, a prophet.
Scientific in approach, William Davenport turned insane early. And suddenly, there he was, naked.
Disastrous taste. Who had never found his was into robbing the other children's music. Friends with the carpenter's son.
Six years later, William Davenport was found neatly dressed. Brown shirt, grey slacks. With a cold knife, scraping a barrel. The wood large and empty, all around the stage. He talked about moving to a laundry mat to tape the machines turning, the lost coins, soft wrinkled shirts, burnt shoe strings. It was easier to turn on the radiator in the apartment.
Problemist music is a film. William Davenport watched sound. More vivid, the sound returned in unexpected noise, color, texture. His ears strung. The beauty of it all made him sane.
Problemist 801 22nd St. S.F. CA 94107
typed by cheryl vega 6-28-95