Clean Feed
Pianist (or “hyperpianist”? Hold on, please) Denman Maroney is clearly trustful in the abilities of an average mind. Trying to explain the polyrhythmic concepts that underscore the large part of this music, he says that “there are at least two and more often three tempos going; the listener is free to choose which one(s) to relate to”. Perhaps this musician is not aware of the fact that the majority of a typical audience is not even able to stay anchored to a rudimentary 4/4 with a couple of shifted accents, let alone a superimposition of composed metres. Many pathetic characters come out with various kinds of bullshit about complex mathematic “mysteries” underlying the perfection of the universe, yet they could not name an interval or an elementary beat if threatened at gunpoint. Such sorts of involuntary victims of artistic diversity are not likely to be grateful for the labyrinthine qualities of this excellent album. Hell, this group doesn’t swing, if not for an allowed minimum.
Right, the hyperpiano. Besides numerous interlocking figurations executed with concentrated investigational attitude, Maroney – who appears positively gifted with a scintillating musicality coming from the insides of his brain - frequently plays the “regular” keyboard with a hand while enjoying the pleasures of extended techniques with another, the whole enhanced by the exploitation of several objects on the strings which generate “complementary overtones that move in contrary motion, one down toward the fundamental and the other up toward infinity”. Already fantasizing in regard to enhancement of awareness and realization? Wrong: the record’s title is the contraption of “undertone identity”, a concept introduced by Harry Partch which is too complicated to tackle in a sheer review. You can still learn the definition and use it in your intellectual conversations: nobody - except a few brighter individuals – go actually checking for the truthful core of these things, otherwise a lot of sapient icons would be swallowed by the very blob of their appalling ignorance.
Let’s not digress, though: the quintet performs fabulously throughout Udentity. Ned Rothenberg (alto sax, clarinets) employs a toothsome transitoriness in the methods applied, alternating altruistic repetition bathed in cutting dissonance and interchangeable anti-patterns which dignify the entire timbral tissue. He’s perfectly corresponding to the trumpet of Dave Ballou, who on a different side of the blowing spectrum avoids any kind of hypertrophic irresponsibleness, privileging lines that – although extremely respectful of the composer’s original plan – shine for intelligent restraint. If Michael Sarin’s drumming is entirely perfect for the overall design of these creations, his sober delivery a true injunction against the smell of moth-eaten "flexibility" characterizing the bulk of jazz drummers, bassist Reuben Radding is to be admired both as a solid donor of corpulent foundations for the general structure and an extemporaneous originator of bedazzling melodic sketches in places where an arcoed elegy is probably going to lead a sensitive receiver to deeper perceptions than an innocuous “pulse”.
Just to give a vague idea of how this stuff sounds, let me tell you that those whose ear-training includes Stravinsky and Zappa should greet this CD pretty warmly. Maroney has managed to tickle our interest with complications that sound good, lively, natural, without a hint of agony. Discomposure and angst are to be found somewhere else; here, we only appreciate an outstanding collective control over a series of well-developed strategies.
Saturday, 14 November 2009
Friday, 6 November 2009
STEFAN KEUNE / HANS SCHNEIDER / ACHIM KRÄMER – No Comment
FMP
Rather unabashedly, without thinking too much about the contingency of a stylistic connotation of their efforts, saxophonist Keune, bassist Schneider and drummer Krämer present a set of tracks that run the whole creative gamut of a format which may find its roots in a distant past, but in the right hands is still capable of delivering sharply dazzling instances of germ-free inventiveness. Following the fundamental principles of open-eared interplay, the musicians manage to concurrently generate a coherent logic of extemporaneous independence and respect the few rules of a jazz-tinged rendezvous that discards conventional savoir faire, piercing acumen and vivid perceptiveness informing the entire record.
Keune, who plays sopranino, alto and baritone, spits out short notes and brief outbursts whose character tends to the hysterical, at times hilarious side of things. He never irritates, though, his musicality deriving from a succession of microscopic messages and unobservant declarations that render the instrument a means for a lethally effective devastation of comfort. A style that nevertheless remains somewhat rational, a firm mind giving birth to utter instability, which is an important plus in music. The ruptures and subsequent reconstructions generated by Schneider and Krämer appear as the logical consequence of an unpronounced agreement, impartiality and vigorous fervour underlining a lucid madness that either warrants wild executions of instantaneous concepts or uncloaks a kind of tidy neatness which makes even the most rebellious discharge emerge as a smart reproach to the doubter.
The way in which these people keep fracturing rhythmic bones, altering melodic designs and throwing conventions away is both commendable for bravery and enjoyable for the quality of the playing. There’s not a moment in which the material sounds tired: every single event counts and all together they form a unique example of unselfish instrumental (de)synchronization. A wonderful aid for solitary fights against boredom, No Comment is highly recommended to regain a measure of trust in liberated expression, its title an ideal response to the stale dogmatic behaviour shown in recent years by silent gurus and pensive nullities.
Rather unabashedly, without thinking too much about the contingency of a stylistic connotation of their efforts, saxophonist Keune, bassist Schneider and drummer Krämer present a set of tracks that run the whole creative gamut of a format which may find its roots in a distant past, but in the right hands is still capable of delivering sharply dazzling instances of germ-free inventiveness. Following the fundamental principles of open-eared interplay, the musicians manage to concurrently generate a coherent logic of extemporaneous independence and respect the few rules of a jazz-tinged rendezvous that discards conventional savoir faire, piercing acumen and vivid perceptiveness informing the entire record.
Keune, who plays sopranino, alto and baritone, spits out short notes and brief outbursts whose character tends to the hysterical, at times hilarious side of things. He never irritates, though, his musicality deriving from a succession of microscopic messages and unobservant declarations that render the instrument a means for a lethally effective devastation of comfort. A style that nevertheless remains somewhat rational, a firm mind giving birth to utter instability, which is an important plus in music. The ruptures and subsequent reconstructions generated by Schneider and Krämer appear as the logical consequence of an unpronounced agreement, impartiality and vigorous fervour underlining a lucid madness that either warrants wild executions of instantaneous concepts or uncloaks a kind of tidy neatness which makes even the most rebellious discharge emerge as a smart reproach to the doubter.
The way in which these people keep fracturing rhythmic bones, altering melodic designs and throwing conventions away is both commendable for bravery and enjoyable for the quality of the playing. There’s not a moment in which the material sounds tired: every single event counts and all together they form a unique example of unselfish instrumental (de)synchronization. A wonderful aid for solitary fights against boredom, No Comment is highly recommended to regain a measure of trust in liberated expression, its title an ideal response to the stale dogmatic behaviour shown in recent years by silent gurus and pensive nullities.
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
THE BUREAU OF NONSTANDARDS – The Bureau Of Nonstandards
Onezero
Kevin C. Smith utilizes circuit-bent machinery, including Texas Instruments’ Speak & Spell and Speak & Read, Power Gear Voice Changer and a fabulous Tiger Electronics Furby (a toy that had a great success in this reviewer’s land of retards a while ago). The sounds he generates are processed in real time via laptop by Maurice Rickard, the whole without additional overdubs or subsequent interventions. This results in a captivating record, halfway through serious electronica and a total joke, wealthy in good humour (those modified voices are a gas indeed) but, surprisingly, also connecting to deeper points of view.
Drones are not omitted yet belong to the evil-tempered, malformed kind, suddenly turning into ill-disposed creatures willing to pickpocket a saint’s patience, or bloodthirsty regenerations of preposterously unpropitious frequencies emitted by tiny fiends endowed with musicality to spare. If you give the CD to your children, they might grow to be a type of mini-nerd who at least should be a little more quick-minded than their “brain-melted-in-front-of-a-Playstation” schoolmates. Seriously, this stuff is worthy of attention, especially after knowing that all the pieces were improvised in live contexts (always in Smith’s hometown: Pittsburgh, PA). Despite the low-budget sort of cleverness, we receive absolute originality in exchange. Go for it - and play loud.
Kevin C. Smith utilizes circuit-bent machinery, including Texas Instruments’ Speak & Spell and Speak & Read, Power Gear Voice Changer and a fabulous Tiger Electronics Furby (a toy that had a great success in this reviewer’s land of retards a while ago). The sounds he generates are processed in real time via laptop by Maurice Rickard, the whole without additional overdubs or subsequent interventions. This results in a captivating record, halfway through serious electronica and a total joke, wealthy in good humour (those modified voices are a gas indeed) but, surprisingly, also connecting to deeper points of view.
Drones are not omitted yet belong to the evil-tempered, malformed kind, suddenly turning into ill-disposed creatures willing to pickpocket a saint’s patience, or bloodthirsty regenerations of preposterously unpropitious frequencies emitted by tiny fiends endowed with musicality to spare. If you give the CD to your children, they might grow to be a type of mini-nerd who at least should be a little more quick-minded than their “brain-melted-in-front-of-a-Playstation” schoolmates. Seriously, this stuff is worthy of attention, especially after knowing that all the pieces were improvised in live contexts (always in Smith’s hometown: Pittsburgh, PA). Despite the low-budget sort of cleverness, we receive absolute originality in exchange. Go for it - and play loud.
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
SORRY FOR BEING SO LATE, VINCENT
I usually don't waste my time with this kind of rubbish, but this might be comical for someone. There's a Canadian guy named Vincent Bergeron who, in 2008, sent me his CD Philosophie Fantasmagorique – a funny, partially interesting record whose review can be found in the “Archives 2001-2008” section of this site.
