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	The following article was kindly transcribed by Dinyar. The Independent, Sunday 10 September 2000. The diva of disease serves up one hell of a time by Louise Gray ------------------------------------------------ As far as tall and elegant creatures go, Diamanda Galas is up there with the best of them, and when she smiles, the corner of one lip goes up in a sardonic salute. One half-expects the singer - a performer of uncompromising ability who, during the course of a 21-year career has rejoiced in such epithets as the "Black Rose of the Avant-Garde" and "Diva of Disease" - to throw off the mordant demeanour and break instead into peals of throaty laughter. There is plenty of evidence to associate Galas with the dark and resolutely dangerous: her trenchant themes congregate around an impassioned, existential exploration of outsidership, something that reaches its apotheosis in her _Masque of the Red Death_, a three-part work, whose creation was marked by the death of Galas's artist brother from Aids. However, there is, for all the harrowing content and experience that a Galas concert affords, a barely concealed humour: one hears it in her covers of Tampa Red's "Dead Cat on the Line" or Javor's "Gloomy Sunday". Anyone who can write a piece entitled _Wild Women with Steaknives_ has to have a sense of humour. Certainly, such _memento mori_ make her listeners appreciate life just that little bit more. Staged in the intimate venue of the Lowry's 400-seater Quay Theatre as the undoubted highlight of this year's Queer Up North Festival, these two concerts - the world premiere of _La Serpenta Canta_ [The Serpentess Sings], a cycle of songs concentrating on the blues as only Galas knows how to sing them - offered a unique opportunity to catch her in an unusually personal setting. True, Galas normally fills barnyard spaces the size of the Barbican (her previous UK appearance was there in December, performing _Defixiones: Will and Testament_) and certainly her four-octave voice, is capable of filling such stretches. Here, the proximity of the singer accentuated the essential humanity that she brings to her material, while the presence of the voice itself, augmented on occasion with a modicum of electronic pitchshifting and reverb, wrapped itself around one, in an ambivalent envelopment. Accompanying herself for the most part on a concert grand piano, Galas brings an astonishing array of moods and associations to _La Serpenta Canta's_ songs. So Holland/Dozier/Holland's "My World is Empty Without You", a song written for the Supremes and recorded by Galas on her 1997 album _Malediction and Prayer_, loses all pop signification in its wrung-out desolation. Similarly on "Burning Hell", its "pray for me" refrain taking on an increasing desperation that's at odds with the solace and longing of gospel music. Here, one realises with a thrill, redemption is not a given. Galas pulls the vocal lines into a pure, melismatic descent that mirrors the soul's fall. Snatches of lyrics from spirituals - images of churches, heaven and hell - underscore the splintered vision Galas conjure up. The process by which Galas both extends and elides her material, before focussing its concentrated energy into an altogether new creation, draws from a unique perspective. Raised in California in Greek Orthodox household, where singing - as far as women were concerned, was considered the preserve of whores - she originally studied piano, developing a flair for jazz, blues and opera, before pursuing several degrees in immunology. Indeed, it's possible to make speculative links between Galas's scientific background and her musical practice: singing in about 10 languages (including Armenian, Arabic, Greek and German) and composing with a technical stress that owes a debt to Stockhausen's pioneering microphone work, there's the sense that she purposely plays with concepts of contamination. Nothing, and nobody is pure, Galas seems to say. This is a devotional music for a secular age. Unsurprisingly, there are moments when applause seems intrusive. "Todesfuge", a new Galas compostion using a text from Paul Celan, is one such occasion, its scurrying arpeggios anchored by a violently dominating bassline. But not so that old staple "Be Sure My Grave is Kept Clean", delivered with a startling bit of piano-slapping. "This is for all the queers up north," she announced, with a grave bow, before launching into probably the most defiant version of Mahalia Jackson's "I'm Gonna Live the Life (I Sing About in My Songs)" heard for years. Proof, if it were ever needed, that Galas's is a fighting spirit.

