By Ed Huyck
By Melissa Wray
By Patrick Strait
By Jonathan McJunkin
By B Fresh Photography
By Ryan Siverson
By Kendra Sundvall
By Ed Huyck
In 1989, equipped with little more than a change of underwear, a rucksack full of Fruit Rollups, and her custom-made cello, Michelle Kinney got on a Greyhound bus bound for New York City. Okay, it wasn't quite like that, but stick with us, because this is a classic Midwesterner-makes-good-in-the-big-city story, even though it's also a screw-the-big-city-let's-go-back-to-Minneapolis story.
Granted, Kinney's success has been a quiet one, but it's hard to imagine success for an avant-jazz instrumentalist and session jobber being anything but quiet. Unless you're a local music fan with a long memory or you pay close attention to liner notes, you probably haven't heard of Kinney. Yet there's a decent chance that you've heard her play whether you knew it or not.
In 1989, Kinney lugged her instrument to Gotham to attend a graduate program at New York University, but that was something of a hedge. In Minneapolis during the '80s, she had played with rock groups such as Summer of Love and with the free-jazz big band Imp Ork, which introduced her to some leading New York players. "I wanted an excuse to go to New York," says the cellist-composer-singer in her current home in Golden Valley, "and I knew I couldn't just show up there--I'd be eaten alive."
In fact, Kinney survived her New York days undigested. Within a few years, she was ensconced in the city's prog jazz and new music scenes. She wound up gigging, recording, and touring with downtown heavyweights such as Henry Threadgill, John Zorn, and Lawrence "Butch" Morris. When time permitted, she'd play her own jazz-classical-rock-worldbeat hybrid, or collaborate with her husband Chris Cunningham, a multi-instrumentalist whose sideman credits include work with Marianne Faithfull, the Lounge Lizards, and Boukman Eksperyans. Kinney herself landed some choice gigs as a support player. You may have heard her on a Sheryl Crow or Natalie Merchant record, or perhaps you didn't notice her backing up Merchant on The Tonight Show and MTV Unplugged.
The grad school part of Kinney's New York migration wasn't as fruitful, though she did manage to get her master's in performance studies, a program devoted mainly to theory, criticism, and history. "It was very political--gender issues, very intellectual, faddish sort of stuff," says Kinney. "I didn't think it was going to be so academic. I thought it would offer more performance situations.
It took me five years to actually write my thesis 'cause I ended up doing so much music."
After years of working day jobs to pay the rent, the mild-mannered cellist was finally getting by strictly as an artist, and doing so by playing music she actually enjoyed. "All the people that I'd wanted to work with before I went to New York, I ended up working with or at least getting to know. They were my friends--Henry Threadgill, Butch Morris, Brandon Ross, Tom Cora, Leroy Jenkins, Julius Hemphill. People who I'd admired for years, I actually was commingling with and going to the same parties with and sometimes playing gigs together. And sometimes going on tour! Which was amazing, you know, it's like...dream come true."
Undoubtedly at this point, half the local population of cello-toting, session-playing, experimental composer-improvisers has already packed their bags for New York, since clearly dreams do come true. Maybe we should back up, or move forward. Kinney, as noted above, is now living in Golden Valley, so clearly something about life in the center of the action wasn't all that dreamy. Much like moving away 14 years ago, coming back home was a scary proposition and a partial abandonment of connections lots of players would kill or at least seriously injure for.
So far, the risky move has again paid off. Earlier this year, Kinney got a generous grant from the Bush Foundation. This weekend she'll play a high-profile gig at the Walker Art Center, co-headlining with fellow New York transplant, saxophonist and composer George Cartwright. And finally, after more than a decade of aborted recording projects, she says she's ready to release an album.
The ranch house where Kinney, Cunningham, and their two children live has an acre of backyard, one of many dramatic changes that came with the move from Brooklyn to Golden Valley. Another is that Kinney's husband has a day job, teaching at Music Tech, so the grind of constantly hustling for freelance work has been eased somewhat. When I arrive at the house on a Tuesday afternoon a few weeks ago, Kinney's seven-year-old daughter, who's being minded by her grandmother, is trying out the angel costume she'll wear on Halloween. For her part, Kinney wears cargo pants with zippers and camouflage accents, a touch of flash that's a bit unexpected from the low-key 44-year-old. Kinney has a wide range as a vocalist, but when speaking, she maintains a compressed, easy tone, and rarely gestures for emphasis. Her sense of humor is so dry as to almost seem unintentional. When I ask if she played music professionally during college, she answers, "No, I was in a rock band...we weren't very professional."
Kinney and Cunningham decided to leave New York for a couple of reasons. For one, the gigs and session work had gotten thin after 9/11. Supporting a four-person family on the earnings of two freelance musicians was becoming a struggle. It was even more stressful trying to find a decent school for the kids to attend. The public school in the couple's Brooklyn neighborhood was lousy. They jumped through a million hurdles to transfer their daughter to a public school in another district, only to find her stuck in another outer circle of hell.
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