Only by chance today I discovered an interview with Mr. Bergeron on Tokafi, published at the end of last year, in which he was so exquisite to tell these things:
“I keep the promotion simple and highly selective. Even in these conditions, by lack of options, you send something to a site like Touching Extremes which I strongly dislike for the kind of writing we can read there. They prefer listener excuses and expected free jazz. For so many people in the small experimental music world, if it is not drone music or free jazz, it is not good. Apparently, albums also need a steady instrumentation, the same for all songs if you are more unusual than the norm. And do not indulge on ideas, this is the worst plan. One idea per album is what you need... Don't you know? Experimental music should be listened while reading a book or it is not good. Mostly though, I am getting good reviews and I would say the best comments come from both songwriters and electroacoustic students. I am glad it is well understood by persons from a large variety of backgrounds. I don't want to make music for the elite only.”
Unwilling to analyze the reasons behind this man's behavior, I just wanted everybody to know that Mr. Vincent Bergeron had previously asked yours truly, via email, of BUYING this CD for review purpose. After my non-reply to that absurd request, he willingly sent the record.
Despite my non-negative and rather amused review, Mr. Bergeron felt somehow offended and proceeded to send me another email with rather unpleasant comments.
There is something more that I should say about what happened later on, which I won't do because it would make Mr. Bergeron's frail psyche crumble and, especially, because this would involve third persons who are obviously not responsible for this guy's rants.
I only chose to let everybody know the kind of low level a true genius (I'm being ironic, Vincent) can sink to. I also would like to emphasize Tokafi's choice of running such kind of less than intelligent statements without second thoughts.
Only by chance today I discovered an interview with Mr. Bergeron on Tokafi, published at the end of last year, in which he was so exquisite to tell these things:
“I keep the promotion simple and highly selective. Even in these conditions, by lack of options, you send something to a site like Touching Extremes which I strongly dislike for the kind of writing we can read there. They prefer listener excuses and expected free jazz. For so many people in the small experimental music world, if it is not drone music or free jazz, it is not good. Apparently, albums also need a steady instrumentation, the same for all songs if you are more unusual than the norm. And do not indulge on ideas, this is the worst plan. One idea per album is what you need... Don't you know? Experimental music should be listened while reading a book or it is not good. Mostly though, I am getting good reviews and I would say the best comments come from both songwriters and electroacoustic students. I am glad it is well understood by persons from a large variety of backgrounds. I don't want to make music for the elite only.”
Unwilling to analyze the reasons behind this man's behavior, I just wanted everybody to know that Mr. Vincent Bergeron had previously asked yours truly, via email, of BUYING this CD for review purpose. After my non-reply to that absurd request, he willingly sent the record.
Despite my non-negative and rather amused review, Mr. Bergeron felt somehow offended and proceeded to send me another email with rather unpleasant comments.
There is something more that I should say about what happened later on, which I won't do because it would make Mr. Bergeron's frail psyche crumble and, especially, because this would involve third persons who are obviously not responsible for this guy's rants.
I only chose to let everybody know the kind of low level a true genius (I'm being ironic, Vincent) can sink to. I also would like to emphasize Tokafi's choice of running such kind of less than intelligent statements without second thoughts.
Saturday, 24 October 2009
PEOPLE BAND - 69/70
Emanem
This 2-CD set comprises a series of surprisingly (given the age) good-sounding tapes that constitute a veritable authentication of the spirit, even more than being simple “archival material”, of the People Band. This union without a leader (though Terry Day and Mel Davis were unanimously considered orientation points to which everybody else looked at) began to exist in 1966 as Continuous Music Ensemble, finishing its course in 1972 after having developed into a real force of life, a variable assortment of instrumentalists – dilettantes to professionals, it didn’t matter – and personal experiences gathered under that sort of idealism which today is seen as laughable by many heartless cynics but in the 60s and the 70s brought probably the century’s best results as far as unembroidered creativity was concerned. As any elderly would concur, they don’t produce this kind of stuff anymore.
The endlessly changing line-ups, the fact that the musicians had to engage themselves with a multitude of instruments through a constant switching of the respective duties and the extremely diverse settings in which the events occurred (the players were either amassed in apartments and small studios or improvising in open spaces) all attribute a sense of immediacy to the playing, whose colours, impulses and indomitability remains thoroughly vivid across the entire program. The cooperative’s general philosophy is perfectly synthesized with what’s printed in the booklet: “Everything is music. Sound dominates our existence. Every sound/noise is music or can be used to make music”. Not a truer word indeed. Accordingly, the spectators were habitually invited to join the performers during the sets, although it is reported that members of the group - deemed “too musically anarchic” - were almost lynched by the rebellious attendants of a particular edition of the Anarchists Annual Ball. As ever, stubborn rigidness and hopeless stupidity lie behind those who proclaim independence from anything and anyone. The same happens nowadays, “radical” artists selling a presumed intellectual virginity for the quickest dollar.
69/70 includes handfuls of interesting incidents, running the whole gamut of aural reactions while encompassing doers and receivers in a single, virtually unconscious act. The improvisations collected in “Soho Studio”, which take the bulk of the first disc, are the most amusingly vociferous ones, intermittently recalling the Mothers Of Invention circa “The Return Of The Son Of Monster Magnet” yet informed by a lesser level of drama, the instrumental designs always incredibly intelligible and rather lucid despite the massive cluttering of timbres and dynamics, percussion and screaming voices emerging from the mix to define what the liners call “a beautiful orgasmic collective – quite tribal”. The self-explanatory “In The Woods” is obviously a prevalently peaceful chapter in terms of space distribution, the participants drifting in and out the microphones’ range to explore different areas of fortuitous artistry and subsidiary presences (such as passing airplanes). The slight diversion here is represented by “Paradiso”, named after the notorious Amsterdam venue which often hosted PB’s concerts. The quintet of Albert Kovitz, Davey Payne, Paul Jolly, Charlie Hart and Terry Day tends to a type of half-introspective free jazz tinged with altruism - especially towards the audience, treated to intensely expressive moments where the interplay is logical, unpredictable, nimble-footed, totally in tune with the addressee’s needs.
What’s to stress is how current these materials appear, 40 years gone. The importance of 69/70 – besides the excellence of the sheer musical content – must be individuated in its historical meaning at large. Significant expressions indicating a way of thinking and behaving that’s unfortunately destined to be watched as a relic, as these beings owned something that a sizeable portion of humanity has been throwing in the trash bin for decades - unselfishness and coherence. Qualities that everyone in the People Band was unquestionably willing to share.
This 2-CD set comprises a series of surprisingly (given the age) good-sounding tapes that constitute a veritable authentication of the spirit, even more than being simple “archival material”, of the People Band. This union without a leader (though Terry Day and Mel Davis were unanimously considered orientation points to which everybody else looked at) began to exist in 1966 as Continuous Music Ensemble, finishing its course in 1972 after having developed into a real force of life, a variable assortment of instrumentalists – dilettantes to professionals, it didn’t matter – and personal experiences gathered under that sort of idealism which today is seen as laughable by many heartless cynics but in the 60s and the 70s brought probably the century’s best results as far as unembroidered creativity was concerned. As any elderly would concur, they don’t produce this kind of stuff anymore.
The endlessly changing line-ups, the fact that the musicians had to engage themselves with a multitude of instruments through a constant switching of the respective duties and the extremely diverse settings in which the events occurred (the players were either amassed in apartments and small studios or improvising in open spaces) all attribute a sense of immediacy to the playing, whose colours, impulses and indomitability remains thoroughly vivid across the entire program. The cooperative’s general philosophy is perfectly synthesized with what’s printed in the booklet: “Everything is music. Sound dominates our existence. Every sound/noise is music or can be used to make music”. Not a truer word indeed. Accordingly, the spectators were habitually invited to join the performers during the sets, although it is reported that members of the group - deemed “too musically anarchic” - were almost lynched by the rebellious attendants of a particular edition of the Anarchists Annual Ball. As ever, stubborn rigidness and hopeless stupidity lie behind those who proclaim independence from anything and anyone. The same happens nowadays, “radical” artists selling a presumed intellectual virginity for the quickest dollar.
69/70 includes handfuls of interesting incidents, running the whole gamut of aural reactions while encompassing doers and receivers in a single, virtually unconscious act. The improvisations collected in “Soho Studio”, which take the bulk of the first disc, are the most amusingly vociferous ones, intermittently recalling the Mothers Of Invention circa “The Return Of The Son Of Monster Magnet” yet informed by a lesser level of drama, the instrumental designs always incredibly intelligible and rather lucid despite the massive cluttering of timbres and dynamics, percussion and screaming voices emerging from the mix to define what the liners call “a beautiful orgasmic collective – quite tribal”. The self-explanatory “In The Woods” is obviously a prevalently peaceful chapter in terms of space distribution, the participants drifting in and out the microphones’ range to explore different areas of fortuitous artistry and subsidiary presences (such as passing airplanes). The slight diversion here is represented by “Paradiso”, named after the notorious Amsterdam venue which often hosted PB’s concerts. The quintet of Albert Kovitz, Davey Payne, Paul Jolly, Charlie Hart and Terry Day tends to a type of half-introspective free jazz tinged with altruism - especially towards the audience, treated to intensely expressive moments where the interplay is logical, unpredictable, nimble-footed, totally in tune with the addressee’s needs.
What’s to stress is how current these materials appear, 40 years gone. The importance of 69/70 – besides the excellence of the sheer musical content – must be individuated in its historical meaning at large. Significant expressions indicating a way of thinking and behaving that’s unfortunately destined to be watched as a relic, as these beings owned something that a sizeable portion of humanity has been throwing in the trash bin for decades - unselfishness and coherence. Qualities that everyone in the People Band was unquestionably willing to share.
Thursday, 22 October 2009
WHO TRIO – Less Is More
Clean Feed
WHO stands for Wintsch (Michel, piano), Hemingway (Gerry, drums and percussion) and Oester (Bänz, bass). Active for over ten years under this embodiment, these artists are as distant from an ordinarily stale jazz trio as an exhausted reviewer could wish for. For starters, we find no surplus of swing in Less Is More, which makes me extremely intrigued. There’s much else to explore, though, and the musicians are not shy in attempting different routes, all leading to a single result: the expression of simple rhythmic and melodic concepts through a superior level of restrained interplay.
