“Why would I want to put my art in your museum if I have my own house?” An Interview with Rucyl
Concordia University (Canada)
<http://dx.doi.org/10.12801/1947-5403.2017.09.01.10>
Figure 1. Rucyl, New York (2015). Photo Courtesy of the Author.
It’s the summer of 2015 and I’m in New York for a residency at Barnard. By chance, I notice Rucyl post on her social media that she is in New York for a weekend and I message her immediately to meet up. I had been wanting to include her in my documentary, microfemininewarfare, but hadn’t managed to do so yet.
Rucyl Mills (b. 1970s) is a multi-format artist, singer and music producer currently based out of LA. She grew up in Philadelphia and spent many years of her life in NYC. With no formal training, she joined the alternative hip-hop group, The Goats (Ruffhouse/Columbia Records) in 1992, with which she toured for a couple of years. The band experience made her see, that, yes, “I am an artist”. Consequently, she was propelled to go to the New School in New York to study jazz. She dropped out, and later came back for a BSc in New Media, a program she found more suited to her sonic explorations. She received her Masters from the Interactive Communication Program at NYU, which alongside mentor, unsung jazz vocalist, Teri Thornton, provided her with resources and time to hone her craft and branch out fully into electronic music using blues and jazz vocal improvisation in electronic composition. After finishing her degree, she worked on various audio-visual projects including the Chakakhantroller, a wearable MIDI controller. In the same year, she co-founded the duo Saturn Never Sleeps with King Britt, a “futuretronic” label and audiovisual group influenced by the re-articulated contemporary Afrofuturism movement. They released an LP Yesterday’s Machines, toured the world and performed at various events like TEDxPhilly, Art Basel, Moogfest, and ICA in Philadelphia.
She is currently promoting her first solo full length album, Caveat (2016) and spending time at various new media residencies figuring out new ways of sounding and listening.
One of the things we are faced with when we are young is figuring out who we are, who we want to be and how to get there. For some, that road is easy, or at least straight forward, for others, it requires circuitous maneuvers. This interview is framed by an artistic optimism demonstrating how Rucyl came to be. Rucyl was mostly raised by her father, a musician who gave it up to become a high school math & physics teacher. His philosophy was that you can’t make money making music, an assertion that stayed with her for years. The following explores Rucyl’s history, her road to becoming an artist, staying an artist without compromise, the importance of community and other women, not giving up, being taken seriously as a female artist, the negotiations that artists have to make with others, themselves and their equipment and how she managed to flip her father’s assertion for her benefit, and follow her own motto, “Why would I want to put my art in your museum if I have my own house?” A nod to the oft-quoted Audre Lorde (1984):
For the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. They may allow us temporarily to beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change. And this fact is only threatening to those women who still define the master’s house as their only source of support.
Rucyl and I meet in Harlem alongside my crew, two other women, at her friend’s apartment to bear witness to her magic. Rucyl sits cross-legged on the hardwood with her mic and gear, and performs a medley of loopy improvisations and previously recorded material. I negotiate my role as director, interviewer, fan and friend as we begin.
Below is an excerpt from an interview we recorded that hot summer day.
Magdalena Olszanowski: You had mentioned there was always music around—jazz, reggae, dancehall—all the while your dad said this key point that seems common among young people if they don’t come from privileged households that have the resources to let their kids do art without financial worry. He said art and music is important, but you need a job, or you need to do something else; that somehow music won’t be enough. I remember being told the same thing about art. I’m curious if that has stuck or influenced you?
Rucyl: It was a huge thing for me because I wanted to be an artist from a really young age but I didn’t have any references of how to do that. I knew that in my mind I was like, I can’t make any money, and if I can’t make any money how will I eat or survive? That has definitely informed all of my choices until now. However, now I have created a situation where I can do other things creatively and I can get paid for them and enjoy them and I don’t have to change the way I do music to make money. So, I kind of flipped it, from music is just something I do and maybe I can make some money doing it, to now it’s more like “I don’t want to have to make money from it”. It gives me more freedom and I can do it every day or stop for a year. While this quote was always in the back of mind I fought against it—“That’s not true dad! I have to follow my dreams”, I told him when I left high school [to tour] (laughs). So I tried it and it’s a really rough life. It’s not an easy path to do music—pop, experimental or chamber, etc.—it’s just as difficult as any other job in the western world, and I don’t think it’s really respected here until you’ve excelled at it. You also don’t have support systems in place unless, you are finally that one of a million, or if you have some academic background and you might be able to get more support.