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la serpenta canta reviews

The following article was kindly transcribed by Dinyar.

The Independent, Sunday 10 September 2000.

The diva of disease serves up one hell of a time
by Louise Gray
------------------------------------------------

As far as tall and elegant creatures go, Diamanda Galas is up there with the best of them, and when she smiles, the corner of one lip goes up in a sardonic salute. One half-expects the singer - a performer of uncompromising ability who, during the course of a 21-year career has rejoiced in such epithets as the "Black Rose of the Avant-Garde" and "Diva of Disease" - to throw off the mordant demeanour and break instead into peals of throaty laughter.

There is plenty of evidence to associate Galas with the dark and resolutely dangerous: her trenchant themes congregate around an impassioned, existential exploration of outsidership, something that reaches its apotheosis in her _Masque of the Red Death_, a three-part work, whose creation was marked by the death of Galas's artist brother from Aids. However, there is, for all the harrowing content and experience that a Galas concert affords, a barely concealed humour: one hears it in her covers of Tampa Red's "Dead Cat on the Line" or Javor's "Gloomy Sunday". Anyone who can write a piece entitled _Wild Women with Steaknives_ has to have a sense of humour. Certainly, such _memento mori_ make her listeners appreciate life just that little bit more.

Staged in the intimate venue of the Lowry's 400-seater Quay Theatre as the undoubted highlight of this year's Queer Up North Festival, these two concerts - the world premiere of _La Serpenta Canta_ [The Serpentess Sings], a cycle of songs concentrating on the blues as only Galas knows how to sing them - offered a unique opportunity to catch her in an unusually personal setting. True, Galas normally fills barnyard spaces the size of the Barbican (her previous UK appearance was there in December, performing _Defixiones: Will and Testament_) and certainly her four-octave voice, is capable of filling such stretches. Here, the proximity of the singer accentuated the essential humanity that she brings to her material, while the presence of the voice itself, augmented on occasion with a modicum of electronic pitchshifting and reverb, wrapped itself around one, in an ambivalent envelopment.

Accompanying herself for the most part on a concert grand piano, Galas brings an astonishing array of moods and associations to _La Serpenta Canta's_ songs. So Holland/Dozier/Holland's "My World is Empty Without You", a song written for the Supremes and recorded by Galas on her 1997 album _Malediction and Prayer_, loses all pop signification in its wrung-out desolation. Similarly on "Burning Hell", its "pray for me" refrain taking on an increasing desperation that's at odds with the solace and longing of gospel music. Here, one realises with a thrill, redemption is not a given. Galas pulls the vocal lines into a pure, melismatic descent that mirrors the soul's fall. Snatches of lyrics from spirituals - images of churches, heaven and hell - underscore the splintered vision Galas conjure up.

The process by which Galas both extends and elides her material, before focussing its concentrated energy into an altogether new creation, draws from a unique perspective. Raised in California in Greek Orthodox household, where singing - as far as women were concerned, was considered the preserve of whores - she originally studied piano, developing a flair for jazz, blues and opera, before pursuing several degrees in immunology. Indeed, it's possible to make speculative links between Galas's scientific background and her musical practice: singing in about 10 languages (including Armenian, Arabic, Greek and German) and composing with a technical stress that owes a debt to Stockhausen's pioneering microphone work, there's the sense that she purposely plays with concepts of contamination. Nothing, and nobody is pure, Galas seems to say. This is a devotional music for a secular age.

Unsurprisingly, there are moments when applause seems intrusive. "Todesfuge", a new Galas compostion using a text from Paul Celan, is one such occasion, its scurrying arpeggios anchored by a violently dominating bassline. But not so that old staple "Be Sure My Grave is Kept Clean", delivered with a startling bit of piano-slapping. "This is for all the queers up north," she announced, with a grave bow, before launching into probably the most defiant version of Mahalia Jackson's "I'm Gonna Live the Life (I Sing About in My Songs)" heard for years. Proof, if it were ever needed, that Galas's is a fighting spirit.