Either walking across intense abstraction (the impressive opening track “Inside The Glade” is, purely and simply, a masterpiece of concerned waiting and unsettled thoughts) or examining the details of metrical interlocking almost to the point of ritualism (“The Pump”, “The Eastern Corner”), WHO always manage to look unique even by maintaining the instrumental gradations virtually untouched. “Wedding Suite” may appear as a straightforward song yet it is full of dissonance – of the digestible kind - especially remarked by the ever-interesting, outside-the-canon figurations played by Wintsch, whose style is reserved and intelligently comprehensible at once, altered melodies and harmonic cleverness bathed in inspired suggestion. Banz sounds prosperous or emaciated depending on the context, the focus remaining on the sensible aspects of structural stability. Hemingway offers a great proof of sensitive drumming throughout, the subtlety of his percussive interventions during the most rarefied sections a lesson of self-discipline that many bangers should learn.
Don’t be fooled into thinking about ECM or similar comparisons: despite a graceful confidence and the total mastery of the tools at their disposal, these men’s music is a refined blend of sensitiveness and, at times, visionary drive that does not need the support of a church’s reverberation to affirm its durability in the listener’s memory.
WHO stands for Wintsch (Michel, piano), Hemingway (Gerry, drums and percussion) and Oester (Bänz, bass). Active for over ten years under this embodiment, these artists are as distant from an ordinarily stale jazz trio as an exhausted reviewer could wish for. For starters, we find no surplus of swing in Less Is More, which makes me extremely intrigued. There’s much else to explore, though, and the musicians are not shy in attempting different routes, all leading to a single result: the expression of simple rhythmic and melodic concepts through a superior level of restrained interplay.
Either walking across intense abstraction (the impressive opening track “Inside The Glade” is, purely and simply, a masterpiece of concerned waiting and unsettled thoughts) or examining the details of metrical interlocking almost to the point of ritualism (“The Pump”, “The Eastern Corner”), WHO always manage to look unique even by maintaining the instrumental gradations virtually untouched. “Wedding Suite” may appear as a straightforward song yet it is full of dissonance – of the digestible kind - especially remarked by the ever-interesting, outside-the-canon figurations played by Wintsch, whose style is reserved and intelligently comprehensible at once, altered melodies and harmonic cleverness bathed in inspired suggestion. Banz sounds prosperous or emaciated depending on the context, the focus remaining on the sensible aspects of structural stability. Hemingway offers a great proof of sensitive drumming throughout, the subtlety of his percussive interventions during the most rarefied sections a lesson of self-discipline that many bangers should learn.
Don’t be fooled into thinking about ECM or similar comparisons: despite a graceful confidence and the total mastery of the tools at their disposal, these men’s music is a refined blend of sensitiveness and, at times, visionary drive that does not need the support of a church’s reverberation to affirm its durability in the listener’s memory.
MEM1 – Stationary Drift
Resting Bell
Mark and Laura Cetilia, from Los Angeles, are Mem1. They have been working in the field of sound installation and electronica in recent years, but this 27-minute chapter of their career – which is downloadable for free at the label’s website – has enough merits to stand alone as an outstanding release, full as it is of delicate poetry, dejected desolation and frail tones that repeatedly touch our heart. Starting from a single source - a cello - the duo builds an amassment of layered uncertainties through the use of electronics, which complement and enhance the acoustic qualities of the instruments while generating a string of rather uncommon soundscapes, whose peculiar beauty is especially exalted by its pallid colours.
The sounds tremble, attempt to learn to fly without success, then lay tired on a stratum of digital oxidation and slight distortion, only to be finally captured in a processing network which steals their essence and retransmits it across the room, altered yet still poignant. The hypnotic allure of certain segments is what attributes humanity to this music, the sudden turns towards unfriendly zones is what renders it less predictable. The magnificent blending of these intense feelings and the not excessive duration of the sequence seal Stationary Drift with a stamp of near perfection, placing it among the best episodes heard in 2009 relatively to this artistic area. One looks forward to hear more from such extra sensitive, deeply insightful musicians.
Mark and Laura Cetilia, from Los Angeles, are Mem1. They have been working in the field of sound installation and electronica in recent years, but this 27-minute chapter of their career – which is downloadable for free at the label’s website – has enough merits to stand alone as an outstanding release, full as it is of delicate poetry, dejected desolation and frail tones that repeatedly touch our heart. Starting from a single source - a cello - the duo builds an amassment of layered uncertainties through the use of electronics, which complement and enhance the acoustic qualities of the instruments while generating a string of rather uncommon soundscapes, whose peculiar beauty is especially exalted by its pallid colours.
The sounds tremble, attempt to learn to fly without success, then lay tired on a stratum of digital oxidation and slight distortion, only to be finally captured in a processing network which steals their essence and retransmits it across the room, altered yet still poignant. The hypnotic allure of certain segments is what attributes humanity to this music, the sudden turns towards unfriendly zones is what renders it less predictable. The magnificent blending of these intense feelings and the not excessive duration of the sequence seal Stationary Drift with a stamp of near perfection, placing it among the best episodes heard in 2009 relatively to this artistic area. One looks forward to hear more from such extra sensitive, deeply insightful musicians.
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
DIAPHRAGM – Sublimation
SNSE
Business as usual: a sizeable pile of releases from last year lying on the desk and looking at me, hungry kittens impatient to be taken care of. I choose one randomly, put it in the player and – lo and behold – here’s a fine disc of noise-based compositions by Nicholas Pace from New York, working under the Diaphragm alias. The press release quotes sonic realities such as Speculum Fight, Iovae and Tom Grimley as hypothetical related listening. Sorry – the author is not familiar with any of those; but this record is damn good.
Apparently, the man lives in some sort of forlorn urban environment somewhere in the NY area, as he declares that the music is influenced by the “greyed-out hulks of broken concrete and razorwire” that surround his place. For sure the first feeling experienced is one of bleakness, thrumming rumble and static ingloriousness “welcoming” the listener together with a huge accumulation of sampled metropolitan echoes (and possibly a few measures of unidentified machinery and blaring traffic). Once the initial impact has been absorbed, though, we realize that the hostile mass does possess an alternative life, and that most sounds are unusually “canorous”, at times gifted with an aberrant harmony, always deployed with a noticeable logic which is what distinguishes this musician from the gangs of noisemaking cretins who leave our ears agonizing after a minute, whose records are only useful to stabilize peg-legged tables. In that sense “Party Foul II” is a bloody great track, dirty microsounds and ill-omened glissandos worthy of a seriously talented composer. Want a bleeding brain? Go to “Black Watermelon” and savour its bionic birds pecking at your hopeless auricular membranes.
The buried musicality characterizing the bulk of the program mainly derives from the utilization of what Pace calls a “rusted mountain of ancient oscillators”. I don’t know the exact reason, but Sublimation instantly clicked as soon as the spinning began. Maybe it will be a summer love-like excitement at the end, yet following a couple of listens – a murderous crossing of distortion and exacerbated reverb is accompanying my writing right now – this reviewer is still willing to believe that it might even appeal to so-called sophisticated audiences. Give it a try, hopefully you won’t be deluded.
Business as usual: a sizeable pile of releases from last year lying on the desk and looking at me, hungry kittens impatient to be taken care of. I choose one randomly, put it in the player and – lo and behold – here’s a fine disc of noise-based compositions by Nicholas Pace from New York, working under the Diaphragm alias. The press release quotes sonic realities such as Speculum Fight, Iovae and Tom Grimley as hypothetical related listening. Sorry – the author is not familiar with any of those; but this record is damn good.
Apparently, the man lives in some sort of forlorn urban environment somewhere in the NY area, as he declares that the music is influenced by the “greyed-out hulks of broken concrete and razorwire” that surround his place. For sure the first feeling experienced is one of bleakness, thrumming rumble and static ingloriousness “welcoming” the listener together with a huge accumulation of sampled metropolitan echoes (and possibly a few measures of unidentified machinery and blaring traffic). Once the initial impact has been absorbed, though, we realize that the hostile mass does possess an alternative life, and that most sounds are unusually “canorous”, at times gifted with an aberrant harmony, always deployed with a noticeable logic which is what distinguishes this musician from the gangs of noisemaking cretins who leave our ears agonizing after a minute, whose records are only useful to stabilize peg-legged tables. In that sense “Party Foul II” is a bloody great track, dirty microsounds and ill-omened glissandos worthy of a seriously talented composer. Want a bleeding brain? Go to “Black Watermelon” and savour its bionic birds pecking at your hopeless auricular membranes.
The buried musicality characterizing the bulk of the program mainly derives from the utilization of what Pace calls a “rusted mountain of ancient oscillators”. I don’t know the exact reason, but Sublimation instantly clicked as soon as the spinning began. Maybe it will be a summer love-like excitement at the end, yet following a couple of listens – a murderous crossing of distortion and exacerbated reverb is accompanying my writing right now – this reviewer is still willing to believe that it might even appeal to so-called sophisticated audiences. Give it a try, hopefully you won’t be deluded.
Monday, 12 October 2009
GREG HEADLEY – Fragments Of The Dream Machine
28 Angles
Having found himself in a creative mire during the compositional phase of this work, Greg Headley felt that the time had come for a total erasure of what was recorded until then, which was not the least satisfying in regard to the original intentions. This is never an unproblematic decision: there’s always the risk of losing the worthy bits and pieces and not being able to find a new path to tread with greater satisfaction.