Of course, my dad is so supportive and proud: “I always knew you were going to do great”, he tells me and I’m like “but you told me not to do it” and his riposte is: “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to starve because you’re not going to marry someone for money, so, I had to set it up”. He already knew I was a feminist when I was eight. This statement, even though it was well-intentioned, kept me from allowing myself to believe in my craft for a really long time. I was like “I can do it but I’m not going to put 100% because I don’t really have the time because it’ll take the time away from me making money”. But every time I stopped making music I would get depressed. So, I had to find a way to keep doing it. I would never tell children [not to pursue their art], but we are a different generation.
Is it a generational thing? Or an immigrant thing? Because this was also the case for me. I always wanted to be an artist, but I didn’t start drawing and become amazing, I had a hard time playing instruments, I loved to dance and write but that didn’t seem legitimate; it didn’t seem like “art”. So I was told that that is not something you can do unless you are an artistic genius. While my mom encouraged me to write and take photos, when I thought about going to art school for writing and photography, I was told that this is not something that you do, you have to go get a non-art degree to get a job. And of course, I ended up back where I needed to be, in writing and image-making, but it took a different meandering route. I’m sure some people are strong-willed enough and will still go after their art dreams when they are young, but if you are self-conscious you are going to think that art school is only for a reserved elite, an elite that is determined outside of your milieu, and you need to make money because you see your parents struggling.
It’s very real.
And if your family is struggling, they can’t give you money to get an instrument or provide lessons, so you don’t even have an opportunity to get good. Role models are key in this and can sometimes change things around—was there somebody before university that made you think, maybe you know, I’m going to do this music thing anyway, or something you came across?
I didn’t really have any references or role models except the music I listened to. I remember the first time I heard Sade and saw her, it was like seeing a different world for the first time. It was like, whoa, there is someone that culturally looks like me! Where I grew up [in Philadelphia] there was no one else that looked like us. We didn’t have visual references, and when I saw Sade, I connected to her... it wasn’t that I wanted to be her, but I could sing all her songs; I sang the way she sang. I didn’t grow up in a church background. I had no training. When I heard her tone, I was like, I can fit with that. She is one of my hugest influences. James, from my old band, The Goats, influenced me the most. I saw somebody creating music with their hands in front of me and not playing instruments. He was also very encouraging, saying things like: “You’re smart, you just have to do it” He took the time to explain everything to me. James was like: “You’re amazing, you can do anything you want!” To have someone say that to you when you’re fifteen or sixteen is big! He would go on: “Write a rap, sing! Press this button a look how this computer works”. Once I got my hands on a computer, I was like, “Whoa this is amazing”.
When James showed you what you can do on a computer—do you think it allowed you to see music from a different perspective?
YES!
Figure 2. Rucyl at home (2014). Photo Courtesy of Rucyl.
Instead of classically trained instrumentation or singing, computers allowed for a different world of creation that didn’t need formal training like needing violin lessons.
It was my way in. Looking back, it was also a defining point. I started to understand I’m an artist and that I can use different tools. Once I understood that there was a tool set and a system, I was like, OK, “if I just keep doing this I’ll get better”. I didn’t have any references before then.
Sometimes you are not just born with it. A lot of people have to do a lot of work. Even someone like Al Green locked himself in a closet for months until he liked the tone of his voice! It all fell into place when I saw it [computer-based music] was something I could craft in a different way because it was tactile and outside of me. Singing comes from the inside. Now I could create something with my hands. Now I was creating my own environments to support myself. I had no other way to do it. This was it.
Also, if you are working with DAWs [Digital Audio Workstations], you can do effects and move your voice around rather than straight singing...
There’s a side of me that is folk-oriented too. Pure acoustic. However, there is something in the ability to manipulate something that has just left my body. It’s amazing to me. I can have something come out and I can manipulate it and change it to something else. I can hear myself, but I get to also hear myself singing along with myself. For me, it’s so fascinating. The first time I started doing that was before I knew about Laurie Anderson or Pauline Oliveros... and when I did find out about them, I was blown away.
