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"Harry Partch is dead, six months, another fall-winter-spring
gone by, we listen to his music, now as then, except now there's a big
hole -- once there was Harry Partch, he was alive and so long as he was,
a real alternative to the stifling and constipated world, both social and
musical, that we found ourselves born into. Above and beyond his rantings,
there was the work, each piece strong, bright, each a facet of another
universe, thought-out and unified, and dared, through all the mass of conformity,
to be lived. his life seems almost the greater challenge: the confluence
of Asia and America in his childhood family and surroundings in Arizona,
a stubbornly self-taught musician, laborer, dishwasher, the hobo camps,
trains, the constant traveling, with or without money, the places: Barstow,
San Diego, Chicago, Big Sur, Sausalito, Evanston, Solana Beach (all on
the final page of Barstow) . . . and who else, besides Artaud, gave
back to, is that Partch created a world, he was not suicided
by society, like his lost musicians, or Artaud . . . Delusion of the
Fury and The Bewitched, works of such all-embracing scope and
power, are unique and powerfully original -- but so is all his work
-- and I say there were no flaws, like some (the "sophisticated")
have claimed: here was a man and his music, raging, fanatic, humorous,
gentle, drunk, at times nostalgic, philosophical, he lived through it with
apologies to no one, and a clear vision of what he wanted to do. and again,
it all comes down to that, he did it: a reality, both in the outer
world and the imagination, that one can shape with one's own hands."
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