Domizil
Strøm are Gaudenz Badrutt and Christian Müller improvising with bass clarinet, synthesizers and computer in “digital state space”, this being the couple’s first CD on Domizil. The duo works on the basis of several different influences, having lent their talents to theatre, installations and live performance and collaborated with names such as Martin Schütz, Tomas Korber and Jacques Demierre among others.
Shunt is an interesting listen, a rather well-balanced cross of reductionist EAI and radical irritation which does not reveal its depths if not after repeated tries. Agglutinates of extremely cold, harsh sounds verging on the hostile are interspersed with caustically maladjusted electroacoustic spurts and brain-rubbing frequencies whose droning character is not dominant and – in any case – repeatedly destroyed by further icy annoyances. Broken videogame-like irregularities are alternated with subsonic purrs and crunchy ambiguousness, and there’s room for some measure of evolved space ambient, too.
If you like a docile, obedient electronica, you’ve come to the wrong place: this is pure experimentation, scars and intumescences sported by Badrutt and Müller with detached superiority, not caring a iota about an even vague idea of “audience gratification”. Music that lives without nutriment in an unconscious attempt to remove any connection to humanity, at times next to unenthusiastic, often very fascinating. It takes a while to penetrate it, but there’s a measure of reward in there if you’re careful enough, and a whole lot of stimuli for ears and nerves. And recognizing the actual timbre of the instruments requires an eternity.
Saturday, 11 July 2009
Tuesday, 7 July 2009
BRUCE NOVACK – Multiplicity
Crevice
That endangered species - the sharp-minded piano soloist - is still observable, at least from distance. Is it possible nowadays to present a program of over a hour on this instrument without making it sound soaked by savoir-faire, or recurring to (by now customary) inside-tampering trickery? With Multiplicity, Bruce Novack shows that sense of spacing and exploitation of silence go a long way in delivering music from romantic uselessness and incoherent hullabaloo when it comes to the 88 keys.
Except for “Quantum Wall” - a lengthy tape piece constructed via the superimposition of a number of improvisations which ends sounding like a cross of a humongous Charlemagne Palestine and a tsunami - and the final “Again”, a minute of unidentifiable noises, the tracks show the artist’s will to remain equidistant from the extremes, both in the registers and the movement/stillness ratio, but only after having thoroughly explored them. Novack is a technically solid performer gifted with an abnormal independence of the hands to the point that, when one listens to certain impossible-to-decode runs juxtaposed with apparently disjointed yet rock-hard clusters, believing that we’re in front of a lone doer becomes difficult.
Some pieces also hint to Feldman-related significances, being characterized by extended sections where stasis is even more important than harmonic progress. This is precisely what distances Novack’s work from the mass, as he finds a fine balance between absence and presence while managing to repeatedly educe interest, listeners expecting the subsequent events fully confident in the performer’s sangfroid. You won’t hear neither coquettish nostalgia nor ignorant banging here. Everything seems to fall in its place at the very right moment, chords, flurries and single pitches popping out like mushrooms wherever necessary.
An album for which the expression “momentary infatuation” is pushed aside in favour of a gradual increase of the resolve to comprehend. Elements that are pretty well known get displaced in altered combinations, resulting in unpretentious freshness and commercially unviable mistrusting of blueprints. Whichever side we look at it, brilliant stuff.
That endangered species - the sharp-minded piano soloist - is still observable, at least from distance. Is it possible nowadays to present a program of over a hour on this instrument without making it sound soaked by savoir-faire, or recurring to (by now customary) inside-tampering trickery? With Multiplicity, Bruce Novack shows that sense of spacing and exploitation of silence go a long way in delivering music from romantic uselessness and incoherent hullabaloo when it comes to the 88 keys.
