Gideon Freudmann There's Always Room for Cello by Dan Willging

Cellists and singer/songwriters are not often mistaken for one another, but for more than a decade, Hadley, Massachusetts, resident Gideon Freudmann has accomplished the unlikely by merging the two disparate art forms into what he humorously calls "CelloBop." The idea of taking the cello out of its classical music surroundings began fermenting in high school and percolated in college (Freudmann studied cello performance at the University of Connecticut). By the time Freudmann saw the hilarious scene of a cellist in a marching band in Woody Allen's Take the Money and Run, he was already discovering chord progressions, strumming patterns, improvisation and writing his signature "cello-driven cello-folk songs."

Of course, a concept like this doesn't gel overnight, but there were defining moments along the way. In the late 80s, Freudmann formed the guitar-cello duo Holiday Clock, which he describes as "quirky acoustic folk rock with a punk attitude," just a good excuse to play intensely loud without amplification. After that, Freudmann made another hop with his Frog Project, a trio of two vocals, bass, drums, cello with more emphasis on arrangements, harmonies and instrumentation. The struggle of keeping a band together eventually took its toll as everyone found easier ways to make a living. During their short tenure, the group recorded their Fellini Martini CD, which, along with Freudmann's earlier cassette, The Waldo Variations, began chiseling out the musical personality of the world's first CelloBopper.

From there, Freudmann returned to solo performing and songwriting. Prior to the Frogs, he had a stint as a solo artist, and it was during that era he coined his crowning cello-speak argot, CelloBop, to convince doubting club owners his music wasn't classical. A mutual friend, Dave Palmater of Boston's WUMB, introduced Freudmann to Gadfly Records' Mitch Cantor, whose eclectic collection of artists ranged from the offbeat to the esoteric.

Freudmann and Gadfly were a perfect fit. His first Gadfly release was 1995's Banking Left, 17 tracks of twisted, madcap songs, slightly along the lines of Syd Barrett or Robyn Hitchcock, if they had ever tripped out on cello, with a little Dan Hicks humor for sanity. The melodies were memorable, totally infectious, swirling with a psychedelic vertigo and an occasional Beatlesque moment. "Love that swirling psychedelic thing," muses Freudmann. "Can't get enough of it."

Just as Freudmann proved that a singer-songwriter-cellist notion was viable on Banking Left, the next album, Cellobotomy, released later that year, showed the cello's endless possibilities. A dozen of the 17 instrumental originals were heavily laced in delay and overdubs for a fatter and richer sound. Before playing a passage, Freudmann activates a digital delay device with a looping feature to signal its beginning. Upon termination, the recorded passage echos briefly while other parts are added on through overdubbing. Underlying bass lines support hummable melodies before erupting into sounds resembling whale pods, pregnant cows or aliens hitchhiking across the galaxy. "It is a very versatile instrument. You get an incredibly wide range of sounds and it's nice to put them together in different combinations to really showcase what a rich instrument it is."

By now Freudmann's performances were a mixture of cello-looping-delay-suspending compositions and folksongs. The combination of the two earlier phases resulted in 1997's Adobe Dog House, a collection of humorous and serious tunes. Folk melodies like "Manila Waltz" were stirred with experimental instrumentals like the cosmic-rendering "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" that drifts the soul far from Kansas. Overall, Freudmann's writing had reached new personal levels, not as silly as Banking Left, but not always serious, either. It was also significant in that it was the first time Freudmann had recorded with an electric cello, an eye-catching, anchor-shaped instrument better suited for touring. If there ever were a "breakthrough" album (a nebulous term in Freudmann's lexicon), this was it. The response was positive, and eventually it found its way into the hands of National Public Radio, where snippets of Adobe Dog House are still played regularly.

As wildly exciting as Freudmann's albums were — wonderfully dense affairs of ideas, hooks, and material that endures the long haul and do not burn out like pop candy — they were not avant-garde. The next project, Sound of Distant Deer, was. Cantor suggested that Freudmann get together with Ronnie Seldin, a renowned shakuhachi player (a long bamboo flute used in Japanese Buddhist Zen music). The adventuresome nine tracks contained one Freudmann original ("Slippery Lettuce"), a co-improvisation ("Cellohachi"), two ancient Zen tunes ("Ajikan," "Sound of Distant Deer"), with the rest being modern art compositions that showed a western world intersecting its eastern counterpart. It was a challenging piece of work. At times the two played separate melodies in different time signatures during the same piece. For the average Freudmann fan, it left a lot of head scratching. Those able to stick with Distant Deer found it pleasant for meditation. "If you don't focus really hard and let it wash over you, it can be pretty hypnotic," said Freudmann. "A lot of people who like it have liked it for that reason."

Although things keep rolling, Freudmann never gets caught up in success, even with the numerous opening slots he has had with Richard Thompson, Cheryl Wheeler, Christine Lavin, Patty Larkin, and others. While building inroads as a performing-recording artist, Freudmann also conducts various workshops to heighten the public's cello consciousness. For his educational concerts, Freudmann examines the cello, its construction and history, and how sounds are made through various techniques. For another workshop, Freudmann teaches classically trained cellists to envision other ways music can be played outside of the traditional discipline. To do that, he demonstrates alternative rhythms, licks, and strumming patterns that are the liberating tools for improvisation.

"I believe everything reinforces everything. If you are a good classical player, it's going to be easier to apply what you know to do improvisation. And if you work on improvisation, it's going to give you a heightened understanding of music that you can put back into your classical playing or jazz or whatever. I know that since I've begun writing music, I have a much better understanding of classical music. Instead of being just five pages of notes, I can really hear the sections, the movements, or even within one movement. It's a different structure from a two-and-a-half-minute 1960s song by the Who, but it's not as different as you think. It's just a more expanded version."

Yet, amazingly, Freudmann has never gotten so disillusioned that he considered quitting. Perhaps what has helped was setting small achievable goals, not unrealistic drop-dead dates to "make it or else." Additionally, he knows he is unusual and can empathize with promoters who would have trepidation about hiring a CelloBopper. "I guess I never felt entitled, like hey, this is what you need," Freudmann says with a mock tone of voice. "I know the world can get along without me, but I feel it has got merit, and if I keep at it and keep a good attitude, it will work out. And for the most part, it has."

But all it takes is a shot on stage and another audience is won over — and they make it all worthwhile. "I get tons of positive feedback after gigs," says Freudmann. "People are always emailing me. I feel so lucky to have that kind of job to get that kind of feedback. I could work in an office and do really great work, but you don't have strangers calling you up and saying thanks for that great report on the mating habits of tree squirrels."