This sort of inner irritation is expressed quite well by the five tracks of Fragments Of The Dream Machine (title courtesy of J.G. Ballard, a declared influence), whose 37 minutes contain, in the artist’s words, “the most chaotic and noise-filled music I have ever composed”. While it is true that this is a mainly dissonant record, full of blasphemous distortions and zigzagging anti-melodies, the general impression is far from one of mayhem. Behind the turmoil, we notice the presence of somewhat soothing elements – a few seconds of droning tones, a slightly calmer moment of suspension. It almost looks like the creator of these soundscapes is finding pleasure in his very confusion at last, finally managing to bring the inventive flux back to a certain degree of discipline despite a detachment from a typical construction process.
That said, for sure this is not a recording that will be easily memorized. But that’s not the point. What matters is the idea of a man trapped amidst untied knots who ultimately threw away the exasperation of obligatory choices by letting the sounds do the talking. Headley, for what I can surmise, works with computers. Yet it is the uncooked quality of the emissions he produces that is best likable, which is what renders him a peculiarly autonomous, unpredictable figure in contemporary electronica.
Having found himself in a creative mire during the compositional phase of this work, Greg Headley felt that the time had come for a total erasure of what was recorded until then, which was not the least satisfying in regard to the original intentions. This is never an unproblematic decision: there’s always the risk of losing the worthy bits and pieces and not being able to find a new path to tread with greater satisfaction.
This sort of inner irritation is expressed quite well by the five tracks of Fragments Of The Dream Machine (title courtesy of J.G. Ballard, a declared influence), whose 37 minutes contain, in the artist’s words, “the most chaotic and noise-filled music I have ever composed”. While it is true that this is a mainly dissonant record, full of blasphemous distortions and zigzagging anti-melodies, the general impression is far from one of mayhem. Behind the turmoil, we notice the presence of somewhat soothing elements – a few seconds of droning tones, a slightly calmer moment of suspension. It almost looks like the creator of these soundscapes is finding pleasure in his very confusion at last, finally managing to bring the inventive flux back to a certain degree of discipline despite a detachment from a typical construction process.
That said, for sure this is not a recording that will be easily memorized. But that’s not the point. What matters is the idea of a man trapped amidst untied knots who ultimately threw away the exasperation of obligatory choices by letting the sounds do the talking. Headley, for what I can surmise, works with computers. Yet it is the uncooked quality of the emissions he produces that is best likable, which is what renders him a peculiarly autonomous, unpredictable figure in contemporary electronica.
Saturday, 10 October 2009
WILL MONTGOMERY [BRIAN MARLEY] – Legend
Entr'acte
Originating from The Legend, a joint literary and visual effort by Rhodri Davies and Brian Marley originally published in 2006 as an appendage to Tolling Elves #37 and available for downloading at Entr’acte’s website, this magnificent recording uses the English writer’s voice reading his original words as a primary source for Will Montgomery’s strategies of sonic revision. This is not spoken word (initially, I had imagined that after a superficial look at the notes) but a brilliant series of mesmerizing constructions in which the vocal components are stretched, strained and made glisten in style, tending to a general sonority that frequently results as awe-inspiring as the sparkling stars of a clear summer’s night and yet often deeply anguishing, extended parabolas, unfathomable halos and bionic birds (check the effects of the seventh movement on your psyche) depicting a transformation characterized by the infectiousness of inner movements implied by an introspective inertia.
Montgomery tackles the material with technical proficiency and utmost control, transforming rather anaemic sonic bodies into delicate fluorescence, sympathetic quivering and coordinated hovering: subtly or evidently, this is music that affects the person who stands and accepts its consequence. The album is closed by a filtered audio snapshot of the empty room in which Marley’s rendition firstly happened, the ominously hollow whisper of the container equally gratifying to appreciate in respectful immobility. Classy stuff, all the more appropriate given the unbearably grey, low-pressure afternoon in which the listening sessions are taking place.
Originating from The Legend, a joint literary and visual effort by Rhodri Davies and Brian Marley originally published in 2006 as an appendage to Tolling Elves #37 and available for downloading at Entr’acte’s website, this magnificent recording uses the English writer’s voice reading his original words as a primary source for Will Montgomery’s strategies of sonic revision. This is not spoken word (initially, I had imagined that after a superficial look at the notes) but a brilliant series of mesmerizing constructions in which the vocal components are stretched, strained and made glisten in style, tending to a general sonority that frequently results as awe-inspiring as the sparkling stars of a clear summer’s night and yet often deeply anguishing, extended parabolas, unfathomable halos and bionic birds (check the effects of the seventh movement on your psyche) depicting a transformation characterized by the infectiousness of inner movements implied by an introspective inertia.
Montgomery tackles the material with technical proficiency and utmost control, transforming rather anaemic sonic bodies into delicate fluorescence, sympathetic quivering and coordinated hovering: subtly or evidently, this is music that affects the person who stands and accepts its consequence. The album is closed by a filtered audio snapshot of the empty room in which Marley’s rendition firstly happened, the ominously hollow whisper of the container equally gratifying to appreciate in respectful immobility. Classy stuff, all the more appropriate given the unbearably grey, low-pressure afternoon in which the listening sessions are taking place.
CHEAPMACHINES – Secede
Entr'acte
In the beginning this was meant to be a collaboration between Phil Julian and Helmut Schäfer, the sound artist from Austria who committed suicide in 2007. While the dramatic event forced the project’s abortion, Julian – armed with G3 PowerBook and related software – decided to add the finishing touches to what he had already recorded until that moment. At first, listening to the crunchy distortions and repeatedly clashing interferences of the initial episode, my mind threw out a classic “oh no, another useless laptop release” reaction; but your reviewer couldn’t be more wrong.
Secede is indeed an excellent album, all the constituents utilized respecting an even-handed dosage which allows noise and harmony to coexist – and, in truth, the latter often seems to be born from the former, to the point that certain sections caused serious entrancement despite the hypothetic inhospitableness of Cheapmachines’ timbral choices. Music informed by a congenial type of grittiness, the one that leaves us curious to know what comes after, paying attention to how the plot thickens, trying to understand what the original components might be. And there’s not only sheer overdriven granularity: the gorgeous deep reverberation of the fifth track is an example of welcome digression, shifting the whole to somewhat brooding atmospheres.
An intelligently realized record, lacking any kind of exaggeration, which should be exemplar in suggesting the raising of the quality bar to many computer-sheltered dabblers.
In the beginning this was meant to be a collaboration between Phil Julian and Helmut Schäfer, the sound artist from Austria who committed suicide in 2007. While the dramatic event forced the project’s abortion, Julian – armed with G3 PowerBook and related software – decided to add the finishing touches to what he had already recorded until that moment. At first, listening to the crunchy distortions and repeatedly clashing interferences of the initial episode, my mind threw out a classic “oh no, another useless laptop release” reaction; but your reviewer couldn’t be more wrong.
Secede is indeed an excellent album, all the constituents utilized respecting an even-handed dosage which allows noise and harmony to coexist – and, in truth, the latter often seems to be born from the former, to the point that certain sections caused serious entrancement despite the hypothetic inhospitableness of Cheapmachines’ timbral choices. Music informed by a congenial type of grittiness, the one that leaves us curious to know what comes after, paying attention to how the plot thickens, trying to understand what the original components might be. And there’s not only sheer overdriven granularity: the gorgeous deep reverberation of the fifth track is an example of welcome digression, shifting the whole to somewhat brooding atmospheres.
An intelligently realized record, lacking any kind of exaggeration, which should be exemplar in suggesting the raising of the quality bar to many computer-sheltered dabblers.
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
PHOSPHOR - II
Potlatch
After years of EAI heavily characterized by various gradations of toneless farting, saliva-drenched manifestations and ever-the-same microsounds, a few snoopers – including this writer – have grown to be highly suspicious, arriving to the point of considering certain releases as unmentionable in regard to a presumed artistic relevance, even when the original intentions were innocent. There’s only so much that can be exploited in a genre prior to the clichés, and this particular area is a difficult place for being trustful nowadays. Desperate for keeping the flame flickering, fans of emptiness aliment debates that revolve exactly around that very nothingness in virtual absence of implications. Contemplative inactivity during a performance is by now fashionable, echoes from the external world doing the work in lieu of the “artist”. Had John Cage envisioned the potential damage of all that silence-related chattering, we wouldn’t be here wasting hours of our precious time for individuals who can’t play, muddling through the remnants of what was once called music to make a nice living and collect accolades.
That’s why a CD such as this, second outing on Potlatch after the debut release in 2002, comes especially welcome: Phosphor are interested in making things sound in quietness rather than sitting with frowning eyebrows, thinking about the next meditative stance. The septet – a genuine super group formed by Burkhard Beins, Axel Dörner, Robin Hayward, Annette Krebs, Andrea Neumann, Michael Renkel and Ignaz Schick – found a way of rendering an obvious electroacoustic heterogeneity relatively smooth, organizing a well-nourished array of standard (!) instruments and apparatuses like a distinguished orchestra capable of highlighting (and, when needed, altering) the different nuances of timbre.
The improvisations in II are categorized by the persuasive power of selected instrumental voices placed under the focus until one gets acquainted with their fundamental nature, the participants delineating a sort of pictorial background that facilitates the individuation of a general scheme. These settings don’t last for the entirety of a piece: the scenario is constantly modified. The musicians are willing to produce clearly demarcated frameworks in which the sequences of events and the distinct atmospheres – percussively dominant, cyclically squealing, electronically cold, nebulously contaminated – are exalted at first, then completely discarded in favour of a growth or, more frequently, an utter revolution, often at the cost of depriving the listeners of a pleasant state of mind achieved with difficulty. They do just fine in concealing the authentic traits of the machines, and I didn’t find a valid reason for guessing them and what they were tampering with. The whole sounds cooperatively rational and mainly convincing. Who cares of what is what and who is who; it’s the overall outcome that counts, and in this case the resultant sonorities are particularly interesting to say the least.