Except for “Quantum Wall” - a lengthy tape piece constructed via the superimposition of a number of improvisations which ends sounding like a cross of a humongous Charlemagne Palestine and a tsunami - and the final “Again”, a minute of unidentifiable noises, the tracks show the artist’s will to remain equidistant from the extremes, both in the registers and the movement/stillness ratio, but only after having thoroughly explored them. Novack is a technically solid performer gifted with an abnormal independence of the hands to the point that, when one listens to certain impossible-to-decode runs juxtaposed with apparently disjointed yet rock-hard clusters, believing that we’re in front of a lone doer becomes difficult.
Some pieces also hint to Feldman-related significances, being characterized by extended sections where stasis is even more important than harmonic progress. This is precisely what distances Novack’s work from the mass, as he finds a fine balance between absence and presence while managing to repeatedly educe interest, listeners expecting the subsequent events fully confident in the performer’s sangfroid. You won’t hear neither coquettish nostalgia nor ignorant banging here. Everything seems to fall in its place at the very right moment, chords, flurries and single pitches popping out like mushrooms wherever necessary.
An album for which the expression “momentary infatuation” is pushed aside in favour of a gradual increase of the resolve to comprehend. Elements that are pretty well known get displaced in altered combinations, resulting in unpretentious freshness and commercially unviable mistrusting of blueprints. Whichever side we look at it, brilliant stuff.
Thursday, 25 June 2009
JOHN BUTCHER / TORSTEN MULLER / DYLAN VAN DER SCHYFF – Way Out Northwest
Drip Audio
Recorded in June 2007 at Vancouver’s Western Front thanks to the organizational acumen of the Coastal Jazz And Blues Society, this act compares the different fantasies and the compatible extravagances of three respected improvisers, captured in six tracks that - although not constituting “one of the most important and satisfying recordings of the early 21st century” (ah, the inimitable excitement of a press-release…) - are without a doubt a fulgent example of lucidity and, why not, clever sense of humour put at the service of instantaneous diversification resulting in excitingly unsullied, literally liberated surges – which, naturally, we’re always in need of.
The performance offered by the trio is authoritative in each of its aspects. As a collective, the music flows with a multitude of dimensions: chirpy fluttering, unconfined exuberance, tight propinquity, scarce obsequiousness. The single instrumentalists shine for their productive impenitency, Butcher alternating brashness and perspicacious intuition through a (customary) total control of the dynamics of overtones, his machine overheating at times, regurgitating remnants of pitch elsewhere. Muller’s bass tone might sound hirsute or preternatural, but not for a moment he appears like a blusterer, playing lines whose cultivated immediateness makes for swift confutation of the instrument’s habitual pleonasms. Van Der Schyff belongs to the group of those percussionists who tend to fragment and partition the basic notion of tempo, altering the natural tendency of an average human organism to follow a regular pulse, euphoria and hypersensitive breeziness materializing from a libertarian despoliation of percussive mendacity. This is the kind of beauty which derives from the poetry of unsuspected occurrence, and – for a change – the often extreme condensation of events is felt as relieving.
Recorded in June 2007 at Vancouver’s Western Front thanks to the organizational acumen of the Coastal Jazz And Blues Society, this act compares the different fantasies and the compatible extravagances of three respected improvisers, captured in six tracks that - although not constituting “one of the most important and satisfying recordings of the early 21st century” (ah, the inimitable excitement of a press-release…) - are without a doubt a fulgent example of lucidity and, why not, clever sense of humour put at the service of instantaneous diversification resulting in excitingly unsullied, literally liberated surges – which, naturally, we’re always in need of.
The performance offered by the trio is authoritative in each of its aspects. As a collective, the music flows with a multitude of dimensions: chirpy fluttering, unconfined exuberance, tight propinquity, scarce obsequiousness. The single instrumentalists shine for their productive impenitency, Butcher alternating brashness and perspicacious intuition through a (customary) total control of the dynamics of overtones, his machine overheating at times, regurgitating remnants of pitch elsewhere. Muller’s bass tone might sound hirsute or preternatural, but not for a moment he appears like a blusterer, playing lines whose cultivated immediateness makes for swift confutation of the instrument’s habitual pleonasms. Van Der Schyff belongs to the group of those percussionists who tend to fragment and partition the basic notion of tempo, altering the natural tendency of an average human organism to follow a regular pulse, euphoria and hypersensitive breeziness materializing from a libertarian despoliation of percussive mendacity. This is the kind of beauty which derives from the poetry of unsuspected occurrence, and – for a change – the often extreme condensation of events is felt as relieving.
