Seattle’s New Rock Museum: A Jaw-Dropping Tour de Force

Philadelphia Inquirer, June 29, 2000

Architecture is frozen music goes the ancient cliche. Snuggled up to the Space Needle, architect Frank O. Gehry has frozen a car-crash, allowing the visitor to savor the most elegant moment of impact. If this sounds singularly peculiar, it is. Gehry’s multicolored, sensuously rippling exterior aptly symbolizes the strangeness of the Experience Music Project (EMP), a dot-com era monument to rock ‘n’ roll.

Part museum, part discotheque, part retail extravaganza and part themed attraction, the EMP is a jaw-dropping tour de force of architecture and technology–and, oh yes, music.

It is the 140,000 square foot brainchild of Paul Allen, co-founder, with William Gates, of Microsoft. Among the world’s richest men, Allen is the emblematic figure of the silicon- and software-driven era: reclusive; more comfortable with machines than people; self-aware, yet shy in public; steel-willed about his obsessions with sports (he owns two professional teams) and rock ‘n’ roll. And yet the EMP’s marriage of money (at least $240 million), gee-whiz interactive technology, splashy architecture, youth culture, and entertainment glitz may perfectly sum up the spirit–for better or worse–of this turn-of-the-millennium moment.

The building’s collision metaphor is apt because the EMP’s inspiration came in part from a film Gehry and his staff viewed of Jimi Hendrix smashing an electric guitar during a performance. Though Gehry’s restless search for new sculptural form takes the project far from this germ of an idea, what remains is an architectural attempt to capture rock ‘n roll’s enduring spirit of rebellion. In an interview, Gehry credited Allen and his sister, Jody Patton, EMP’s executive director, for letting him take this project into uncharted artistic realms. Even Gehry admits this was a risky artistic premise: the fast-moving and disposable nature of popular music has always seemed to have little in common with such a fixed form as architecture.

Gehry’s building is spectacular. Parts of it are bloblike, akin to some brightly colored creature about to rear up from under its scaly drapery of aqua or silver aluminum panels. One particularly contorted section, clad in matte gold panels, has already been dubbed the Madonna, because of the way its mantlelike shape teeters over the monorail train–a relic of Seattle’s 1962 Worlds Fair that passes right through the building.

Another section is skinned in an iridescent reflective surface that ranges from gold to purple (as in Jimi Hendrix’s “Purple Haze”). Seemingly squashed by these other shapes is a red-clad wavelike volume out of which sprouts spidery legs that support curving armatures of green-tinted glass–giant flailing “guitar strings.”

All this lurid spectacle, however, could not be more baffling. This is a building that adheres to few architectural conventions. It doesn’t announce what it is about; it doesn’t speak to any tradition of architecture; it doesn’t tell you where to enter; it doesn’t tell you how it’s made or cue you to its internal organization. (Specialty firms designed most of the interiors. Gehry did only the lobby and a couple of other public areas. The contorted steel ribs that hold up the building are visible throughout, however.) This is a provocative and sensuous city-block-sized sculpture.

This very ambiguity is part of the artistic stretch Gehry is making here. Has he found a new direction in which to take architecture? Not even Gehry can tell you. “Right now, all I can see are things I would change or areas that I’d like to refine further,” said Gehry in an interview. It can take years before he can look at his own work as a totality, “like a tourist,” he added.

Gehry, however, was a brilliant choice for an institution that hopes to embody the self-contradictory idea of rebellion. The design is not conventionally beautiful, but its almost dorky lumps and sensuous folds are as endlessly fascinating as the lovingly draped fabrics of a renaissance painting.

One thing the varied shapes and colors attest to is the EMP’s complex ambitions as an institution. It was first conceived almost 10 years ago as a modest exhibition and memorial to Jimi Hendrix, a Seattle native whose music first turned Allen into a rock ‘n roll fanatic. Hendrix’s family never agreed to make the museum an official memorial, and EMP’s agenda today is no less than to “celebrates and explore creativity and innovation” through rock ‘n’ roll.

