A short talk with Daniel Wyche on Portuguese culture, public education, and his most recent album, Earthmover.
Diogo: Daniel, to break the ice: previous to the interview, you revealed that Lisbon is one of your favorite cities, that your grandmother was from Açores, and that Portuguese music/ arts in general interest you. When did this affection for the beautiful country of Portugal start? When did your stories intercept?
Daniel: This is a big and complicated question, so please forgive the very long answer! My father’s mother, Stella Mello, came from a Portuguese/Portuguese-American family, mostly from Rhode Island, which is a state known for having one of the largest Portuguese communities in North America (others are in Toronto, California, and Newark, New Jersey—closer to where I grew up, as I’m from New Jersey originally). Specifically, Rhode Island was one of the major destinations for migrants not just from Portugal, but from the Açores across the 20th century, and there’s still a very strong Portuguese and Azorean population and community there. It’s also funny to note that if you know anything about the islands, you can tell immediately by my grandma’s last name—Mello—that she was Azorean. I have met so many Azorean-Americans with the same surname, and we met even more people when we visited the islands for the first time in 2014. She was one of I think 12 children, and some of her siblings were born in the Azores, though I’m not exactly sure which ones (so much is lost when we lose people, especially when we lose our elders). I do know that my great grandmother was from Povoação on São Miguel, and we visited what had been her home in 2014, decades and decades after she had left there. It was funny because we thought that the people in the neighborhood there were annoyed that some random Americans were wandering around looking for a family home, but it turns out there has been a lot of back and-forth between the islands, the US, and Canada, so we got very clear directions from a man who lived part-time in Boston to my great-grandmother’s beautiful house right on the beach—which was then owned by a woman from either Sweden or Norway. I loved that experience because it was a good lesson in how much people move around, how porous culture is, etc.
Regarding being Portuguese-American, and the community in general, it is all a bit bittersweet. I have always loved the things about Portuguese language and culture that came our way, but have really regretted how little of the culture (and definitely the language) I experienced growing up. And I regret not pursuing it more in my life, at least not until I became an adult. The problem is that a few generations of assimilation have caused a lot of people to lose the Portuguese language and some of the customs. In the mid-20th century especially, many immigrant groups felt a strong need to assimilate to American culture, and people would choose intentionally not to teach their children their first language (this was true of my maternal grandparents’ families as well, who were Italian), or pass on a lot of customs. I don’t think this is as true, thankfully, for contemporary immigrant communities, but I do think it’s a tragedy and a shame for many of us.
Luckily, despite all of that there’s been a consistent back-and-forth between Azorean communities in North America and the islands in general, so the connection between the islands and this diaspora does remain strong (stronger than I would have thought). There are also people doing work to maintain it. The Azorean organizer/promoter/all-around-amazing artist Antonio Pedro Lopes, who I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know online a bit, has worked hard to re-strengthen those ties in the arts through events like the Tremor festival on São Miguel, but especially the Fabric Festival in Fall River, Massachusetts (which is right there on the border of Rhode Island), specifically dedicated to keeping up contact between the islands and the diaspora. I really hope to take part in these and other events and programs in the future, and would love to come back to Lisbon and mainland Portugal to make music, collaborate, etc. as well.
So, to answer the second question: my love for Portugal began the first time I saw a picture of the Açores on a postcard my great-aunt had. And it was very much strengthened the first time I visited Porto and Lisbon and Sintra and many other places in 2005. Later, I got to visit the Açores in 2014 with my family, and then took a trip by myself to Lisbon, where I revisited some of my favorite spots around the city. Out of luck, through connections in the music and art world, a friend (Julian Lynch, I think), put me in touch with Sérgio Hydalgo at the amazing venue ZDB, and I went in one night while I was there and it turned out to be his birthday, so we had drinks and hung out a bit, which was a blast.
In other words, our stories intercept at multiple points and at multiple places: through family, through music and art, though wandering the streets of Lisboa the few times I’ve been, returning to Rhode Island and feeling immediately connected, or going with my dad’s family for food in the Ironbound (which is the Portuguese neighborhood in Newark, NJ) whenever we can. There are still many, many good places to eat in the Ironbound, by the way, and they’re old enough where they will have the Portuguese and even Azorean news on the TV.
