Memories wrapped in violet silk
By Danielle de Picciotto
Editor’s note: This article is abridged from the chapter on Dorothy Carter in Danielle de Picciotto’s book ”The Beauty of Transgression: A Berlin Memoir.” Used with permission.
Tiny, frail, with blond hair and green eyes, invariably wearing black dresses, floral patterns, and heavy boots, she seemed so delicate that most people were taken aback when she mentioned adventures with drug-crazied hippies in Mexico or an upcoming tour with her all-girl band the Mediaeval Babes.
Dorothy specialized in antique instruments.
The dulcimer and hurdy gurdy were her favorites among the immense collection of zithers and flutes inherited from a grateful student who had died of AIDS years ago. Her solo concerts were conjoined with these delicate, beautifully carved historical pieces, creating a seductive atmosphere of bygone sounds. Born in 1935 in New York, she grew up in her grandparent’s Victorian mansion in Boston, living a lonely childhood, hidden away in the huge library, playing piano and listening to her grandmother belching.
Her adventurous life included runaway trips to Europe, bicycling from London to Paris, enrolling in and escaping from the London Royal Music Academy, initiating concerts, exhibitions, and psychedelic experimentation, performing with underground, avant-garde musicians in Maine and falling in love with wild, uncontrollable men.
She quickly integrated within a colorful crowd in New York City, where she co-founded the avant-garde music and art gallery, A Bird Can Fly But a Fly Can’t Bird, with interdisciplinary artist Bob Rutman in 1966. Their friendship would last a lifetime, but after having a disappointing affair with yet another man, she decided to enlist as a deckhand on a Mississippi steamboat, scouring the ship and living the life of a sailor for over fifteen years.
Bob finally told her to come to Berlin in the early 1990s, inviting her to move into his huge factory loft and perform with him, describing Berlin’s anarchic spirit in bright colors and succeeding in awakening her interest after the steamboat had sunk. Deciding to follow his advice and discover a new continent she arrived with nothing more than her instruments, two or three light dresses, and her one luxury: a small collection of embroidered shawls. She was content sleeping on Bob’s studio floor, arranging a small nook in one of his storage rooms with nothing but a thin cotton blanket spread out on the cement, tucked in between the piano and small organ, entirely disinterested in comfort.
Dorothy Carter Reissued
Palto Flats (New York City) and Putojefe Records (Berlin) have reissued Dorothy Carter’s second album “Waillee Waillee,” remastered from long-lost master tapes found in Bob Rutman’s storage space in Berlin.
The album includes a twelve page booklet with liner notes, drawings, images, and sheet music sourced from Dorothy Carter’s unpublished manuscripts, “Psalterium” (1991) and “The Poor Astronomer’s Songbook” (1994).
When it was first released, “Waillee Waille” appeared in DPN in Vol. 5 No. 2 (1979), in Maddie MacNeil’s column “What’s new?”. She wrote,
Dorothy Carter’s second album provides many delights and unique sounds. The hammered dulcimer is featured along with psaltery, voice, flute, piano, tamboura, log drums, harps, bells, shakers, bow chime, steel cello, drums and mandola. Selections are “The Squirrel is a Funny Thing”, “Robin M’aime”, “Along The River”, “Summer Rhapsody”, “Waillee Waillee”, a Celtic Medley, “Autumn Song” and “Tree of Life”.
The album is now available on LP and CD at paltoflats.com (North America) and putojefe.com (Europe).
The underground music scene immediately took notice of her after Alexander Hacke met the tiny lady who could drink like a sailor, protecting her under his broad shoulders and enthusiastically announcing her concerts to everybody he knew.
When her back would hurt or a nasty cough emerged, she would say things like, “When I’m old I’m gonna get myself a little house back in New Orleans, it’s warmer there than it is here and I can parade on Mardi Gras and throw my bra into the crowd, but until then I’m going to stay in Berlin.”
Some musicians possess magic on stage that cannot be explained by technique or talent, they enter a sphere that can best be described as the space “in between,” … the time span between inhaling and exhaling, as if the heart stopped beating and breathing became superfluous, a pressure comparable to being underwater or flying in a dream. The style of music and the age or gender of the musician are irrelevant … it is not something one can learn, and those that possess this magic always look like their hair is flying in the wind.
Danielle de Picciotto
I met her on one of my many drinking bouts after Roland’s death. I had been sitting at the Ex ‘n’ Pop downing whiskey with friends when Hacke came storming in during one of his weekend bouts, his entourage of fans, lovers, and friends following as usual. It was only after a while that I noticed the fragile woman quietly standing next to him, watching a band performing and sipping the red wine Alexander would carefully hand her at regular intervals. Immediately attracted to the perky look in her eyes I introduced myself and went to see her concert a couple of weeks later, on the same stage.
The ruckus in the overflowing club turned down for a surprising moment as the small woman began plucking her ancient instruments and singing in a high, sweet voice.
