A Gallery of Art for the Ears at Engine 27 By Kelly Monaghan At first, it looks like you’ve wandered into a badly lit Ad Reinhardt exhibition. Until you realize that the black rectangles on the bare brick walls are sound baffles and the three-dimensional black objects hanging from the ceiling are massive speakers. The only color in the dimly lit space comes from the cathode glow of computer screens tucked discreetly in a corner. This is Engine 27, a studio-gallery devoted to the creation and presentation of sound art. Its name is taken from the 1881 firehouse on Franklin Street that is the gallery’s home.   In this largely empty and infinitely malleable space, composers, musicians and “sound artists” create new music and sound environments, stretching the meanings of music and art. One of the first artists to create a work for Engine 27 realized that the space’s unique acoustical properties, not to mention the powerful 16-speaker sound system, could not be recreated on a laptop or in an artist/composer’s studio. Works intended for Engine 27 would have to be created in the space itself. The result was an Artist-in-Residence program and the fruits of participants’ aural labors are being presented this month along with other installations and special events. When I dropped by last month, the gallery was participating in a live “Global Internet Exchange” organized by Western Front, a Vancouver avant garde arts center. The concept went like this: Paul Plimley on piano and Mei Han on zheng (a sort of Chinese zither) would play in Vancouver, while other musicians would join them for a series of trio improvisations. Pretty straightforward, except that the other musicians were in Toulouse, Vienna and New York, linked to Vancouver by a real-time Internet feed. Real-time doesn’t mean simultaneous, it turns out. Six seconds of delay separated the performance venues, adding a fascinating layer of complexity. The distant improvisers reacted to notes played six seconds earlier. Their contributions, in turn, took six seconds to reach Vancouver. Another unexpected wrinkle was that microphones intended to pick up local musicians also picked up the delayed feed from faraway improvisers, feeding back their contributions 12 seconds afterwards. When I tried to understand all this, my mind boggled, so I stopped trying. One thing was clear, though: listeners in each venue heard a different concert. Throughout the concert, a computer technician seemed to be having an electronic conversation with her Vancouver counterpart. I imagined they were discussing audio arcana and tweaking what we were hearing. Perhaps that’s why the sound seemed to stand up periodically and stride about the room, stepping from speaker to speaker. New York’s contribution to the event was tenor saxophonist Ellery Eskelin, who used the sax more as a percussion than a wind instrument. The valves clacked and the horn wheezed, only occasionally emitting a sax-like bleat. Then it was over. The music, totally improvised, could have been the soundtrack of an eerie but very hip sci-fi flick. It still seemed to haunt the room. Plimley logged off, thanking the participants, Eskelin stowed his sax and picked up his son, and the staff bustled about to set up for the next installation. To judge by the turnout, Engine 27 doesn’t get the audience it deserves. Too bad. There’s interesting work being done there. At least, when your friends ask “Heard any good art lately?” you’ll know where to send them. Engine 27, 173 Franklin St., 421-7466, www.engine27.org.