Bob Ostertag - “Fear No Love”, thirty years on

Composer and musician, historian and journalist, director, podcaster, activist and kayak instructor: Bob Ostertag is a figure worthy of (and deserving of) whole monographs, with each of his activities warranting its own in-depth study. Narrowing the focus to music alone, Ostertag has played with Anthony Braxton, Roscoe Mitchell, Fred Frith, Kronos Quartet, Mark Dresser, Phil Minton and Otomo Yoshihide, among others, and is a pioneer of the sampler (even before the instrument existed), of electronics and of sound manipulation. His is a body of research begun well before the technologies we now associate with these words were even available. He has moved from homemade solutions - the most evocative being the distortion of analog sound by tying reel-to-reel tapes to hot-air balloons - to astonishing desktop constructions of full-blown compositions built from sampled sound. Throughout his career, despite playing unusual and seemingly impersonal instruments, Ostertag has forged his own sound, his own style, his own unmistakable signature, making man and machine interact to reach territories neither could ever have reached alone: his "Say No More" series, for instance, is based on solo recordings from three improvisation performances (Phil Minton on vocals, Marc Dresser on double bass and Jerry Hemingway on drums), sampled and reassembled in the studio until they became a composition, which was then performed live again and once more sampled and manipulated.

His Bandcamp page is probably the best starting point for anyone wanting to discover his music, available to stream for free and to buy in digital format on a pay-what-you-want basis.

Everything said so far should give an idea of just how unusual and creative his music is, but even within his rich discography there is one episode that stands out as anomalous even for him: "Fear No Love", released in 1995 by John Zorn's Avant label, an imprint specializing in avant-garde and experimental music, whose catalogue includes bands like Naked City, DNA and Fushitsusha, as well as numerous associates of the New York saxophonist, including Dave Douglas, Ikue Mori, Marc Ribot and Joey Baron.

Ostertag took up Zorn's invitation to make something different from all his previous work, choosing to do so by venturing into the ordinary and engaging with melodies, rhythms and actual songs. Tracks that could be filed under genres like funk and R&B, but reinterpreted through the lens of an experimental musician, performed by a group bringing together avant-garde icons like Fred Frith, rock stars like Mike Patton and figures from San Francisco's underground queer scene. From the very first seconds, it's impossible not to wonder just what you're listening to: music that unsettles fans of the genres that inspired it just as much as avant-garde purists. There's no postmodern deconstruction here, no parody: Ostertag simply makes "his" funk album, with great respect for the genres that inspired it, yet filtered entirely through his own style, with manipulated, distorted and reworked sounds that coexist surprisingly well with rhythm and groove. Even the lyrics and themes are anything but conventional, especially bearing in mind the album dates back to 1995: its six songs address fears surrounding queer love, from stereotypes and prejudice to the fear of HIV, unfolding through a shifting range of moods, from the almost parodic irony of the S&M characters in "The Man In The Blue Slip" to the intense, whispered tones of "Positive".

To mark the album's thirtieth anniversary, we spoke with Ostertag, and what emerged was a wide-ranging conversation touching on the relationship between music and political commitment, queer issues, art and sexual freedom.

“Fear No Love” turns 30. What drove you to make this album at the time?

It all started when John Zorn's label asked me to make a CD for a series where they invited composers to do something completely different from what they usually did. They asked me if I wanted to take part, and I said yes. Then I thought about it and asked myself: "What's completely different from what I normally do?" And I thought: "Well, I never write songs, so maybe I could try that." That was probably the most different thing I could think of.

Around the same time, California saw the first of the state referendums to roll back some of the rights that queer people had won in the previous decades. The campaign against the proposed law produced a bumper sticker that said "No" and "Fear No Love". I thought that was a beautiful message. It represented the side of queer politics that I felt was truly mine. And around that same period I found out I was HIV-positive. It was a very, very difficult time for me. There were no effective drugs yet. It was considered a death sentence. Contracting HIV was an extremely traumatic event. All these things together – my personal situation, the fear tied to an infection with no cure, the resurgence of hatred against the rights queer people had won, the slogan Fear No Love representing what we believed in, and Zorn's label inviting me to make a record completely unlike anything I'd ever done – all of this together was what motivated me to make that record.

Three words, "Fear No Love", are the message running through every track. Correct me if I'm wrong, but it seems to me your record approaches themes and issues from the LGBTQ world in a positive way: it's not about angry demands but an invitation not to fear love, in its many different forms and ways of finding us. Compared to 1995, what's changed?

It's really hard to give a short or exhaustive answer to what's changed in LGBTQ politics from 1995 to today, 30 years later. Back then the acronym hadn't even been coined yet. The term queer was only just starting to be proposed. Even then, people thought having three terms – "gay, lesbian and bisexual" – was already too many, and the idea was to simply use queer so as not to divide things up too much. But the movement already had a tendency to split identities into ever finer shades, and so the "Q" was tacked on at the end, when it had actually been conceived as a unifying term. Today, with all the letters that have been added – LGBTQIA+ or whatever the current acronym is – that tendency is even more obvious. Personally, I don't relate to it at all. There's a lot about the contemporary LGBTQIA+ movement that I'm not in sync with.

What did John Zorn say when you pitched him an album like this?