Diogo: Is it safe to assume that Portuguese culture influences your sonority in some way?
Daniel: Yes, absolutely, though as I’ve said, that influence has been unfortunately piecemeal and something that’s more cobbled together over the years than something I fully grew up steeped in, for the reasons I mentioned in the last answer. My relationship to it is more in the strain and the working to learn and reach toward something—and I think that is where the influence is. Not just in specific cultural objects, but in the complex emotions and the work of learning more and experiencing more about the culture, if that makes sense. Otherwise, I of course love Fado music, especially the use of the guitarra, which is just not an instrument you see or hear much in the US. I love the music of Carlos Paredes, and was happy to see Drag City reissue Movimento Perpétuo a while back, and that record with Charlie Hayden is of course a classic. Maybe above all, my favorite Portuguese musician, someone I feel very, very lucky to now call a friend, is the legendary ambient musician and improvisor Rafael Toral, who is definitely a huge influence on me. I cannot say enough good things about Rafael, and I hope he is as loved in Portugal as he should be! Another musician who I think is really important is Rafael Carvalho. Rafael is based in the Açores and is a master of the Viola da Terra, a guitar-like instrument that is a major part of the folk traditions of the islands.
Rafael is doing an enormous amount of work to preserve the legacy of the Viola and to teach others about the traditions and history of music in the islands. He is both an amazing performer and educator—his performances always include a lot of wonderful history about the instrument, the Açores, the songs and compositions he performs, and so much more. We met in 2014 and I was absolutely mesmerized by his performance, and we talked for a very long time. I was happy to see that he took part in the Fabric Fest in Fall River, MA (organized by Antonio and others, as I mentioned before). I highly recommend finding his performances on YouTube, they are just the best.
Diogo: Regarding your record Earthwork, we can read the following description on Bandcamp: “A lot of this record is about memory and long stretches of time - not just making, but remaking, constantly tinkering.” Intentionally or not, I find it curious the idea of “Earthwork” as memory transfigured by experience or simply the passing of time. How time wears us down and, at the same time, fortifies us.
Daniel: This title and the imagery around it are very much connected to machinery, and the process of moving “earth,” soil, etc. But it isn’t an agricultural image, it’s an industrial one. At the same time, it is, to me, an organic and industrial image. I have a theme that I keep working through of organic machinery: earth-movers, or factories, or cranes made from wood and vines, machines that seem like machines but are fully alive. Part of that, for me, is that such machines do their work slowly and methodically, the way nature itself operates: over vast and slow stretches of time. I think about slowness and the feel of the organic in terms of memory, as if our memories and experiences operate in this way. I think, if I understand you right, this speaks to what you say about time both wearing us down and fortifying us: it is a slow, organic process. We gain our scars and wrinkles and texture over time, and it is over time that we reflect on the events that bring them about, and make those events (or people, experiences, etc.) fully part of us—all of it is is lumbering and laborious.
Diogo: Daniel, what do you teach? Completely off-topic, but what are your thoughts on the concept of “Public school”? In my opinion, the greatest advantage of State schools, at least here in Portugal, is that they help bring closer kids from distinct social classes. This leads to the consolidation, from an early age, of a set of moral values, such as tolerance and respect for the Other.
Daniel: I teach at the university level, at a smaller private college. I teach courses in religious studies—that is, the study of religion from a historical perspective. I am not a religious person myself, but I find religion both fascinating in general and a really important way to understand other people. I try to expose my students to different religious traditions—and the cultures that come with them—in a fair and objective way (or as much as possible), so that they can see something in the world beyond their own experiences. I think that is a fundamental good. I also teach courses in philosophy and to some extent in politics, but my main focus is historical attention to religious traditions in the United States.