Some of these scenes are extremely effective, “P10” standing among the best tracks in that sense, a thoroughly intelligible investigation of the surrounding space - via sparse accumulations and symbiotic purrs - that nevertheless presents moments of veritable mystery, becoming nearly unfathomable at the end. Other selections are slightly less functional as far as private involvement is concerned, which is understandable given the index of possibilities in relation to the program’s length. The variegated palette - which includes colours as diverse as percussion, guitar, electronics, inside piano, tuba, trumpet, zither, turntables and objects – is definitely a winning choice: emotionally captured or not, we never thought of being listening to something thrown out exclusively for the sake of releasing material. Every detail appears carefully considered, all moves precisely circumstantiated. A compositional design is recurrently in evidence, transforming mere examinations into accomplished pieces, each new listen confirming a value that in the beginning could merely be guessed, or hoped for.
At the end of the day this is a noteworthy, if uneasy work which requires numerous attempts in order for us to come to terms with its actual consequence. It will surely result useless for the not conversant but is an accurately detailed, open-to-observation recording for connoisseurs, provided that the right level of concentration is there: if mentally tired, save it for later. II does not deserve a distracted or, worse yet, nervous approach, instead rewarding the persistence of those who are still hoping for a pinch of intelligence in an arena where sounding as a nincompoop while “experimenting” is a concrete possibility.
After years of EAI heavily characterized by various gradations of toneless farting, saliva-drenched manifestations and ever-the-same microsounds, a few snoopers – including this writer – have grown to be highly suspicious, arriving to the point of considering certain releases as unmentionable in regard to a presumed artistic relevance, even when the original intentions were innocent. There’s only so much that can be exploited in a genre prior to the clichés, and this particular area is a difficult place for being trustful nowadays. Desperate for keeping the flame flickering, fans of emptiness aliment debates that revolve exactly around that very nothingness in virtual absence of implications. Contemplative inactivity during a performance is by now fashionable, echoes from the external world doing the work in lieu of the “artist”. Had John Cage envisioned the potential damage of all that silence-related chattering, we wouldn’t be here wasting hours of our precious time for individuals who can’t play, muddling through the remnants of what was once called music to make a nice living and collect accolades.
That’s why a CD such as this, second outing on Potlatch after the debut release in 2002, comes especially welcome: Phosphor are interested in making things sound in quietness rather than sitting with frowning eyebrows, thinking about the next meditative stance. The septet – a genuine super group formed by Burkhard Beins, Axel Dörner, Robin Hayward, Annette Krebs, Andrea Neumann, Michael Renkel and Ignaz Schick – found a way of rendering an obvious electroacoustic heterogeneity relatively smooth, organizing a well-nourished array of standard (!) instruments and apparatuses like a distinguished orchestra capable of highlighting (and, when needed, altering) the different nuances of timbre.
The improvisations in II are categorized by the persuasive power of selected instrumental voices placed under the focus until one gets acquainted with their fundamental nature, the participants delineating a sort of pictorial background that facilitates the individuation of a general scheme. These settings don’t last for the entirety of a piece: the scenario is constantly modified. The musicians are willing to produce clearly demarcated frameworks in which the sequences of events and the distinct atmospheres – percussively dominant, cyclically squealing, electronically cold, nebulously contaminated – are exalted at first, then completely discarded in favour of a growth or, more frequently, an utter revolution, often at the cost of depriving the listeners of a pleasant state of mind achieved with difficulty. They do just fine in concealing the authentic traits of the machines, and I didn’t find a valid reason for guessing them and what they were tampering with. The whole sounds cooperatively rational and mainly convincing. Who cares of what is what and who is who; it’s the overall outcome that counts, and in this case the resultant sonorities are particularly interesting to say the least.
Some of these scenes are extremely effective, “P10” standing among the best tracks in that sense, a thoroughly intelligible investigation of the surrounding space - via sparse accumulations and symbiotic purrs - that nevertheless presents moments of veritable mystery, becoming nearly unfathomable at the end. Other selections are slightly less functional as far as private involvement is concerned, which is understandable given the index of possibilities in relation to the program’s length. The variegated palette - which includes colours as diverse as percussion, guitar, electronics, inside piano, tuba, trumpet, zither, turntables and objects – is definitely a winning choice: emotionally captured or not, we never thought of being listening to something thrown out exclusively for the sake of releasing material. Every detail appears carefully considered, all moves precisely circumstantiated. A compositional design is recurrently in evidence, transforming mere examinations into accomplished pieces, each new listen confirming a value that in the beginning could merely be guessed, or hoped for.
At the end of the day this is a noteworthy, if uneasy work which requires numerous attempts in order for us to come to terms with its actual consequence. It will surely result useless for the not conversant but is an accurately detailed, open-to-observation recording for connoisseurs, provided that the right level of concentration is there: if mentally tired, save it for later. II does not deserve a distracted or, worse yet, nervous approach, instead rewarding the persistence of those who are still hoping for a pinch of intelligence in an arena where sounding as a nincompoop while “experimenting” is a concrete possibility.
Sunday, 4 October 2009
VANESSA ROSSETTO – Dogs In English Porcelain
Music Appreciation
I had been reading of Vanessa Rossetto, an Italian-named composer from Austin, Texas (the family name translates as “lipstick”, for those who really die to know) for quite a while and was indeed curious. Lo and behold, she was so kind to send the latest outing on her own imprint Music Appreciation, on which Misafridal, Imperial Brick and Whoreson In The Wilderness were previously released. After listening to Dogs In English Porcelain for the fifth time in a few days, your reviewer can’t do anything but joining the chorus of complimentary comments seen around the web: Rossetto – who’s also a painter – is definitely capable of organizing a composition, placing all the elements exactly at the right place.
“Scored” for electronics, field recordings, viola, violin, cello and acoustic turntable, this is a single flux of mixed-up factors and successive vignettes, whose essential perfume is electro-acoustically domestic. The most appreciable quality of this work – which, let’s not forget it, tries to find its spot in a musical area where many dilettantes are active today, releasing and (damn it) selling stuff despite a total artistic poverty – is the perfect balance between raw and (partially) refined. Rossetto is very good in utilizing ingredients from everyday life - a whimpering dog, a radio, the noise from the outside traffic – and contextualizing them in a framework that might appear as pre-conceived for different uses. When she mixes the sound of the string instruments, either barely scraped in almost pitch-less fashion or bundling frail tones in slightly droning whispers that get instantly re-swallowed by the surrounding ambience, we’re willing to be there as a part of this, rather than just “observing the process”. The whole flows with ease, conceding openings to our fantasy and peeps into private operations that, in the end, the originator is completely eager to share with an audience. No mysterious auras and affected blessedness.
Still, nothing prepared yours truly to the stunning appearance - about six minutes to conclusion - of a breathtaking chorale of superimposed Vanessas (…or are they? Is this instead a loop from other records?) which separates the preceding concreteness from an immediate sense of loss amidst interior ghosts and hopeless desires, a Ligeti-ish chant underscored by low drones, chirping birds and assorted external ferments that alone is worth (pur)chasing the album. It’s a fabulous finale, the voices gradually wavering towards a frozen stupor, background echoes of melodies coming from who-knows-where, a definite shift from intriguing homespun tampering to a deeper level of self-analysis. This splendid ending – which, together with certain sections, made me compare this CD to specific junctures of early Jim O’Rourke – is what delineates the transition of Dogs In English Porcelain from “interesting experiment” to “great record”.
I had been reading of Vanessa Rossetto, an Italian-named composer from Austin, Texas (the family name translates as “lipstick”, for those who really die to know) for quite a while and was indeed curious. Lo and behold, she was so kind to send the latest outing on her own imprint Music Appreciation, on which Misafridal, Imperial Brick and Whoreson In The Wilderness were previously released. After listening to Dogs In English Porcelain for the fifth time in a few days, your reviewer can’t do anything but joining the chorus of complimentary comments seen around the web: Rossetto – who’s also a painter – is definitely capable of organizing a composition, placing all the elements exactly at the right place.
“Scored” for electronics, field recordings, viola, violin, cello and acoustic turntable, this is a single flux of mixed-up factors and successive vignettes, whose essential perfume is electro-acoustically domestic. The most appreciable quality of this work – which, let’s not forget it, tries to find its spot in a musical area where many dilettantes are active today, releasing and (damn it) selling stuff despite a total artistic poverty – is the perfect balance between raw and (partially) refined. Rossetto is very good in utilizing ingredients from everyday life - a whimpering dog, a radio, the noise from the outside traffic – and contextualizing them in a framework that might appear as pre-conceived for different uses. When she mixes the sound of the string instruments, either barely scraped in almost pitch-less fashion or bundling frail tones in slightly droning whispers that get instantly re-swallowed by the surrounding ambience, we’re willing to be there as a part of this, rather than just “observing the process”. The whole flows with ease, conceding openings to our fantasy and peeps into private operations that, in the end, the originator is completely eager to share with an audience. No mysterious auras and affected blessedness.
Still, nothing prepared yours truly to the stunning appearance - about six minutes to conclusion - of a breathtaking chorale of superimposed Vanessas (…or are they? Is this instead a loop from other records?) which separates the preceding concreteness from an immediate sense of loss amidst interior ghosts and hopeless desires, a Ligeti-ish chant underscored by low drones, chirping birds and assorted external ferments that alone is worth (pur)chasing the album. It’s a fabulous finale, the voices gradually wavering towards a frozen stupor, background echoes of melodies coming from who-knows-where, a definite shift from intriguing homespun tampering to a deeper level of self-analysis. This splendid ending – which, together with certain sections, made me compare this CD to specific junctures of early Jim O’Rourke – is what delineates the transition of Dogs In English Porcelain from “interesting experiment” to “great record”.