They’ve managed to stay relevant and make money as they age, which is rare in the art and music industry.
Figure 3. Preparation for Solar Bass installation, Colombia (May 2016). Photo Courtesy of Rucyl.
It’s something I think about a lot: Why would I want to put my art in your museum if I have my own house? This totally captures the sentiment for me. I think galleries are wonderful, but who built that house, why is that determining the power of what you created? If you are an artist in her forties or fifties, or you become invisible, or you become famous for a minute and then you are not, then what? If an art gallery is defining you then what are we really talking about here?
A lot of musicians re-invent themselves for other avenues to have longevity and success. There is nothing wrong with that, however, if you are determining the wealth of yourself and the worth of yourself, based on someone else’s definition, then it’s really about delivery systems. How is the art or the music being delivered? Who is determining what gets delivered? Who is determining who says what is good? If you listen to all of those things then you aren’t really being artistic. You are being a fan. You are being spoon-fed. I’m really interested in the conversation about who said what—who is the person who decides, “what I say is cool, I’m a curator and I’m trained and I know everything and I’m amazing”. At the end of the day, I don’t want my self-worth to be determined by, if my art is put into someone else’s house. Why can’t I define how my art is displayed and in my house?
For me, success is legacy, not the present moments. If I have an archive of stuff that I’ve done then I’ve succeeded. If I think about it that way I don’t have to worry about those other things. I know it’s a privileged thought process though because I’ve been fortunate enough to set up my life, so I can survive in other ways. Spiritually I survive off music, but it’s not giving me food to eat. Sometimes it does; but it’s not my main work. That’s allowed me to think about it this way—legacy. So, I can have some amazing work I left behind and people can look at it later and do whatever they want with it. There are roles for different types of artists. I’d rather be a Laurie Anderson and do weird shit till I’m eighty. Ok, I guess she’s pretty well known though (laughs). But she became super successful because she created her own delivery systems. And she created a world that she wanted for herself. She wasn’t like “I need to get into this situation or into this situation”. People were coming to her because she created her own environment; she was the first artist to have a residency at NASA! [And the last official one]. She understands where her power is, because she knows who she is. I want to spend my energy doing that. I’m a long curve kind of person. I feel like I’m just getting started and I’m forty, and I’ve been doing music since fifteen. Just now, I’m like, I might be onto something.
Is it because you found a community that reinforces what you are saying or has a similar language to you?
It’s because of the internet. That’s how I found my community. The quality of people I’ve been able to connect with is amazing. When I first started using the internet, the WWW, I understood that this was going to change everything—content delivery systems and how people connect. Now I was able to have access to socio-cultural visual things that I wouldn’t have access to otherwise and directly from a person instead of having to look at a perspective that has been historically preserved by someone else’s perspective. So, I can go on Vine and see a kid in Nigeria making a film and his vision is not about reading instructions in a book that’s been filtered by other people with other institutional agendas. So, I am able to directly influence people and people can influence me directly and I can have people that are on my vibration.
It’s vital to see people who are sort of similar to you, doing work that you kind of want to do or in your periphery, especially when dealing with various modes of oppression that women are wont to.
It’s community!
I grew up as a tomboy. I didn’t get that the [sexual and misogynist] dynamic was happening until about sixteen. Then I started getting it. All the band mates were seven to ten years older so they “little sistered” me, which was great, but as I got older, for sure! Stuff comes up! Right before I left the band, I tour managed the last tour. It was... awful. It was one of the worst, most rewarding things, because I learned so much, but I was nineteen and tour managing a band all over Europe. The way I was treated, I couldn’t believe. There was no respect. I had to get other people to stand with me when it was time to collect the money because they didn’t want to pay me directly. But, it doesn’t bother me now, because that can’t happen to me now. I don’t react the same way. I just get “whatever” because I don’t feel that power is being taken away from me, because I don’t create my music in spaces where it’s determined by someone else’s power structure. Do you see what I mean? Before, when I was younger, I was under the influence of, like, “I need to get that gig”, so I need to assimilate or fit in, now I’m like “nah, I don’t need it, I got to go”. I can do this in my living room and film it. But that’s being forty now—“I don’t care what your issue is, I won’t support you or play in your club or festival if you treat me poorly”. I have standards because of that previous stuff. That stuff is terrible. I can’t do that with music because music is church, it’s God, it’s spiritual. I can’t have you hurting me in my most vulnerable position. I can’t make music with people I don’t like. If I’m not on the same energy level or wave or vibration, I physically cannot do it. It’s too... I can cry thinking about it... it’s so real for me. So, spiritual and emotional, it’s my purest state. I feel the most vulnerable and the most powerful doing it.
