Annick Odom, credit: Katie Alexis | Classical Post

It’s late October as I write this, and Annick Odom’s hauntingly beautiful new work “Seven Bones” sets the scene for a crisp fall day. Equally inspired by Appalachian and contemporary classical music, this West Virginia ghost story deserves an immediate listen. Annick Odom and Federico Forla join Classical Post to discuss.

“Seven Bones”

West Virginia Ghost Stories

Anna Heflin: This work was inspired by a book you had on your bookshelf, a collection of West Virginia ghost stories by folklorist Ruth Ann Musick. As a West Virginian (living in the Netherlands), do you notice any threads throughout ghost stories specifically from West Virginia that capture some essence of place? Did you grow up with these stories? And as a side note, Musick's last name is so poetic in this situation!

Annick Odom (composition, crankie artwork, voice, double bass, and recording): I found "Seven Bones" in a book called "Green Hills of Magic: West Virginia Folktales from Europe." The stories in this book aren't stories I had heard growing up in Morgantown, WV. I remember hearing more contemporary stories about Mothman and older stories like The Telltale Lilac Bush. I mostly remember my sister and I were told stories of my dad's childhood every evening before being lulled to sleep by his singing.

I must admit that though I don't really believe in ghosts, if there was a place I could be convinced they exist, it would be West Virginia. Parts of Appalachia have a mystery to them that encourages stories of the supernatural. The dark forests, dense undergrowth of rhododendrons, mist hanging low over the hills, remote country roads, and devastating coal mining disasters… it adds up to one spooky place. No wonder so many stories of spirits friendly and unfriendly abound.

One thing I love most about folk traditions is that as they travel, they are reinvented. The details change along the way, sometimes unintentionally. Now, as an immigrant myself, separated from home by an ocean and a pandemic, I understand more than ever how indispensable these stories and songs are as we try to keep our memories of home alive.

AH: Can you tell me a little bit about the crankie artwork that we're seeing in the video? Where and when did you learn how to do this? What is the process like in creating this kind of video?

AO: I was introduced to crankies by the inspiring duo, 'Anna & Elizabeth.' After seeing them perform, I began to work with visual artist Sarah Schwendeman to create several crankies for my own performances.

I made this specific crankie myself during the first months of lockdown in the Netherlands. It took many more hours than I had planned, as I had never used a scalpel to do such small, focused work before. Still, it was a welcome, calming distraction at a time when so much was uncertain. Cutting the images out by hand was a meditative experience and helped bring me closer to the story and imagine I was back in West Virginia. I'm so grateful that I was able to work with Federico on this project during the pandemic because he is a "yes- and" kind of person. It was an exhilarating and rewarding process.

Federico Forla, photo courtesy of the artist | Classical Post

Federico Forla (oboe and video): We came up with the idea of making a stop-motion video by taking images through a second camera's viewfinder. The idea was to give an imperfect and dreamy aesthetic, mirroring the setting of the tale. The beginning of our video shows precisely how the crankie was made. It brings the viewer inside the old camera, just as the song brings the listeners inside of our story. It took us several nights of us experimenting and moving the scroll Annick made, one millimeter at a time. We could only take the pictures once the sun had set, and the lighting was just right. All visual effects are actually just the reflections of the camera glass.

AH: I really enjoy how we start hearing elements of the story in the music, like the horse and the whispering. How do you understand the relationship between music and storytelling?

AO: As a contemporary musician and lover of free improv, I have grown to love so many "ugly" and "weird" noises that many people might not appreciate at first. A ghost story is a perfect way to combine extended techniques on the oboe and bass with more theatrical storytelling and ballad singing elements. I would also be remiss not to mention how helpful it was to work with Yannick Laret on mixing my home recordings to help balance these musical elements with the story.

AH: Another side of the question above is how do you balance folk music and contemporary music practices in your work? In the information you sent me about the piece you say, "I want to work to make the culture and histories I love visible and audible in the new music scene, but in a respectful way that honors the complexities of folk music." What do you mean by this?