Monday, 28 September 2009
RODRIGO AMADO / KENT KESSLER / PAAL NILSSEN-LOVE – The Abstract Truth
European Echoes
A jazz trio has by now become something of a commonplace. The format at the basis of several past masterpieces is reduced to a vehicle for showcasing futile virtuosity hiding a depressing absence of compositional ideas, typically underscored by that kind of swinging pulse that does not clarify if the rhythm section is made of geniuses or just a shelter for people who can’t even keep a steady pace in a music piece.
And yet, as we listen to The Abstract Truth, there’s room for hope. That’s because the principals look interested in introducing a welcome measure of rationalization in their playing, rather than abandoning themselves to the bacchanalia of “let’s get lost in a meaningless rowdiness”. For starters, the saxophonist – tenor and baritone – is one of those soloists not scared of showing disaffection for the fraudulent aspects of bebop imagery, acuminate shards of fragmentary, at times repetitive melody pushing the phrasing in close proximity to intuitive drawing without causing exhaustion. In “The Kiss” the interaction with Kessler and Nilssen-Love is perhaps at its maximum level of intensity, the bassist’s constantly grumbling arco and the drummer’s abstemious percussive consistency projecting the tunes against a white wall where every figuration is perfectly delineated and utterly comprehensible. A remunerative regeneration of prismatic instrumental brightness which appears to be totally gone in many similar circumstances.
Still, when Amado wants he’s got power to spare: the sturdy baritone in “Universe Unmasked” shows that, coming the right juncture, the will of getting down in the dirt is there. Kessler and Nilssen-Love sustain that particular moment of inspiration with elegant authority - entirely deprived of invasiveness - in seven minutes of extraordinary lucidity fuelled by well-channelled energy, the solidity of the interplay never dissipating into free gimmickry, the instruments maintaining the respective features fully visible.
Dissertations that do not weigh upon the shoulders of our patience, intelligence remaining in sight throughout. A refined album that nevertheless doesn’t sound politically correct, an example of cleverness and self-restriction generating results that are definitely superior to destined-to-oblivion burnouts.
A jazz trio has by now become something of a commonplace. The format at the basis of several past masterpieces is reduced to a vehicle for showcasing futile virtuosity hiding a depressing absence of compositional ideas, typically underscored by that kind of swinging pulse that does not clarify if the rhythm section is made of geniuses or just a shelter for people who can’t even keep a steady pace in a music piece.
And yet, as we listen to The Abstract Truth, there’s room for hope. That’s because the principals look interested in introducing a welcome measure of rationalization in their playing, rather than abandoning themselves to the bacchanalia of “let’s get lost in a meaningless rowdiness”. For starters, the saxophonist – tenor and baritone – is one of those soloists not scared of showing disaffection for the fraudulent aspects of bebop imagery, acuminate shards of fragmentary, at times repetitive melody pushing the phrasing in close proximity to intuitive drawing without causing exhaustion. In “The Kiss” the interaction with Kessler and Nilssen-Love is perhaps at its maximum level of intensity, the bassist’s constantly grumbling arco and the drummer’s abstemious percussive consistency projecting the tunes against a white wall where every figuration is perfectly delineated and utterly comprehensible. A remunerative regeneration of prismatic instrumental brightness which appears to be totally gone in many similar circumstances.
Still, when Amado wants he’s got power to spare: the sturdy baritone in “Universe Unmasked” shows that, coming the right juncture, the will of getting down in the dirt is there. Kessler and Nilssen-Love sustain that particular moment of inspiration with elegant authority - entirely deprived of invasiveness - in seven minutes of extraordinary lucidity fuelled by well-channelled energy, the solidity of the interplay never dissipating into free gimmickry, the instruments maintaining the respective features fully visible.
Dissertations that do not weigh upon the shoulders of our patience, intelligence remaining in sight throughout. A refined album that nevertheless doesn’t sound politically correct, an example of cleverness and self-restriction generating results that are definitely superior to destined-to-oblivion burnouts.
Friday, 18 September 2009
MOLLY BERG + STEPHEN VITIELLO – The Gorilla Variations
12k
Brazilian video artist Éder Santos, a longtime collaborator of Stephen Vitiello, asked him for help in organizing a soundtrack for a filmic portrait of a lonely gorilla named Idi Amin, who lives in Belo Horizonte’s zoo, as a part of an installation called Boxing The Game. The original request was for a short fragment, yet Vitiello and Molly Berg recorded about 40 minutes of material to choose from, which constitute more or less 4/5 of this CD’s content.
The couple utilized an elusive blend of instruments (clarinets, guitar, bass, electric piano), samples and field recordings, also exploiting Berg’s daydreaming vocalizations and distilling the whole into an intoxicatingly scented sonic substance. That Vitiello has returned to playing a real instrument for the first time in circa 6 years is a noteworthy detail, as it is exactly this mixture of studio seaming and semi-improvised candour that gifts this album with an appreciable feeling of wholesomeness, lots of space to roam amidst ethereal loops, assorted melodic ingenuities and improvisations that may appear démodé for the cynical among us, but on the contrary are gifted with deepness to spare. The association between the transparency of the procedures, the mesmerizingly heart-warming simplicity of the pieces, and the fact that the work is dedicated to a solitary animal whose physical aspect is, ideally, quite threatening (as opposed to the tenderness perceived throughout) is a winning combination. There’s not a single occasion in which the initial idea overstays its welcome. All that’s stretched in terms of repetition and duration is never strained, looking near to some sort of bodiless manifestation. Indeed, an easily gaugeable spiritual level characterizes the entire record.
A classic case of creative sincerity determining the birth of something that encourages repeated savouring. Though not really a milestone, surely The Gorilla Variations does good in getting close to that status, in idyllic fashion. Idi Amin would feel flattered by this treatment.
Brazilian video artist Éder Santos, a longtime collaborator of Stephen Vitiello, asked him for help in organizing a soundtrack for a filmic portrait of a lonely gorilla named Idi Amin, who lives in Belo Horizonte’s zoo, as a part of an installation called Boxing The Game. The original request was for a short fragment, yet Vitiello and Molly Berg recorded about 40 minutes of material to choose from, which constitute more or less 4/5 of this CD’s content.
The couple utilized an elusive blend of instruments (clarinets, guitar, bass, electric piano), samples and field recordings, also exploiting Berg’s daydreaming vocalizations and distilling the whole into an intoxicatingly scented sonic substance. That Vitiello has returned to playing a real instrument for the first time in circa 6 years is a noteworthy detail, as it is exactly this mixture of studio seaming and semi-improvised candour that gifts this album with an appreciable feeling of wholesomeness, lots of space to roam amidst ethereal loops, assorted melodic ingenuities and improvisations that may appear démodé for the cynical among us, but on the contrary are gifted with deepness to spare. The association between the transparency of the procedures, the mesmerizingly heart-warming simplicity of the pieces, and the fact that the work is dedicated to a solitary animal whose physical aspect is, ideally, quite threatening (as opposed to the tenderness perceived throughout) is a winning combination. There’s not a single occasion in which the initial idea overstays its welcome. All that’s stretched in terms of repetition and duration is never strained, looking near to some sort of bodiless manifestation. Indeed, an easily gaugeable spiritual level characterizes the entire record.
A classic case of creative sincerity determining the birth of something that encourages repeated savouring. Though not really a milestone, surely The Gorilla Variations does good in getting close to that status, in idyllic fashion. Idi Amin would feel flattered by this treatment.
Thursday, 10 September 2009
LAWRENCE ENGLISH – A Colour For Autumn
12k
I’m not in the mood for markedly tonal music so often, especially when “ambient” is the keyword. Still, Lawrence English is among the very few musicians in this area who not only facilitates my problematic absorption of easy progressions and slow fragments of sweetness, but dresses them with tasty ingredients – typically, delicately inserted field recordings and almost invisible processing – which transform things that should be classified in the ranks of obviousness into appreciable pastels gifted with a degree of introspective reminiscence. That said, I’m sorry to report that this record fails to do so.
A Colour For Autumn is the second chapter of a series that began with For Varying Degrees Of Winter (on Baskaru), where English attempts to transfer the seasonal gradations related to the biotic and climatic aspects of certain zones to his soundscapes. The listener is left alone in hypothetical rumination, either surrounded by quiet backgrounds or more visible strokes that may appear as insubstantial or plain evocative according to the moment, remaining anchored to the single harmonic nucleus upon which every piece unfolds. No excessive variations or surprises, the instrumental shades meshed without specific definitions.
The influence on the psyche is not significant, and indeed several tracks sound a little too mono-dimensional in their elementary structure. Traces of Eno are observable - with particular reference, once again, to the Music For Films era - yet those exceedingly consonant traits are frequently burdensome, and one feels somewhat liberated when airy echoes (like, for instance, at the beginning of “…And Clouds For Company”) emerge to alleviate the whole a bit.
Cameos by Dean Roberts and Christian Fennesz remain pretty much unnoticed. English’s experience and sensitive ears prevent the album – just - from falling in the wallpaper cauldron but this is, regretfully, a lost chance for an influential sonic rendition of the thousands of hues characterizing the most beautiful season of the year.
I’m not in the mood for markedly tonal music so often, especially when “ambient” is the keyword. Still, Lawrence English is among the very few musicians in this area who not only facilitates my problematic absorption of easy progressions and slow fragments of sweetness, but dresses them with tasty ingredients – typically, delicately inserted field recordings and almost invisible processing – which transform things that should be classified in the ranks of obviousness into appreciable pastels gifted with a degree of introspective reminiscence. That said, I’m sorry to report that this record fails to do so.
A Colour For Autumn is the second chapter of a series that began with For Varying Degrees Of Winter (on Baskaru), where English attempts to transfer the seasonal gradations related to the biotic and climatic aspects of certain zones to his soundscapes. The listener is left alone in hypothetical rumination, either surrounded by quiet backgrounds or more visible strokes that may appear as insubstantial or plain evocative according to the moment, remaining anchored to the single harmonic nucleus upon which every piece unfolds. No excessive variations or surprises, the instrumental shades meshed without specific definitions.
