Malachi Ritscher, 1954-2006

[rghammo]

I had never heard of this guy but this is a deeply sad story.

 

Malachi Ritscher, 1954-2006

Story by Nitsuh Abebe | Photo by Joeff Davis

Tue: 11-14-06

Malachi Ritscher, 1954-2006

Story by Nitsuh Abebe | Photo by Joeff Davis

 

In December 2002, the city of Chicago dedicated a statue called "The Flame of the Millennium"-- a seven-ton, stainless-steel, abstract rendering of a flame in high wind, standing over the Kennedy Expressway, just west of the downtown Loop. Last Friday, November 3, the statue appeared to be on fire. When authorities got there, they found a video camera, a canister of gasoline, a sign reading "Thou Shalt Not Kill", and a human body so badly charred that it was impossible to determine its sex. Someone had self-immolated, near a highway off-ramp, amid rush-hour traffic.

 

Over the next few days, members of Chicago's avant-garde music community would be shocked to learn that the person who'd done this was one of their own-- someone many of them had been running into, several nights a week, for more than a decade. Tougher still would be dealing with the reasons behind it. According to the statements left on his website, 52-year-old Malachi Ritscher had set himself on fire to protest the war in Iraq and the politics that allowed it to happen. And thus began the same debate, among his friends, among the public, on blogs, and in comment boxes across the internet-- an argument about which of two pigeonholes we'd slot this into: Was it an important act of political protest, or the tragic end of a mentally ill person?

* * *

 

Most fans of underground music are probably aware of Chicago's experimental music scene, or at least its most prominent figures: People like jazz saxophonist Ken Vandermark, who won a MacArthur Fellowship in 1999, or the countless players-- Jeb Bishop, Chad Taylor, Fred Lonberg-Holm-- whose names became recognizable to indie fans during the 1990s, in the heyday of Chicago post-rock. If you haven't spent time in Chicago, though, it's easy to underestimate how vibrant the scene is, and has been. Over the past decade, every week in the city has offered multiple opportunities to see avant-garde music, improvised instrumental performances, and free jazz performed by musicians from around the city and around the world, all of it supported by a large and complex circle of artists and fans. Just tracking down who's playing with whom can be a discographer's nightmare: This is a scene that cooperates.

 

And those most involved in that scene knew Malachi Ritscher. For years, he'd been a constant presence in the community, and probably its most committed documentarian: From the late 1980s onward, he spent an incredible number of nights out at shows, recording and photographing the musicians, and spending time with other fans. "According to his website, he recorded approximately 2,000 shows," says Dave Rempis, who plays saxophone in the Vandermark Five. "That would be six years of recording a show every single night. And from being around this scene, I can tell you that's not at all an overestimation. He was constantly at concerts-- I'd see him five nights a week."

 

"The recording was a big deal," says percussionist Michael Zerang, who's also played in a Vandermark-led group. "A lot of us couldn't afford recordings, and he would do it and virtually give it to us for free." Dozens of those recordings wound up becoming official releases, either through the artist's labels, or through Ritcher's own Savage Sound Syndicate. "Whenever I saw him," says Rempis, "he'd have a stack of 10 or 20 CD-Rs in his bag, so he could say, 'Oh yeah, I have something for you.'"

 

For most people, Ritscher's support meant just as much as his recording skills-- especially when it came to music that was so lacking in any kind of broad commercial appeal. "Just by being present all the time," says Zerang, laughing fondly, "well, there was always at least one person there." Bruce Finkelman owns the Empty Bottle-- a key venue for rock and experimental music-- and became used to seeing Ritscher show up for just about all of it: "Twenty below zero temperatures, three people in the club, and Malachi was one of them. Five feet of snow on the ground, and no one showing up, and he was there." It's a level of passion and enthusiasm that should be unimaginable to most of us-- going out, every other night, even in Chicago winters, to see free jazz?

 

All of these people remember Ritscher warmly: He was kind, intelligent, funny, outgoing, polite. And yet there's not much doubt that Ritscher was also, in a lot of ways, alone. He was born Mark David Ritscher, in 1954, in North Dakota; according to the obituary he posted to his own website, he dropped out of high school and married at age 17. He had a son. Ten years later, when his marriage dissolved, Ritscher moved to Chicago and immersed himself in the music scene-- taking his son's name, Malachi, for his own. Music wasn't the only thing he immersed himself in, either: He was an active anti-war activist, an avid photographer, a collector, a reader, and a writer. He painted watercolors, wrote poetry, dabbled with various musical instruments, and grew peppers for his own hot-sauce recipe.

 

One thing he did not seem to do was forge close friendships. He was estranged from his ex-wife, son, and grandchildren. People in Chicago knew him, saw him often, and found him outgoing and friendly-- but that tended to be the extent of it. "I always kind of got the impression that Malachi chose to distance himself a little bit from people," says Rempis. "I don't think he had a regular group of friends who called him up and said 'Do you want to go out on Friday night?' He moved as an individual, mostly. He was to some degree a loner, and I think he would probably describe himself that way-- the ironic part of it being that he knew hundreds of people around town. For me, I don't even know if I had his phone number, but I saw him maybe three nights a week. He knew many, many people who without a doubt would have described him as a friend."

 

Writing his own obituary, Ritscher says much the same: "As a child, he was intensely afraid of many things, especially heights; he spent the rest of his life trying to face his fears, without ever coming to terms with his fear of people....He had many acquaintances, but few friends; and wrote his own obituary, because no one else really knew him."

* * *

 

 

Self-immolation is not a common act, mostly because it's one of the slowest, most painful, and messiest ways a person can kill himself. For most Americans, consciousness of the act comes down to one man, and one photograph: a 1963 shot of a Vietnamese monk named Th

[kidsmoke]

That's absolutely horrible and heartbreaking.

[Guest Speed Racer]

I found out that he was the dude filming the Jandek concert I attended in Chicago. I stood next to him most of the show.

[Wendy]

When I glanced at the title of this thread, I did not recognize the artist so I did not open it.

 

Now tonight, with more time available, I checked it out, and ... ... oh, man. What a shame. That his world and our world were so desperately out of alignment.

[mountain bed]

First of all,thanks to rghammo for posting this.A very well written article.Secondly,that's as sad a story as any I've ever read.All of you who knew him pause for a minute.Those who document live music deserve our eternal gratitude,regardless of....just regardless.

 

Scott

[LouieB]

Sad story....obviously a troubled individual.

 

LouieB

[HighFives]

crazy dude lit himself on fire. its really sad.