Symphony of One

A lithe figure moves barefoot through the semidarkness of a candlelit hall, stroking an outlandish array of gongs, cymbals, chimes and timpani. Amid the swelling percussion, a bamboo flute emits a low plaint. Sound ebbs and flows, rising to a crescendo, then dwindling to mystic silence.

A concert of "Spontaneous Sound" by Christopher Tree nearly always creates a mood of tranquillity and introspection, whether it be given in a bar or behind bars. From Kenny's Pub in Manhattan to California's San Quentin Prison. Tree has mesmerized audiences with the elemental tones he coaxes from his collection of almost 200 percussion and wind instruments. No two concerts are exactly the same. Tree shuns structure--and with it harmony and most other Western musical conventions--in favor of impulse. "Spontaneity is the essence of the creative act," he says. "Spontaneous music is much more vital than other music because it is actually happening."

Depending on his mood or that of the audience, Tree is apt to walk down an aisle, rhythmically striking a gong or gently shaking a pair of copper baby rattles from Japan. Onstage, he may build a sonorous tremolo of several gongs, mixing in a tinkling of glass chimes or a booming thunderclap of timpani. At times he pauses, changes mood, and elicits long, random notes from a homemade North African-style flute or dramatically raises a six-foot Tibetan temple horn and blows a resounding blast. The concert is over when Tree feels it should end, sometimes after 45 minutes, sometimes after an hour and a half (which most professional critics find a bit too long). Tree simply walks away. His audience is often so immersed in reverie that it forgets to applaud.

Dropout Drummer. Now back in his native New York City after having lived in Los Angeles, Tree, 37, has recently appeared in such diverse places as the Electric Circus, an avant-garde nightspot, and Wall Street's Trinity Church. He has played for museums and colleges, women's clubs and love-ins. He gives many concerts in hospitals, prisons and schools for handicapped children, where his music often has a therapeutic effect. When he played for the children of a school for the deaf in Los Angeles, they reacted with smiles, laughter and expressions of awe, calling him back for two encores. In ways that are not fully understood by doctors, the emotional response to his primal sounds--the musical equivalent of finger painting--has even aided retarded children in learning to sing.

Shy and boyish, Tree sports a luxuriant beard and performs in corduroy jeans and an open-necked shirt. He has never had formal musical training. His interest in music began 16 years ago, when he learned to play a friend's drum after dropping out of Los Angeles City College. He began giving concerts four years ago. To support himself and pay for his 1,000 Ibs. of musical instruments--many of his gongs are on loan from the Santa Barbara Museum--he has worked as a laborer, office clerk and house painter. Despite his meager income from an average of three concerts a week, Tree envisages adding more instruments to create a wider range of sound. Eventually, he hopes to build a concert hall to his own specifications. The hall, as Tree plans it, would resonate sufficiently to serve as a musical instrument itself.

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