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
JEAN-LUC GUIONNET / ERNESTO RODRIGUES / GUILHERME RODRIGUES / SEIJIRO MURAYAMA - Noite
Creative Sources
Bizarrely, it seems that improvising in presence of metropolitan-tinged sonic circumstances can cause factors such as mental strain and edginess to be taken out of the equation, perhaps due to a strange counter-reaction: the noise of a neighbouring street, which ideally should not correspond to a practical background for playing, regularly inspires introspective examinations of space and shapes to certain breeds of musicians. This quartet, whose instrumentation comprises alto sax, viola, cello and percussion, seizes the shadows of a nocturnal view in a neighbourhood by superimposing a collective being to that particular scenario, the outcome captured in an album where active listening is required more than ever.
Both tracks start with the above mentioned inner-city reverberations, as to set the definite context from the beginning. Evidently, the distant air currents generated by the passing vehicles - and the silences between - represent a major inspiration for the players, all of them tending to circumspection and limited motion with just a slight raspy edge in the infrequent percussive implications of the improvisations. The instruments appear in near-spirit, singularly or in different combinations, seldom emerging as a true ensemble. In that sense, a magnificent if too short droning section materializes in the first few minutes of the initial track “Story Board” in one of the record’s most emotionally charged moments, and another – dissonant, yet utterly breathtaking - towards the very end of the disc. Only rarely their voice needs to cry to be heard and, when that occurs, it’s via a series of rapid signals, without a real necessity of “affirmation of personality”. Essentially, the artists succeed in camouflaging themselves in darkness, as marvellously demonstrated by the whispered motionlessness characterizing a long part of “Drama-Like” which starts around the 12th minute.
Throughout Noite we become aware of close relationships and compatibilities springing from the attraction between opposites: instrumental and human, sound and silence, full notes and frail overtones. It takes special ears to individuate the peripheral connections and the invisible-yet-efficient mechanism that allows these artist to relinquish individuality in favour of a hazy picture of rigorousness. Once the mood is established and everything but the nutritious quintessence of this music has been erased from the mind, the first lights of a new day – typically a symbol of recovery after sleeplessness and apprehension - suddenly look undesirable.
Bizarrely, it seems that improvising in presence of metropolitan-tinged sonic circumstances can cause factors such as mental strain and edginess to be taken out of the equation, perhaps due to a strange counter-reaction: the noise of a neighbouring street, which ideally should not correspond to a practical background for playing, regularly inspires introspective examinations of space and shapes to certain breeds of musicians. This quartet, whose instrumentation comprises alto sax, viola, cello and percussion, seizes the shadows of a nocturnal view in a neighbourhood by superimposing a collective being to that particular scenario, the outcome captured in an album where active listening is required more than ever.
Both tracks start with the above mentioned inner-city reverberations, as to set the definite context from the beginning. Evidently, the distant air currents generated by the passing vehicles - and the silences between - represent a major inspiration for the players, all of them tending to circumspection and limited motion with just a slight raspy edge in the infrequent percussive implications of the improvisations. The instruments appear in near-spirit, singularly or in different combinations, seldom emerging as a true ensemble. In that sense, a magnificent if too short droning section materializes in the first few minutes of the initial track “Story Board” in one of the record’s most emotionally charged moments, and another – dissonant, yet utterly breathtaking - towards the very end of the disc. Only rarely their voice needs to cry to be heard and, when that occurs, it’s via a series of rapid signals, without a real necessity of “affirmation of personality”. Essentially, the artists succeed in camouflaging themselves in darkness, as marvellously demonstrated by the whispered motionlessness characterizing a long part of “Drama-Like” which starts around the 12th minute.