It’s definitely frustrating because it is such a sacred space and it can be so jarring to have someone come in with those intentions. You learn to recognize it but when you are younger you cannot recognize it...
...and you just feel it and it messes you up.
You’re uncertain how to negotiate that. You are in this moment of being vulnerable and feeling so open to all of that and to have someone else come in for these reasons of not respecting you is jarring. Do you have some moments to share about this? Because some people give up.
I did give up! I gave up for five years from about 2002–2007 because I had bad experiences with producers and label owners and A&R situations. The industry in the early 2000s was so intense because of the changes that were happening, like majors were folding, you weren’t being supported, no more production deals and so on. Popular black music, or pop music in general, they [record labels] didn’t know what was happening, and they couldn’t fit me into any particular situation. I was getting things like, “if you dressed like this” and I’m like, “I’m not going to do that”, I was a b-girl, I couldn’t do it. They’re like, “if you straighten your hair”. And I’m like, “I can’t do any of that”. It was ridiculous to me. I guess I did have some backbone back then, but at the time it didn’t feel like it. I just knew I couldn’t do it. I would have some terrible situations with people who I would record with and they would hold my demos or they would say unless you sign this (where they get all the publishing), I’m not going to give you the recording and I said “I’M DONE. I’m not going to do this. I’ll do something else. I’ll use my four-track recorder and my computer and do music like that”. And five years went by like that. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t want to play with bands or do jazz gigs. I was over it, but then I was like “I’m so depressed” and I started meeting other women in NYC who were having the same experience. I realized I needed community. I didn’t have a support system—it was just me alone and whoever I was doing music with. I had no “hey girl” to bring with me to a studio. I’ve always been very isolated. I thought I was being independent but I realized I was self-isolating. I realized if there’s five of us they can’t do it [push us around]! And that’s kind of how I got out of my funk. I also met this woman Teri Thornton. She won the Thelonious Monk competition the year she died. She was a vocal coach of mine at school at the New School. We stayed friends and she would give me lessons. Our lessons would be: ok some piano and sing for ten minutes then she would close the piano and say: “let’s go to the bar”, and we would sit at the bar for the rest of the lesson and she would tell me about her life. She kind of looked like me, we had the same complexion, we were super tight right away. She was maybe in her early seventies, and she would just tell me stories and I would just sit there. I started realizing “oh this [mistreatment] happens to everybody!” I have friends who are really successful and ambitious. Some of them are kind of cold because they had to shut off sections of themselves to get to a certain place and to survive. I don’t want to be like that, I [would] rather be mushy or else my art is going to suffer. So, to hear someone successful say, “just do you, everyone is going to give you a rough time regardless, it won’t be just other men, it’ll be other women too, you just gotta want to do it, and if it doesn’t feel right just leave”. This is what I’ve always understood—I can leave. I didn’t have to be thirsty, there’s always another opportunity.
Some of things you are saying—being open to certain people and certain energies and knowing what to be closed to. This is difficult to negotiate, what to go for, what to say no to, and how to compromise. If you’re saying yes to these things that are giving you these goals then inadvertently you are saying no to others.
I don’t need to be famous. Once I understood that about myself, it’s easy, because you‘re like, “so?” I don’t need fame. I think when I was younger I wanted recognition. But in my early thirties when I started understanding I had a peer group, I looked around at my peers and thought, “they were amazing and they think I’m amazing, and if my ten friends think I made an incredible record then I’m set”.
That sounds really fulfilling. Do you collaborate with your peers? Can you tell me a bit about Saturn Never Sleeps and collaborating artistically with a partner [King Britt]? You don’t have to answer!