Some musicians possess magic on stage that cannot be explained by technique or talent, they enter a sphere that can best be described as the space “in between,” something that has been beautifully expressed by T.S. Eliot or painted by Edward Hopper, the time span between inhaling and exhaling, as if the heart stopped beating and breathing became superfluous, a pressure comparable to being underwater or flying in a dream. The style of music and the age or gender of the musician are irrelevant to achieving this effect; it is not something one can learn, and those that possess this magic always look like their hair is flying in the wind.
Dorothy had this gift and everybody in the club that night experienced the enchantment. In spite of her bashful bows at the end of her set, the crowd clapped and screamed for encores, forcing her to go back on stage again and again, hungry to hear more and more. The fact that she was almost sixty was not noticed by most, since her personality outshone many younger colleagues who came to her performances.
Dorothy’s fervent dream was to produce her record and release the book she was writing. In 1999 it was still difficult to produce, print, or sell a record without a record company, in comparison to today, when anybody can sell their wares over the internet. In Dorothy’s case her age was a problem for most companies, as they unmistakably told her. After trying to find a label for over a year she became more and more depressed, atypically complaining of poverty and hardship, losing the exited sparkle in her eye and becoming quarrelsome even with the Mediaeval Baebes, finally asking them for the amount of money she was worth.
“Oh, I’m just a little old lady from New Orleans and I play that plinkety plonk music.”
Dorothy Carter
In her own words
Sourced from Dorothy Carter’s unpublished manuscripts. Courtesy of Celeste Carter.
“Back in New York City I was having my harp worked on at a shop near Lincoln Center, and the shop owner showed me an instrument he had made. It was a jewel of an instrument, such as I’d never seen before except in old paintings and illustrations, a psaltery. I felt something like a strange recognition, THIS was the instrument I wanted to play, even more than the harp. And so began my fascination with the “trapezoids”, the dulcimer and psaltery…
“Now many years later, my house is almost like a museum, full of all sorts of instruments, hammered and mountain dulcimer, zithers of all sorts, hurdy gurdy, all the recorder family and all manner of percussion.
“We lived in Maine for some years in the early 70s, and much music with friends, jam sessions, happened around wood stoves in winter, or summer cook-outs and parties. By mid-seventies I began to perform quite a lot around New England, and all up and down the East coast, at many of the folk clubs and folk festivals. Here is where I really started to learn about American folk music and traditional music. I learned so many new songs and dulcimer techniques, at the song-swapping workshops and after-the-gig fireside sessions that often went on till dawn.
“Among my musical mentors of the time are: Jean Ritchie, Bob Beers, (of the Fox Hollow festival) Pete Seeger (and the Hudson River festival) Jean and Lee Schilling, (and the Cosby Dulcimer Festival). I also loved and have been so influenced by John Jacob Niles and Carl Sandburg.”
Her back had become worse, the climate in Berlin exacerbating her rheumatism, and with her grandchildren clamoring for her to come to New Orleans, she finally decided to move back to the USA in anticipation of finding cheaper living quarters, more accommodating record companies, and family support. The bitterness of being forced to admit defeat in the face of bias against her age lingered, and her jaunty soul was not able to understand how wrinkles could make any difference to the quality of a record, or how an adventurous biography could reduce sales.
We met one more time in London and spent the afternoon drinking ale. Dorothy said she missed Berlin, told me about her plans to rent a warehouse in the French Quarter of New Orleans and establish a cultural center to which she would invite all of her German family to come and perform. We strolled over to Camden market, the feeling of mutual appreciation strong as ever, chatting about life and how her book had proceeded, new friends she had made, and the development of New Orleans. I bought some shoes and Dorothy one of her beloved silken shawls, saying that she had loved them since her childhood.
Then we said goodbye, smiling wistfully, hoping it would not be the last time. In the last image I have of her slight, blond figure, she is wrapped in the hue of light violet silk.
Dorothy Carter died in 2003. She continued touring up to a month before her death.
In 2004 I was finally able to visit New Orleans, discovering it together with Alexander during the Einstürzende Neubauten “Perpetuum Mobile” tour. Ambling slowly through the intense heat, we experienced the city Dorothy had loved so much, her cheerful words still lingering in our ears: “Oh, I’m just a little old lady from New Orleans and I play that plinkety plonk music.”
After wandering out of the tourist-infected French Quarter, we discovered a small sideshow paraphernalia store, in which a beautiful dark-haired girl sat working behind the counter. She recognized Alexander immediately, having been to his show the day before and invited us to a party in a small juice bar.
While speaking about New Orleans we mentioned Dorothy. Immediately her large eyes filled with tears and she excused herself to go to the bathroom. After coming back she explained that they had become very close, playing music and initiating concerts in backyards or flea markets. She described her as being her muse and the most amazing woman she had ever met: “I will never forget Dorothy and think of her every day since her death. She was one in a million.”
Alexander and I nodded silently, we could only agree.
Danielle de Picciotto is an American born, interdisciplinary artist, living in Berlin since 1987. She was the co-founder of the Berlin Love Parade and has performed and exhibited internationally since 1989. She plays the violin, hurdy gurdy, and autoharp. Find her online at danielledepicciotto.com and hackedepicciotto.bandcamp.com.