While the architecture dazzles the passerby, technological wizardry threatens to overwhelm the visitor. There’s a themed amusement ride, called Artist’s Journey, that uses flight-simulator technology to fling the rider around amidst a cacophony of theatrical, lighting, audio and computer-animation effects. (It was designed by Digital Domain, a special-effects firm.) Since it’s about funk music, James Brown’s face has been grafted onto a younger, more lithe impersonator’s body.

Computers also supply the “screaming” virtual crowds for wannabe rock stars in the On Stage attraction and they’ll even fix any lapses in technique. Sky Church, features what is billed as the largest LED screen in the world.

Compared to this theme park for the gadget-crazed, the dense, handsomely mounted mix of artifacts, sound and film clips in the exhibit areas seem almost ordinary. Designed largely by an in-house team, they, too, deploy amazingly innovative interactive technology at a very sophisticated level.

In using the most advanced technology money can buy to make a physical monument to the creative impulse, Allen has attempted something extraordinary. No other mogul in this era of stunning wealth has built anything remotely comparable. Gehry’s design not only makes EMP a visitor magnet, its an eloquent advertisement for a non-musical creative endeavor, architecture,.

But popular music proves a strangely perverse vehicle to bring people closer to the creative process. The more reality-enhancing technology that is deployed, the more artificial the music experience seems. Artist’s Journey deploys effects of mind-boggling cost and sophistication for the sole purpose of urging riders “to get the funk.” If listening to the music alone doesn’t make your legs twitch, no thrill ride will do it.

In this way, too much of the EMP perversely embalms an evolving art form for all but the obsessive fan. Allen pledges to use the institution to bring visitors in contact with living artists as teachers as well as performers. (A number of places have been thoughtfully provided in the building where visitors can meet artists.) Passing on skills and wisdom in this old fashioned person-to-person way will likely prove to be EMP’s key legacy for music.