It was the first time I did that, and for me it was really hard. King is a producer, and he would tell you what to do, and I was like, “ugh don’t tell me what to do”. So, we had our own studios. We didn’t share production spaces. We had separate soundproof areas. Sonically he’s got an incredible ear, but how we did the record, he would create some of the pieces and I would take it and add onto it or write the lyrics. And then I would record it and he would arrange it and then I would say yes or no. In some ways, we didn’t do it together, because we weren’t in a room creating things together, it was more of a collaboration.
Why do you think that?
A lot of it is me I think. I don’t think I wanted to. I was particular about—I want to do it—and a lot of it was probably because I was a woman and my previous experiences. He was supportive. Now I’m different. I don’t operate that way, now I’m like, “let’s do it together”. Before I was like, “I need to go in my cave then I’ll bring it to you”. Power dynamics were super important to me at the time. I was concerned with protecting myself to make sure I didn’t lose my voice, because I lost it so many times before.
Figure 4. Set up for Live performance, 17 Frost Street Space (May 2015). Photo courtesy of Rucyl.
Is there something protective about gear? How does this relationship manifest into the tools you use?
The tools: I have my controllers and my laptop running Ableton Live and loads of VSTs and plug-ins and I use Max for Live too, and MIDI controllers, which allow me to control those virtual instruments inside my laptop and a mic. I have other set ups using all analog equipment and hopefully I get to that in the next couple of years.
I’m moving further and further away from wanting to touch my laptop. Building the Chakakhantroller was a response to that—how do I make electronic music without being in my laptop and playing a synth? So I took apart the trigger finger and used MaxMSP and programmed it to control audio/visual anything. I have four audio inputs to control my vocal and any tracks coming out of my computer. I can control visuals. Anything I was running on my computer I could do with this. I named it after Chaka Khan because she was my spirit muse that year, to inspire me to be fearless. I was going to make a wireless version and that year Ableton came out with all these controllers, so I didn’t need to make them anymore. I wanted to get away from being in the laptop.
Your body also moves differently...
I didn’t like that laptop look at all. When I first started doing laptop music I was doing sine waves and bleeps and blobs and I saw a video of it and I was like, “this is so boring”. It’s just a light on my face and the computer eyes; your eyes all bugged out. There is nothing sexy about that at all (laughs). However, once I started wearing the Chakakhantroller and playing it, I didn’t really like it. I loved that I built it but I was like, “this doesn’t feel like the movements I want to be doing”. So, I went back to the laptop and to home-brew software and DIY controllers. So, then I was into the hacking vibe. So the problem was that I didn’t like staring into the screen. I started using the Akai controller, which allowed me to do all the mixing and control, everything before it even gets to the board in the room. So no one can tell me, “I want to do this to your vocals or that”. I can say: “No, I know exactly how I want my vocals, thank you”. I can control everything, I can set my monitors. I had a very self-contained unit. So how I think about the equipment is like this one woman explaining to me about tarot. “The tarot cards don’t actually do anything, they are the medium, I don’t even need them. I have them 1) so people don’t get freaked out; 2) it’s just the tool to trigger what is already happening inside and outside of me”. So equipment is like that for me. It’s a visual reference and a tool. Basically, it’s a medium, something tactile that I can be doing to kind of disguise a little bit, all the stuff that is coming out of me. So, I’m trying to be in that process to make sound come out and go through that whole experience of getting myself to a spiritual place for that moment. I have the tools there to distract you and I’m doing things with them, but without it [the gear] I don’t think I could do it. I don’t know if I can just sit there with a mic and the music playing with some other way...
There’s also something about it being a reference technology as a visual, while I’m doing my work. I want people to understand that I’m in this space. I want people to know that I know how to use software and a computer. Not that it’s super important, but it is. The visual is important because I want people not to make assumptions based on the way I look, whatever the reference is for the way that I look, I want them to understand that I look this way and I can also do that. So, it’s a bit of a geek girl nerd kind of thing, which I’m super into. But it sets up a narrative of respect immediately, because I’m not saying “I look really cute today and I’m going to sing some tracks”, there’s nothing wrong with that but because of my past experiences, I want to set up a situation where right away, it’s like, “what is she doing? I don’t even understand!” It’s a respect situation like you’re not going to assume certain things about me because I have a laptop and controllers, you’re going to be like “what’s that?”
Having gear sets up a legitimacy...
Yes!