AO: Both those living in and outside of Appalachia sometimes paint a romanticized, rosy picture of Appalachia, focusing on its natural resources and traditional art forms. On the other hand, Appalachians are often portrayed as poor, stupid hillbillies, and the region is described by many as a dismal and hopeless place to call home. Both of these stereotypes create a monolithic picture of the area. I strive to gather as much context as I can about each song and story I learn in an attempt to share a many-sided view of what it means to be Appalachian.

Along with these stereotypes, another myth exists that Appalachian folk music has purely English and Scots Irish origins. That's just not true. It has a vital, though frequently erased, history of Black and Indigenous contributions. We can do a better job of supporting and amplifying those artists' voices, past and present. I have been really inspired by the work of Black historians, music educators, and folk musicians such as Jillean McCommons, Brandi Waller-Pace, and Jake Blount.

There's also been a long history of classical composers taking and experimenting with folk music worldwide. The worst examples of these "collaborations" can be exploitative of the folk musicians and overly simplify their musical traditions. Growing up in West Virginia, I often took the rich history of folk arts in the region for granted and dreamed of being in a big city with an orchestra and lots of classical musicians to play with. Though I did leave, I know how much beauty, variety, and skill there is in folk music played in West Virginia. I want to highlight this livingness in the music I perform and write!

I continue to evolve and reflect on my practice. As we reimagine what a classical musician can look like today, the interpreter's and creator's roles have begun to overlap again. I hope to continue blending these two traditions [classical and folk], as I deeply love the freedom of expression I experience in new music, ballad singing, and songwriting. There are also some folk aspects of today's contemporary classical music, such as a movement towards oral and popular traditions, improvisation, and storytelling. There's a desire to connect with audiences in meaningful, personal ways. I'm reminded that my favorite musical experiences have been those on porches and in living rooms.

AH: Regarding the story which inspired this work, you say that "one of my favorite parts of the story 'Seven Bones' as it was collected by folklorist Ruth Ann Musick, is the storyteller Anna Krajnak's use of the word putce. When I looked it up, it seemed to have no meaning." Do you see this as a layer of the ways that words can morph into music?

AO: I spent a lot of time looking up different spellings of the word "putce" online in Czech dictionaries. I still ended up using the word in my song because it's such an endearing example of how oral traditions develop over time. Though "putce" held no initial meaning for me, the word connects the story to its roots in Czechoslovakia. I imagine that it was a crucial part of the story for the storyteller. Using the sound "putce" also lets the voice take on an instrumental role, blending with the bass and oboe in a way that an English word could not.

Annick Odom

Annick Odom is an American-Belgian musician living in The Netherlands. In her solo project, West Virginia, My Home, she explores Appalachian narratives of her home state, working with American composers and songwriters, even composing some of the songs herself. She enjoys being a part of different musical worlds from free improvisation to American Old Time. She graduated in 2018 with a master’s from the Royal Conservatoire in The Hague. Recently, she has performed at Banff Center for the Arts Ensemble Evolution, New Music on the Point in Vermont, and the Rotterdam Bluegrass Festival. West Virginia, My Home, an album of composed songs for bass and voice as well as arrangements of Appalachian ballads is available on Bandcamp.

Federico Forla

Federico Forla is an Italian oboist living in The Netherlands. He received his Master’s degree at the Royal Conservatoire in Den Haag, where he also gained interest in the world of historically informed performance. He has performed with the Academy of Ancient Music, the Metropole Orkest, the Residentie Orkest, the Camerata Ducale, Orchestra Guido D’Arezzo, Concerto D’Amsterdam, Concerto Bremen and Cappella Regia Praha. One of Federico’s main artistic interests is exploring chamber music in all of its forms. He has performed with several ensembles in different festivals, such as the MiTo-Settembre Musica, the Festspiele Zuerich, the Festival Oude Muziek in Utrecht, the Bach for All Festival in Prague and the Takemitzu Festival (De Doelen).