The influence on the psyche is not significant, and indeed several tracks sound a little too mono-dimensional in their elementary structure. Traces of Eno are observable - with particular reference, once again, to the Music For Films era - yet those exceedingly consonant traits are frequently burdensome, and one feels somewhat liberated when airy echoes (like, for instance, at the beginning of “…And Clouds For Company”) emerge to alleviate the whole a bit.
Cameos by Dean Roberts and Christian Fennesz remain pretty much unnoticed. English’s experience and sensitive ears prevent the album – just - from falling in the wallpaper cauldron but this is, regretfully, a lost chance for an influential sonic rendition of the thousands of hues characterizing the most beautiful season of the year.
Wednesday, 9 September 2009
ANNA ZARADNY – Mauve Cycles
Musica Genera
In his comments on Mauve Cycles – first CD of Polish Anna Zaradny – Daniel Brozek points out that “the involvement of women in contemporary experimental music still seems to be perceived as unusual”. Of course, talented girls such as Olivia Block, Natasha Barrett or Helena Gough will beg to differ in their respective ambits; Brozek himself quotes Delia Derbyshire, Christina Kubisch and Kaffe Matthews as somewhat contrary examples to the original thesis. There is life on the planet of intelligent female composers after all.
Zaradny has already collaborated with diverse kinds of artists, from improvisers Tony Buck, Burkhard Stangl and Cor Fuhler to celestially inhuman destroyers like Zbigniew Karkowski. The essential character of this album is one of stability, despite the continuous modification of the sonic matter: incessant pulsation, inconstant distortions and anaesthetizing sequences – always informed by a static type of bubbling-and-throbbing – constitute the large part of “Mauve 1”, a piece that flows away before we realize about its true consistency, ending with extremely beautiful superimposed layers of angelic tones (which, I’m pretty sure, are NOT voices) eliciting an aura of harmonic and timbral uncertainty that leaves the listener baffled, to say the least.
“Mauve 2” approaches territories where shortwaves (not sure, indeed) and ultrasonic ghosts run free. Yet it takes a compositional frame of mind to channel those emissions so satisfactorily, thus obtaining a heavily droning, dynamically shifting mix, pitches more or less unaltered while the ebb and flow of the electronic mass behaves in agreement with our physical needs, my slow breathing causing a higher percentage of oxygen to enter the lungs. At circa 5’45”, the scenario changes dramatically, a scarcely mobile moan acting as a background for acute frequencies inching in, both statically and rhythmically. It is probably the instant in which Zaradny achieves the climax of her intuition, and one can’t help but remain transfixed in front of a message that digs deep in spite of a theoretical plainness. Quite simply, this is a moment of transcendence that only those who perceive a vibration in a certain way are able to attain. This woman surely belongs to the category.
A deceptively straightforward release worthy of cyclical revisiting, definitely deeper than the initial appearance. Add another name to the inhabitants of the above mentioned sphere.
In his comments on Mauve Cycles – first CD of Polish Anna Zaradny – Daniel Brozek points out that “the involvement of women in contemporary experimental music still seems to be perceived as unusual”. Of course, talented girls such as Olivia Block, Natasha Barrett or Helena Gough will beg to differ in their respective ambits; Brozek himself quotes Delia Derbyshire, Christina Kubisch and Kaffe Matthews as somewhat contrary examples to the original thesis. There is life on the planet of intelligent female composers after all.
Zaradny has already collaborated with diverse kinds of artists, from improvisers Tony Buck, Burkhard Stangl and Cor Fuhler to celestially inhuman destroyers like Zbigniew Karkowski. The essential character of this album is one of stability, despite the continuous modification of the sonic matter: incessant pulsation, inconstant distortions and anaesthetizing sequences – always informed by a static type of bubbling-and-throbbing – constitute the large part of “Mauve 1”, a piece that flows away before we realize about its true consistency, ending with extremely beautiful superimposed layers of angelic tones (which, I’m pretty sure, are NOT voices) eliciting an aura of harmonic and timbral uncertainty that leaves the listener baffled, to say the least.
“Mauve 2” approaches territories where shortwaves (not sure, indeed) and ultrasonic ghosts run free. Yet it takes a compositional frame of mind to channel those emissions so satisfactorily, thus obtaining a heavily droning, dynamically shifting mix, pitches more or less unaltered while the ebb and flow of the electronic mass behaves in agreement with our physical needs, my slow breathing causing a higher percentage of oxygen to enter the lungs. At circa 5’45”, the scenario changes dramatically, a scarcely mobile moan acting as a background for acute frequencies inching in, both statically and rhythmically. It is probably the instant in which Zaradny achieves the climax of her intuition, and one can’t help but remain transfixed in front of a message that digs deep in spite of a theoretical plainness. Quite simply, this is a moment of transcendence that only those who perceive a vibration in a certain way are able to attain. This woman surely belongs to the category.
A deceptively straightforward release worthy of cyclical revisiting, definitely deeper than the initial appearance. Add another name to the inhabitants of the above mentioned sphere.
URS LEIMGRUBER / THOMAS LEHN – Lausanne
For 4 Ears
The recording dates back to 2006, first time in which Urs Leimgruber and Thomas Lehn met and played together. Three years have passed but the whole sounds like it was conceived yesterday; that’s what occurs when artists approach an improvisation with the genuine will of forgetting what their musical training has been, contemporarily filling the brain with the sort of inherently memorized experiences that are exactly what informs our speaking, our reactions to adversity, our behaviour at large. Liberated playing should correspond to this, and it doesn’t happen always. Luckily, in Lausanne it does.
This is an instrumental combination that works, at times perfectly, because of the complementariness of the “styles”. In essence, Leimgruber’s high-pitched surges, the squealing invocations to implausible gods, the tentative conversations with absent birds are the product of a human apparatus that is surely as complex as Lehn’s analogue synth, which in turn tries to adapt its circuits to something that is controlled by a man yet behaves erratically. This fusion of probationary instances and filled interstices, from which peculiar complexities and spastic farts may emerge with the same consequence of an official statement, leaves no chance to interpretation. To quote Phill Niblock, the music “is what it is”, and we’re pretty much content that way. Soliloquies don’t last for long: an intelligent conversation elevates the level of the participants, if talking is effectively needed. This is what seems to materialize during these exchanges, a special brand of virtuosity where the ability in mutual listening counts more than the weirdness of a solution. Still, the moments in which the timbres almost disappear in a puzzling void (as heard in “Deux” following the eleventh minute or so) become occasions for veritable contemplation, at least until Lehn decides that a seriously hypercritical discharge must wake us up.
Finding an unsatisfactory release on this label remains a very difficult task. A specimen of gratifying experimentation which spits in the eye of silence after having paid respect to it (listen to the splendid “Quatre” to understand), Lausanne is a thorny record which is going to stimulate the common sense of those who want to deliver judgments from bias, the confirmation of Leimgruber and Lehn’s intrusive inventiveness.
The recording dates back to 2006, first time in which Urs Leimgruber and Thomas Lehn met and played together. Three years have passed but the whole sounds like it was conceived yesterday; that’s what occurs when artists approach an improvisation with the genuine will of forgetting what their musical training has been, contemporarily filling the brain with the sort of inherently memorized experiences that are exactly what informs our speaking, our reactions to adversity, our behaviour at large. Liberated playing should correspond to this, and it doesn’t happen always. Luckily, in Lausanne it does.
This is an instrumental combination that works, at times perfectly, because of the complementariness of the “styles”. In essence, Leimgruber’s high-pitched surges, the squealing invocations to implausible gods, the tentative conversations with absent birds are the product of a human apparatus that is surely as complex as Lehn’s analogue synth, which in turn tries to adapt its circuits to something that is controlled by a man yet behaves erratically. This fusion of probationary instances and filled interstices, from which peculiar complexities and spastic farts may emerge with the same consequence of an official statement, leaves no chance to interpretation. To quote Phill Niblock, the music “is what it is”, and we’re pretty much content that way. Soliloquies don’t last for long: an intelligent conversation elevates the level of the participants, if talking is effectively needed. This is what seems to materialize during these exchanges, a special brand of virtuosity where the ability in mutual listening counts more than the weirdness of a solution. Still, the moments in which the timbres almost disappear in a puzzling void (as heard in “Deux” following the eleventh minute or so) become occasions for veritable contemplation, at least until Lehn decides that a seriously hypercritical discharge must wake us up.
Finding an unsatisfactory release on this label remains a very difficult task. A specimen of gratifying experimentation which spits in the eye of silence after having paid respect to it (listen to the splendid “Quatre” to understand), Lausanne is a thorny record which is going to stimulate the common sense of those who want to deliver judgments from bias, the confirmation of Leimgruber and Lehn’s intrusive inventiveness.
Saturday, 5 September 2009
BURKHARD BEINS – Structural Drift
Künstlerhäuser Worpswede
The constant transition from “plain” improvising percussionist to composer of electroacoustic works seems to cause no problem to Burkhard Beins, who with Structural Drift – entirely conceived during a residency at Künstlerhäuser Worpswede from April to June of this year – managed to manufacture stimulating music through the use of a few instruments and objects, a clear-minded disposition of the same in rather linear compositional schemes and a clued-up utilization of the studio for editing and post-production. Generators include “e-Bowed and propelled zithers, analogue synthesizers, E.T. (!), looper, igniters, chimes, wood block, steel bands, fire and stones”. Some of these sources result practically unrecognizable, yet the ensuing amalgamation is rich in implications despite a deceptive elemental simplicity.
