Music

Scott Walker remembered by Michael Morris


I first encountered Scott Walker in 1995, when Artangel was presenting a new work by Robert Wilson, a vast installation called HG, at the Clink Street Vaults on the south shore of the Thames. I was told by a mutual friend that Scott was coming to see it, and when we met, he described HG as “immersive” – which I’d never heard applied to an art experience before, even though it’s overused now. When I listened to his new album, Tilt, soon afterwards, “immersive” was also the word that came to mind. The songs were like miniature operas; sonic worlds that took root in the visual imagination of the listener.

A few years later, as part of an ambitious project we were producing in Margate loosely based on the story of Exodus, I invited Scott to contribute to a sequence of plague songs, and he agreed to do the ninth plague, Darkness. I’d never really expected to work with Scott Walker, partly because I’d read about him being reclusive, uncommunicative and humourless. But that couldn’t have been further from the truth. He was absolutely charming. I found him witty, easy to work with and enthusiastically open to collaboration.

Then in 2008, over three memorable evenings at the Barbican, we invited musicians and vocalists including Damon Albarn and Jarvis Cocker to stage a cycle of eight songs from Tilt and his more recent album The Drift. Light, image and action were used sparingly, because the drama was all in the music. Props and objects were also carefully chosen – a performer famously punched the amplified carcass of a pig, procured from Smithfield Market and later donated to the Anchor & Hope restaurant in Waterloo to make rillettes.

There was never a question of Scott appearing on stage himself – he’d long since stopped performing – but he was behind the mixing desk at the back of the theatre every night. On the last night the audience spontaneously turned around and gave him a standing ovation. He found it difficult to respond, but I know that he was extremely touched.

He had freed himself of his reputation and was not in any way caught up in the myth of Scott Walker. You just felt that you were working with a very precise, open mind, someone who was completely uninterested in the trappings of image or fame. Bike or the bus were his preferred modes of travel. I think he’d found a way to live and work outside of the public gaze that was much more liberating and creative.

I can’t think of any other recording artist who moved through such a lot of changes over their career. The Scott Walker I knew was really unrecognisable from the earlier incarnation, apart from the voice – that distinctive baritone was unmistakably the same. But we never discussed his past, and I think he was relieved we were fully engaged with his current work, excavating different ways to let deeper layers of meaning emerge from it.

Scott was absolutely immersed in what we were doing. He wasn’t someone who got distracted easily. But he wasn’t overly earnest either. He was funny, and we spent a lot of time laughing. All of our production team found him a pleasure to work with. He was completely comfortable with the collaborative process of theatre and I think he would have liked to have done more of it.

He was raised in California before moving to London in 1965, but he didn’t seem to have anything Californian about him. I saw him as a Londoner, and he loved the city. He went to see a huge number of exhibitions, films and performances. Whenever I’d ask Scott if he’d seen something or other, he always had.

Scott was held in such high regard by so many other artists. David Bowie often acknowledged his influence, as does Brian Eno. I think they also revered his ability to cast off the mantle of celebrity and focus simply on the work.

He’s a completely singular figure in late 20th-century, early 21st-century art and ideas. Scott’s work doesn’t fit into a cultural compartment: he was interested in all forms of human expression.

I feel enormously privileged to have worked with Scott. “No regrets”, as he once sang. Well, maybe one regret. I never found the right moment to ask him about one of the repeated refrains on Tilt: “I’ll punch a donkey in the streets of Galway.” I may never know what it means, but it’s a lyric I’ll never forget.



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