Regarding public school, I strongly, strongly agree with you here. In the US, most of the state universities are very large (I went to a school like that for university, with around 40,000 students), so it is a different experience. However, my mother and many friends and family teach in public schools at the primary level (what we call elementary school, middle school, and high school), which can be smaller or larger depending. I am an extremely strong supporter of public education in general, and in the US especially. My mother was a public school teacher—and teacher’s union leader—for almost 30 years before she retired. I saw her fight for so many of her colleagues and students almost every day, and I remain so proud of the work she did. Teachers and public schools are a primary target of the right-wing in this country, and I think that is exactly because of all the good things that public schools do and have done: they bring together people of different classes and backgrounds in general as you say, and they give all different kinds of people the education and opportunities necessary to live a truly human life. I think the universal opportunity to learn exactly the values of tolerance and respect that you mention are also at the heart of what I try to do as a teacher myself.
Diogo: Back to the music... yours takes its time: not rushing, not dragging. However, it has willpower; a force that pushes the structure forward, against what's imprisoning it.
Daniel: I think my answer to the question about Earthwork above speaks to this one too. But I’ll add that this interest in what is slow and methodical is also reflected in what you’re saying here. I actually had not thought of the music as something that is pushing against something, but I think you’re right there, it does feel like that to me when I hear you say it. As an aside: one of the best things about talking to others about your own music or art is getting perspectives like this: I would not describe the music this way, but hearing you describe what you hear, I can immediately recognize it. I think listening is a communal experience and exercise, or at least it should be, for just this reason. So, thank you for these insights, I’m going to think a lot about it.
Diogo: Family, loss, legacy: are they the pillars of your work? In a certain way, they are similar to the pillars of some traditional forms of art in Portugal, like Fado.
Daniel: This is exactly right! In fact, the title of the piece “This Was Home” came to me in 2014 when we visited what had been my great-grandmother’s house in Povoação. It is so hard to put this specific feeling and this concept into words (which is why I think it has to be done with music), but when my sister and I walked into the house—someone else’s home now, but completely soaked with memory and history—I kind of just said, “Well, this was home.” I think there are these places in the world that for each one of us, even if they were never our home, they were home—to someone, maybe someone close, or even someone you’ve never met, but that deep sense that this was a home lingers in a way that is so rich and deep that I find it completely overwhelming. I look at falling houses as I drive or walk around decaying parts of the US where I currently live, and I think: someone took the care and time to build a life here. And in terms of the connection to Portuguese artforms specifically, it’s even more true: I absolutely love Fado, and it’s above all the texture and wail of, say, Amalia’s voice (most famously) that gives us something more than a sense of loss, but the rough, organic sense of the depth of loss and memory. For me, especially in this case, family is right at the center of it, and I’m happy to know that this communicates through the music.
Diogo: How does Earthwork compare to previously released material?
Daniel: It is much quieter! I have several collaborative projects with other musicians, all of which are improvised. However, I consider this a “solo” and “composed” record (even though it is neither!), in that it goes in a line for me thematically with two previous releases:
In 2016 I released Our Severed Sleep, which is a very loud record, consisting of only 2 long pieces (with the incredible drummer Ryan Packard). In 2020, I did a re-release of some music from 2013-2015, collectively called The Last Flight of the Voidship Remainder. All of these records are very different sonically: the Voidship is a sci-fi opus and is full of laserbeam sounds; Our Severed Sleep is all guitar, distortion, and feedback; and Earthwork is much more organic and shimmery. However, they each build and develop sets of themes and techniques, and if anyone really wanted to take the time to do it, you should listen to Voidship, then Our Severed Sleep, then Earthwork, in that order, and it will definitely tell a sonic, thematic, and technical story. The next record will be the next chapter in that!
Diogo: If you’re in Portugal again, make sure to text me, so we can go drink a glass of wine and listen to some Fado. How does that sound to you?
Daniel: I would absolutely love that! As I said, I genuinely love Fado, especially since it seems to me that listening to Fado is an entire experience, it engages a whole community (even if it’s a small, temporary one that night), and—this might sound like an exaggeration, but it’s not—I really think that this music speaks to some things about us as human beings that it can be hard to truly latch onto in music. It’s the textures and timbres of the voices, the shimmering, chiming sounds of the guitarra, more even than the content of the lyrics that does it for me. So, that’s a very big yes!
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