Let the material speak for itself; good job?

Thomas Merton was a 20th-century Catholic priest known for his work on comparative religion and dialogues with other religious figures, such as the Dalai Lama. Pope Francis thought enough of him to mention him as a “great American” alongside Lincoln, Martin Luther King and Dorothy Day while addressing the U.S. Congress. Brian Harnetty, a performance artist whose canvas happens to involve sound, felt inspired by archival recordings made by Merton in 1967. Merton’s thoughts on racial injustice, Islam, Samuel Beckett and technology’s relationship with spiritualism are supported by piano, tasteful brass and woodwind meant to induce meditative contemplation. It’s a fascinating listening experience but must be appreciated as performance art or a novelty rather than traditional music.

Though he’s made a couple records, Harnetty seems most comfortable with eccentric pieces better suited for exhibition in museums that draw on his Appalachia background and are predicated on a respect for nature and rural, blue-collar solidarity. His most recent wizardry is the Forest Listening Rooms, an almost living art project. Participants hike into the forest and listen to the woods, archival recordings of past residents and the sounds of deforestation. They then engage in conversation with each other that might be copied and transplanted into a future listening room. In comparison, Words and Silences are relatively straightforward once the initial shock wears off. There’s no mixing of Merton’s monologues with other speeches or writing, and the music never takes any sharp left turns.

Merton’s ramblings include reflecting on prominent artists like Samuel Beckett on “Sound of an Unexplained Wren,” philosophers like Michel Foucault on “Let There be a Moving Mosaic of the Rich Material,” and Islamic scholars like Ibn al Arabi on “Breath Water Silence.” The most cogent philosophical piece is “Thinking Out Loud in a Hermitage,” in which Merton analyzes how recording devices change his relationship with God and wonders why he’s even taping himself. It demands that he keep saying something even if he does not think it over first, a prescient warning of the modern-day internet and the need for constant content even if it is half-baked. There’s no room for breathing or “mulling over what is not yet formulated” when the web will leave you behind if you don’t throw something at the wall.

Wisely, Harnetty picked recordings that also show a more personal, less intellectual side of Merton. “New Year’s Eve Party of One” finds him alone on December 31 with his ‘girlfriend’ Mary Lou Williams, a Kansas City pianist he thinks the world of. He sounds almost ashamed to use the tape for pleasure like this, but he shrugs off that concern by claiming, “It’s relevant for something.” It’s endearing to hear this high-brow intellectual take the time to enjoy himself, and it’s easily the most humanizing moment on the record.

It also stands out as the most musically jolly song on the record with the most energetic piano playing, a welcome break from the brooding solemnity that makes up most of Words and Silences. The brass, woodwinds and ambient sounds of nature that open up the album on “Sound of an Unperplexed Wren” do not change much across the rest of the songs. There are some compelling compositions, for example, “A Feast of Liberation” adds more twisty chord progressions and piano melodies to significant effect. However, the intended meditative, soothing effect wears thin as songs stretch on.

In “Let There Be a Moving Mosaic of This Rich Material,” Merton is inspired by Foucault. “Nowhere preaches anything. Rather, [he] lets the material speak for itself.” Harnetty’s goal was to present Merton’s feelings with as little intrusion as possible, and a more detailed, showy instrumentation would’ve gotten in the way. The result is almost akin to a one-man play, and the man in question is a fascinating thinker who shows plenty of humanity. It’s not something that can be listened to repeatedly, but it deserves respect as a work of original vision.