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	Seattle’s New Rock Museum: A Jaw-Dropping Tour de Force Philadelphia Inquirer, June 29, 2000 Architecture is frozen music goes the ancient cliche. Snuggled up to the Space Needle, architect Frank O. Gehry has frozen a car-crash, allowing the visitor to savor the most elegant moment of impact. If this sounds singularly peculiar, it is. Gehry’s multicolored, sensuously rippling exterior aptly symbolizes the strangeness of the Experience Music Project (EMP), a dot-com era monument to rock ‘n’ roll. Part museum, part discotheque, part retail extravaganza and part themed attraction, the EMP is a jaw-dropping tour de force of architecture and technology–and, oh yes, music. It is the 140,000 square foot brainchild of Paul Allen, co-founder, with William Gates, of Microsoft. Among the world’s richest men, Allen is the emblematic figure of the silicon- and software-driven era: reclusive; more comfortable with machines than people; self-aware, yet shy in public; steel-willed about his obsessions with sports (he owns two professional teams) and rock ‘n’ roll. And yet the EMP’s marriage of money (at least $240 million), gee-whiz interactive technology, splashy architecture, youth culture, and entertainment glitz may perfectly sum up the spirit–for better or worse–of this turn-of-the-millennium moment. The building’s collision metaphor is apt because the EMP’s inspiration came in part from a film Gehry and his staff viewed of Jimi Hendrix smashing an electric guitar during a performance. Though Gehry’s restless search for new sculptural form takes the project far from this germ of an idea, what remains is an architectural attempt to capture rock ‘n roll’s enduring spirit of rebellion. In an interview, Gehry credited Allen and his sister, Jody Patton, EMP’s executive director, for letting him take this project into uncharted artistic realms. Even Gehry admits this was a risky artistic premise: the fast-moving and disposable nature of popular music has always seemed to have little in common with such a fixed form as architecture. Gehry’s building is spectacular. Parts of it are bloblike, akin to some brightly colored creature about to rear up from under its scaly drapery of aqua or silver aluminum panels. One particularly contorted section, clad in matte gold panels, has already been dubbed the Madonna, because of the way its mantlelike shape teeters over the monorail train–a relic of Seattle’s 1962 Worlds Fair that passes right through the building. Another section is skinned in an iridescent reflective surface that ranges from gold to purple (as in Jimi Hendrix’s “Purple Haze”). Seemingly squashed by these other shapes is a red-clad wavelike volume out of which sprouts spidery legs that support curving armatures of green-tinted glass–giant flailing “guitar strings.” All this lurid spectacle, however, could not be more baffling. This is a building that adheres to few architectural conventions. It doesn’t announce what it is about; it doesn’t speak to any tradition of architecture; it doesn’t tell you where to enter; it doesn’t tell you how it’s made or cue you to its internal organization. (Specialty firms designed most of the interiors. Gehry did only the lobby and a couple of other public areas. The contorted steel ribs that hold up the building are visible throughout, however.) This is a provocative and sensuous city-block-sized sculpture. This very ambiguity is part of the artistic stretch Gehry is making here. Has he found a new direction in which to take architecture? Not even Gehry can tell you. “Right now, all I can see are things I would change or areas that I’d like to refine further,” said Gehry in an interview. It can take years before he can look at his own work as a totality, “like a tourist,” he added. Gehry, however, was a brilliant choice for an institution that hopes to embody the self-contradictory idea of rebellion. The design is not conventionally beautiful, but its almost dorky lumps and sensuous folds are as endlessly fascinating as the lovingly draped fabrics of a renaissance painting. One thing the varied shapes and colors attest to is the EMP’s complex ambitions as an institution. It was first conceived almost 10 years ago as a modest exhibition and memorial to Jimi Hendrix, a Seattle native whose music first turned Allen into a rock ‘n roll fanatic. Hendrix’s family never agreed to make the museum an official memorial, and EMP’s agenda today is no less than to “celebrates and explore creativity and innovation” through rock ‘n’ roll. While the architecture dazzles the passerby, technological wizardry threatens to overwhelm the visitor. There’s a themed amusement ride, called Artist’s Journey, that uses flight-simulator technology to fling the rider around amidst a cacophony of theatrical, lighting, audio and computer-animation effects. (It was designed by Digital Domain, a special-effects firm.) Since it’s about funk music, James Brown’s face has been grafted onto a younger, more lithe impersonator’s body. Computers also supply the “screaming” virtual crowds for wannabe rock stars in the On Stage attraction and they’ll even fix any lapses in technique. Sky Church, features what is billed as the largest LED screen in the world. Compared to this theme park for the gadget-crazed, the dense, handsomely mounted mix of artifacts, sound and film clips in the exhibit areas seem almost ordinary. Designed largely by an in-house team, they, too, deploy amazingly innovative interactive technology at a very sophisticated level. In using the most advanced technology money can buy to make a physical monument to the creative impulse, Allen has attempted something extraordinary. No other mogul in this era of stunning wealth has built anything remotely comparable. Gehry’s design not only makes EMP a visitor magnet, its an eloquent advertisement for a non-musical creative endeavor, architecture,. But popular music proves a strangely perverse vehicle to bring people closer to the creative process. The more reality-enhancing technology that is deployed, the more artificial the music experience seems. Artist’s Journey deploys effects of mind-boggling cost and sophistication for the sole purpose of urging riders “to get the funk.” If listening to the music alone doesn’t make your legs twitch, no thrill ride will do it. In this way, too much of the EMP perversely embalms an evolving art form for all but the obsessive fan. Allen pledges to use the institution to bring visitors in contact with living artists as teachers as well as performers. (A number of places have been thoughtfully provided in the building where visitors can meet artists.) Passing on skills and wisdom in this old fashioned person-to-person way will likely prove to be EMP’s key legacy for music.
© copyright 2006 James S. Russell \| terms