I'm pretty sure John Zorn's reaction to the record was horror. They wanted me to do something different, sure, but not *that* different (laughs, ed.). I think they basically buried the record. Maybe saying they were ashamed of it is too strong, but I don't think it was well received by the label.

Avant presented the album by saying: "This is funk, but warped through a sensibility honed over fifteen years at the cutting edge of the experimental scene." Looking back, what's your relationship with this music today? Was it an isolated episode in your career, or do you see it as part of a broader continuity in your work?

Yes, I definitely consider it an isolated episode. Over time my passion for funk and R&B has grown. One of my regular pilgrimages these days is going to see Tower of Power, who are based near me, in Oakland. I go see them every chance I get, even though they always play the same songs. That music speaks to me deeply, and the way it's aged along with them is beautiful. I love funk and R&B. Prince is without a doubt one of my absolute heroes, but it's not *my* music. In a way, I love that music too much to play it half-heartedly. Yes, it was an isolated episode. It's not the music that belongs to my natural language. It was a fun project to do. And I should also mention that, at the time – and this was another reason – I wanted to work with other queer musicians.

Up until then, all my musical collaborators had been straight. I'd say 100%. If I think about it – Anthony Braxton, Fred Frith, all my various collaborators – all heterosexual. After my HIV diagnosis, and with the hostile climate building up, I thought: "I want to work with other gay people." Almost everyone I collaborated with on that record was queer. And that had a big influence on the songs. I'd choose the person I wanted to work with and then try to imagine what kind of song we could make together. Christian Huygen, the singer on the first track, isn't even a musician. He's a writer, and has since become a pioneering psychologist in public healthcare for queer people with serious psychiatric diagnoses. Philip Horvitz was an actor. Lynn Breedlove was a punk rocker. Justin Bond, drag queen, cabaret artist – now Justin Vivian Bond. Justin Vivian is a genuine transgender icon. Won a MacArthur, sold out Carnegie Hall. A fantastic career, one of the most talented people I've ever worked with, without a doubt. There's always an exception, of course. Not everyone was gay. Mike Patton, for instance, isn't gay, although he's always projected an image of defiance and sexual ambiguity that fit the project perfectly. And he didn't hesitate at all: he threw himself into it headfirst. After "Fear No Love" I founded the group Pantychrist with Justin and Otomo Yoshihide. And that record, "Pantychrist", is definitely the queerest thing I've ever done. I'm very proud of it. I think it's still, even today, a truly unique work.

How was "Fear No Love" made? The CD booklet says you reassembled everything from separate recordings. Did the musicians ever play together?

We never played together live, and actually not even in the studio. That record was assembled track by track. The next record, "Pantychrist", on the other hand, we toured several times. For me it's always been hard to keep a live ensemble going, because I could never get a fee high enough to make it sustainable. I had my quartet Say No More around that same time, with Jerry Hemingway, Mark Dresser and Phil Minton. That group toured for seven years, and it was definitely the happiest stretch of my career as a touring musician. Every one of them was an extraordinary musician. I couldn't believe that people of that caliber devoted so much time to my music. It was a wonderful time for me, but the effort of finding enough dates to keep the group financially afloat wore me out. Since then I've mostly done duos and trios. There was a brief moment when I had a vocal group, but I think we only did two shows. One of the great disappointments of my career, or of my life, is that I was never able to keep a group together for long. Because working in a collective context has always been my favorite way of working.

Do you think there's a link between artistic avant-garde and sexual freedom?

Not really. But I think there's a link between having a life in the arts and sexual freedom. Obviously, rock bands in the 60s lived through a unique moment in history in terms of sexual freedom – and that wasn't avant-garde, that was just music. I don't know whether it's because people who make art are more sexually adventurous, or because having a career in the arts gives you more freedom to explore sexual expression than, say, being a middle school teacher or a corporate lawyer.

It's a debated and controversial question whether experimental music is suited to expressing social causes: Cornelius Cardew went as far as making popular music in order to "reach the masses", while for Luigi Nono one had to be revolutionary in form as well. Simplifying things, the question is whether it makes sense to send messages through music aimed at what is surely a narrow audience. "Fear No Love" challenges all its potential listeners, it could be too "pop" for avant-garde lovers and too experimental for fans of the genres it draws on. Who did you make this record for? What audience were you trying to reach?

Like every record I've made, I made it for myself. That's always been my approach. I do what feels most urgent, most necessary to me at that moment. I do it without compromise, for myself, and I trust that, as human beings, we have enough in common that if something resonates deeply with me, it will resonate with someone else too. I can't believe my experience is so unique. Thinking it is would seem arrogant to me. And thinking I know what other people want and making music to please them would seem condescending to me. So no: I do it for myself, I leave some breadcrumbs, and whoever wants to follow them can. I don't think that record has a message. I don't think any of my records have a message. People get confused about my intentions, because the themes I deal with often have a political dimension. "Sooner Or Later" came out of the civil war in El Salvador, "All The Rage" out of a gay uprising in San Francisco, and so on. But I don't think those pieces have a message, in the sense that someone who disagrees with me could listen to my music and change their mind. Or hear something they'd never heard before. No, I don't think that's how art works. I disagree completely with Cornelius Cardew's thesis. If you want to send a message, give a speech, write an article, an essay. And I do that: I give speeches, I write articles and essays. And those, yes, have a message.

(September 21, 2025)

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