And it’s kind of hot, in the geek out way. Like there was that female_pressure VISIBILITY Tumblr about women and their tools. Specifically, in electronic music, and pictures and their tools. For my documentary too; I always try to get the hand/body shots of working. There’s something about it. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, many women in the visual arts would paint their self-portraits that would portray them with their tools.
Yeah... woman + machine! It’s hot, and it shows that there are other ways to look at women and it’s attractive that she can do these things, and it doesn’t mean she’s masculine, it means she knows how to do this shit.
I love to see men doing their shit too. I’m into that stuff. I always get to have conversations afterwards about gear. I’m educated about it. I know what I’m doing. I can have these conversations and I deserve to be in this space. You can not like my music, but you aren’t going to tell me I don’t know what I’m doing.
You know, I didn’t realize in “Listening to the Body” (2011) and in “Heart Awake” (2011) that the vocal is you. I didn’t realize you sang because your web presence is very much you as a producer with your tools.
That’s interesting. I thought that was the opposite of what most people thought.
I thought it’s a sample especially because it’s heavily modulated, there’s something about the body and voice ... can you tell me about it?
It took me a while to get into modular synthesis. It’s a very expensive hobby. I always wondered why I’d see these guys who are sixty and “finally got my modular”. Because you can’t even afford it until you’ve saved your whole life.
Some get kits.
Yeah piece by piece... but shit, so expensive.
How did you decide to get the Moog, other than wanting it forever?
I had an SH–101 for a while, and I knew I had to get a Moog and I got a white one, [the limited MiniMoog Voyager Performance Edition White]. Visually it’s so inspiring. My studio is my bedroom... or my studio has a bed in it. The latter is how I think about it. So, I wake up and it’s the first thing I look at and sigh in awe. It cost more money than my car. But yeah wow, it’s my boo (laughs). I love that machine. It’s so much like a human voice.
I can sit in front of my Moog and play it for three hours, and I might be playing one note and messing with the parameters. I feel it. To me, it is a very angelic instrument. It’s chakra tuning. Like reggae, when you stand in front of the bass speaker, you feel: “I’m all tuned up now. I can go on with my week”—positive vibrations. There’s something to these frequencies and I’ve looked into it but that’s a whole huge conversation. It cleans the mind, cleanses the palate, bad things cannot happen when that’s happening. Like people at a Moog show; everyone is Zen.
Analog gear, not to say that it isn’t electronic, but there’s a sentience to it; a kind of liveness is in those types of instruments.
It’s organic. It’s a real entity. I don’t know, I’m still figuring it out. All I know is it moves me. I get so excited about it. I wish they were lighter so I could bring them around more. They’re heavy, it’s really magical shit (laughs). Whenever you meet someone else who has a Moog you get all like, “oh you know, you get the thing”. And when people come over I always play it for them because most people have never seen one or touched one, and when they hear it, they’re like, “oh I didn’t get it [before]”, or they didn’t until they’re in the space. It’s made me cry!
If I’m not crying I’m not doing it right (laughs). That’s my motto with music. It’s not weakness to me, it’s pure emotive joy!
This interview is part of a larger forthcoming project, microfemininewarfare.
I am grateful for the opportunity to have interviewed Rucyl. I would like to thank Xiaojue for putting up with my moods and cravings, Jason DaSilva for providing the equipment at such short notice and his assistant Naeisha Rose for managing the cameras. Finally, I’d like to thank all of the people who believed and still believe in this project. Like Rucyl, I’m a long-curve kind of person.
Magdalena Olszanowski is an artist and PhD Candidate (ABD) in Communication Studies at Concordia University, Montreal. She is a researcher and photographer at ACT (Ageing, Communication, Technologies) in Montreal.
Her scholarly and artistic work on gender, image-making, electronic music, censorship and ageing has been published in books and journals such as nomorepotlucks, Dancecult, Feminist Media Studies and Visual Communication Quarterly. Her dissertation is focused on feminist online image-media histories of the 1990s. She has performed as a VJ and DJ internationally and hopes to resurrect her documentary, microfemininewarfare, featuring women experimental electronic music composers. Website: http://raisecain.net/. Email: magdalena.olszanowski@concordia.ca.
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<https://www.discogs.com/release/10712377>.
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