Maxx Katz's eclectic research into somatic practices, heavy metal, improvisation, and classical music infuses Yelling Choir's compositions with a radical and unexpected edge. by Lindsay Costello On Saturday, a casual crowd gathered in Portland Institute of Contemporary Art's warehouse to hear Yelling Choir, a "performance process" created by Portland-based musicologist Maxx Katz. The afternoon show was part of the Time Based Arts Festival's happy hour programming, with the choir's brief 30-min piece What will contain us? drawing festival-goers to PICA before an evening slate of shows. Attendees grabbed plastic chairs and cracked seltzers while children crawled on the cool cement floor. From my seat, I observed the crowd and considered whether Katz’s concept of a “socially aware aesthetic of listening and seeing” had already begun. Choir members were already present from the outset, standing on platforms arranged throughout the audience, wearing monochrome outfits—blue, yellow, red. They pierced the air with isolated, lengthy notes that reverberated against the warehouse’s walls. Some were shrieks. Others could be classified as cries or moans. I listened for distinctions between the sounds and what they conjured internally—an anxious rattling in my chest, sadness, even elation. Katz’s yelling was particularly effective, controlled yet deeply felt, followed by angelic notes.  The choir members looked like bands of rainbow. photo by Lindsay Costello Descending from their platforms, the choir members looked like bands of rainbow, as they slowly formed a line on the center stage. Their cries grew louder, then halted in sudden silence. Dressed in white, Katz used hand gestures to rouse eruptions of hoots, hollers, whispers, clucks, and clicks from the choir. Sweeping arm motions encouraged oozing "aaaaah" sounds and angular gestures elicited abbreviated huffs of air. The flow of notes continued, and I wondered: How does gesture become sound? I guess, I’m watching it happen. Katz’s approach to yelling brings to mind ambient pioneer Laraaji’s approach to laughter. Eruptions of riotous sound, freed from the confines of predictable harmony, rhythm, and structure, hold an enormous capacity for emotional release. Yoko Ono also harnessed this idea in her interactive 1961 work “Voice Piece for Soprano,” which invited participants to scream “against the wind, against the wall, against the sky.”  Practices like these command sonic space. As Yelling Choir is composed of femme, women, and nonbinary persons, it adds to this long-standing conversation in contemporary performance art. The project builds collaborative power by creating room for the historically voiceless. Katz's eclectic research into somatic practices, heavy metal, trauma-informed mindfulness, improvisation, and classical music infuses the choir's work with a radical and unexpected edge. The results feel visceral, almost ritualistic.  Throughout the performance, the choir embraced between shouts and collapsed into shrieking, hyena-laugh exorcisms. The audience giggled, nervously or otherwise. Mid-performance, one choir member emitted a long, guttural, stabbing screech that sounded like death itself. Impaled by the sound, the choir froze in place. Beats of silence accentuated other sounds in the room—a baby muttering, a car coasting down NE Hancock, a cough, a burp.  Then the screams returned. They felt primordial, like sounds lying dormant within each of us. Toward the end of the performance, Katz motioned toward the audience, inviting us to join the choir. The crowd conjured a range of subtle, unsure sounds that grew louder and more assured over brief moments. I managed to emit one small noise, and wondered if it was enough. I chose to trust that it was. Our other 2024 TBA Reviews: Te Moana Meridian Proposes Moving the Prime Meridian If You Want Solitude, Stay Far Away From Club Alive Goner Contains Some of the Best Booty-Shaking You'll Ever See