That something has changed in regard to Beins’ habitual structures - typically organized around a well-controlled discipline of intuitiveness - is immediately evident as “Drift 1” gradually invades the listening space via a velvety layering of synthetic tones that – once juxtaposed – elicit a classic effect of throbbing undulation which instantly puts Eliane Radigue, or Maryanne Amacher, in the listener’s mind. Only after a while a tangible rhythmic component appears, a cyclical repetition of quiet asymmetrical cracks (pebbles, perhaps?) that results extremely functional in comparison with the entrancing qualities of the fundamental pulse.
The second movement is more of a consecutiveness of interconnected settings, although a somewhat inert stratum often remains at the core of frequent moments of overcoming entrancement. The concrete materials begin to establish their authority pretty prominently, recurrent discharges of hoarse frequencies, clicking insurgences and metallic intromissions acting as contrasting elements in Beins’ palette, appearing in a state of undress for the occasional instances in which the electronic background disappear. About six minutes in, a gorgeous melodic figure depicted by strings establishes the main shade of what’s possibly the most emotionally charged moment of the album. A cross of heavenliness and irredeemable dissonance whose underlying harmonics sound like a choir of dirty-faced angels, before a clamorous rumble comes and destroys the scene decisively. Sort of a rite of passage backwards, from weird echoes back to the concreteness of a tough reality, the latter looking as the composer’s focal point of interest. The section ends with a three-note chime accompanied by infinite/looped upper partials (probably from the bowed zither) and additional interference, signalling that the storm may have passed but it’s better not to sleep.
The final and shortest track (“Drift 3”) is quite instable as far as timbres and dynamic continuity are concerned, characterized as it is by white noise-ish emanations, sudden interruptions, solid pitches that seem to eschew humanity, the whole sounding as cold as a hospital room invaded by cyber-insects. Contrarily to what many artists do, “dulcis in fundo” is not Beins’ motto: as a matter of fact he pushes us into a hole full of puzzlement and uncertainty, leaving doors open to different interpretations of his ideas. An added value to a cleverly succinct and, to all intents and purposes, brilliant record.
The constant transition from “plain” improvising percussionist to composer of electroacoustic works seems to cause no problem to Burkhard Beins, who with Structural Drift – entirely conceived during a residency at Künstlerhäuser Worpswede from April to June of this year – managed to manufacture stimulating music through the use of a few instruments and objects, a clear-minded disposition of the same in rather linear compositional schemes and a clued-up utilization of the studio for editing and post-production. Generators include “e-Bowed and propelled zithers, analogue synthesizers, E.T. (!), looper, igniters, chimes, wood block, steel bands, fire and stones”. Some of these sources result practically unrecognizable, yet the ensuing amalgamation is rich in implications despite a deceptive elemental simplicity.
That something has changed in regard to Beins’ habitual structures - typically organized around a well-controlled discipline of intuitiveness - is immediately evident as “Drift 1” gradually invades the listening space via a velvety layering of synthetic tones that – once juxtaposed – elicit a classic effect of throbbing undulation which instantly puts Eliane Radigue, or Maryanne Amacher, in the listener’s mind. Only after a while a tangible rhythmic component appears, a cyclical repetition of quiet asymmetrical cracks (pebbles, perhaps?) that results extremely functional in comparison with the entrancing qualities of the fundamental pulse.
The second movement is more of a consecutiveness of interconnected settings, although a somewhat inert stratum often remains at the core of frequent moments of overcoming entrancement. The concrete materials begin to establish their authority pretty prominently, recurrent discharges of hoarse frequencies, clicking insurgences and metallic intromissions acting as contrasting elements in Beins’ palette, appearing in a state of undress for the occasional instances in which the electronic background disappear. About six minutes in, a gorgeous melodic figure depicted by strings establishes the main shade of what’s possibly the most emotionally charged moment of the album. A cross of heavenliness and irredeemable dissonance whose underlying harmonics sound like a choir of dirty-faced angels, before a clamorous rumble comes and destroys the scene decisively. Sort of a rite of passage backwards, from weird echoes back to the concreteness of a tough reality, the latter looking as the composer’s focal point of interest. The section ends with a three-note chime accompanied by infinite/looped upper partials (probably from the bowed zither) and additional interference, signalling that the storm may have passed but it’s better not to sleep.
The final and shortest track (“Drift 3”) is quite instable as far as timbres and dynamic continuity are concerned, characterized as it is by white noise-ish emanations, sudden interruptions, solid pitches that seem to eschew humanity, the whole sounding as cold as a hospital room invaded by cyber-insects. Contrarily to what many artists do, “dulcis in fundo” is not Beins’ motto: as a matter of fact he pushes us into a hole full of puzzlement and uncertainty, leaving doors open to different interpretations of his ideas. An added value to a cleverly succinct and, to all intents and purposes, brilliant record.
Friday, 4 September 2009
FRANCISCO LÓPEZ / MICHAEL GENDREAU – Tddm
Sonoris
In times like the ones we live in, contrasts are at the basis of everyday life and nothing more than a working place showcases them. Think, for example, to the difficulties typical of the relationships with colleagues, or to the mind-boggling irrationality in the combination of routine procedures, extreme noise and vocal exchanges commonly found in a factory. This is a good starting point for the appreciation of Tddm, a double CD comprising four long segments chock full of deafening environments and thunderous machines interspersed by exceptionally rare moments in which a faint human presence – or an intercom message - is perceived amidst the continuous threat of the mechanical monsters.
The recordings were made in Taiwan, Malaysia, Singapore, China and Japan, as to homage the renowned toughness of certain Asian labourers, used to the hardest sacrifices yet frequently swallowed by a sense of duty that represents both a stimulus to exemplary productivity and the reason for nervous instability and, ultimately, suicide in the nastiest instances. This might remind someone of Phill Niblock’s films, where infinite drones accompany the images of people performing manual works but this release is much less rewarding in terms of adjacent-frequency nirvanas. López and Gendreau share the discs with a piece each, having separately collected sonorities that range from massively static to heavily rhythmic. Theirs is a coldly detached view of the ambience from which this stuff is originated: the raw materials remain for the large part untreated (even though some degree of editing seems to typify particularly reiterative parts), only the definitive dynamics decided by the assemblers. Describing what happens in detail is utterly pointless, although the first section of López’s “D138” is transfixing to say the least, profound reverberations and vacillating auricular membranes the by-product of a superior susceptibility to the propagation of sonic waves.
The monolithic qualities of the captured sounds reveal a series of acoustic sub-particles attributing to the record its “musical” characteristics. This is actually another functional contrast: the clunking mass, the violent thudding, the constant racket of roaring apparatuses that, especially at the beginning of Gendreau’s “T921” gives the false idea that airport echoes are being heard, are in effect “minimalist” according to a heartless repetitiveness absurdly determining a sort of hypnosis, the brain cuddled by the booming resonance of these monotonous cycles. In turn, a disproportion with the tremendous amount of physical and mental tension surely experienced by the plant’s personnel during their shifts.
Indeed, should a single album be labelled as a paradigm of “industrial music”, this would have to be it. But Gendreau and López are not Esplendor Geometrico or Maurizio Bianchi: they are authentic composers who in this circumstance chose to use alienation as the principal factor in a project whose distressing temperament must not detract from a tangible value. One has to learn to find musicality down to the apparently inaccessible lower spheres of clangour, and there’s no doubt that this nice pair mostly succeed in letting us crave the mere illusion of a tiny light at the end of a massacring experience.
In times like the ones we live in, contrasts are at the basis of everyday life and nothing more than a working place showcases them. Think, for example, to the difficulties typical of the relationships with colleagues, or to the mind-boggling irrationality in the combination of routine procedures, extreme noise and vocal exchanges commonly found in a factory. This is a good starting point for the appreciation of Tddm, a double CD comprising four long segments chock full of deafening environments and thunderous machines interspersed by exceptionally rare moments in which a faint human presence – or an intercom message - is perceived amidst the continuous threat of the mechanical monsters.
The recordings were made in Taiwan, Malaysia, Singapore, China and Japan, as to homage the renowned toughness of certain Asian labourers, used to the hardest sacrifices yet frequently swallowed by a sense of duty that represents both a stimulus to exemplary productivity and the reason for nervous instability and, ultimately, suicide in the nastiest instances. This might remind someone of Phill Niblock’s films, where infinite drones accompany the images of people performing manual works but this release is much less rewarding in terms of adjacent-frequency nirvanas. López and Gendreau share the discs with a piece each, having separately collected sonorities that range from massively static to heavily rhythmic. Theirs is a coldly detached view of the ambience from which this stuff is originated: the raw materials remain for the large part untreated (even though some degree of editing seems to typify particularly reiterative parts), only the definitive dynamics decided by the assemblers. Describing what happens in detail is utterly pointless, although the first section of López’s “D138” is transfixing to say the least, profound reverberations and vacillating auricular membranes the by-product of a superior susceptibility to the propagation of sonic waves.
The monolithic qualities of the captured sounds reveal a series of acoustic sub-particles attributing to the record its “musical” characteristics. This is actually another functional contrast: the clunking mass, the violent thudding, the constant racket of roaring apparatuses that, especially at the beginning of Gendreau’s “T921” gives the false idea that airport echoes are being heard, are in effect “minimalist” according to a heartless repetitiveness absurdly determining a sort of hypnosis, the brain cuddled by the booming resonance of these monotonous cycles. In turn, a disproportion with the tremendous amount of physical and mental tension surely experienced by the plant’s personnel during their shifts.
Indeed, should a single album be labelled as a paradigm of “industrial music”, this would have to be it. But Gendreau and López are not Esplendor Geometrico or Maurizio Bianchi: they are authentic composers who in this circumstance chose to use alienation as the principal factor in a project whose distressing temperament must not detract from a tangible value. One has to learn to find musicality down to the apparently inaccessible lower spheres of clangour, and there’s no doubt that this nice pair mostly succeed in letting us crave the mere illusion of a tiny light at the end of a massacring experience.
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