Throughout Noite we become aware of close relationships and compatibilities springing from the attraction between opposites: instrumental and human, sound and silence, full notes and frail overtones. It takes special ears to individuate the peripheral connections and the invisible-yet-efficient mechanism that allows these artist to relinquish individuality in favour of a hazy picture of rigorousness. Once the mood is established and everything but the nutritious quintessence of this music has been erased from the mind, the first lights of a new day – typically a symbol of recovery after sleeplessness and apprehension - suddenly look undesirable.
Thursday, 11 June 2009
FRANK GRATKOWSKI / CHRIS BROWN / WILLIAM WINANT – Wake
Red Toucan
Unjustly, Canadian imprint Red Toucan does not receive excessive accolades, most probably due to a low rate of recurrence in their releases, the large part positioned well over the average standards of artistic reliability. It only takes a peep at the label’s catalogue to realize that many stalwarts of modern-day improvisation – Marilyn Crispell to John Butcher, Joëlle Léandre to Vinny Golia – have been recording for Michel Passaretti’s ever-consistent label.
Looking at the participants in Wake is enough to comprehend that this is one of those albums in which there’s no need of sticking tags on something that - borrowing the name of Alfred Harth’s earliest ensemble - is definable as “just music”, executed with commendable balance of fervour and wisdom in unconditional technical superiority. The careers of Gratkowski (clarinet, bass clarinet, alto sax), Winant (vibraphone, percussion) and Brown (piano, live electronics) feature a sort of Gotha in regard to collaborations and commissions, all three having performed works by worldwide known composers and played with the very best in the areas of free music, jazz and contemporary classical. Without throwing hundreds of names, a quick check of the artists’ respective websites tells everything: we’re in presence of jack of all trades and masters of each one of them.
The five tracks of this CD – a rare occasion in which a duration of circa 73 minutes is not perceived as a yoke – enclose a whole host of complicated techniques and instant answers which, if utilized by lesser instrumentalists, would almost resemble a gallery of technically advanced trickery. In “Scrabble”, for example, the trio exploits the toneless sides of their apparatuses marvellously, gradually transforming a jungle of wet pops, lingual abstruseness, light hits and general inharmonic insidiousness into a phraseology bursting with astute superimpositions of concise fragments and diligent anti-embellishments, resembling a downgraded orchestra losing its pieces bit by bit in sublime decadence as the time elapses. In the subsequent piece, the gorgeous “Parallax”, the tension generated by the reticent call-and-response between Winant’s quivering vibes and metals, Gratkowski’s precisely sensitive undertones and Brown’s slightly misshapen perturbations is substantial, the musicians not laying to rest on a defined tonal centre in favour of an irresistible predisposition to well-dressed discomposure.
What separates the contenders from the pretenders is the sense of “on-the-spot composition” that underscores the entire disc. The threesome utilize a “full-acuity” approach, intuitions placed right in the heart of a continuously blossoming interaction where divergent moods, lyrical hesitations and conscious probing symbolize a fusion of purposes which, in the end, sounds like a studied ceremony. The electronic factor is often crucial in gathering the timbres under an umbrella of tactful morphing, the character of the instruments altered exactly as necessary; an ideal measure of pragmatism, which prevents the playing from taking the “gone astray” road to improvisational blankness. The ears get appreciative both for the single voices and the deriving composite textures, a spectacular tidiness constantly visible down to the minute particulars of blowouts that might appear as specialist gibberish at first yet, contrariwise, correspond to rites of passage towards an acoustically balanced, literally enlightened even-handedness.
A thoroughly recommended set worthy of scrupulous investigations: additional qualities will be materializing with every new spin.
Unjustly, Canadian imprint Red Toucan does not receive excessive accolades, most probably due to a low rate of recurrence in their releases, the large part positioned well over the average standards of artistic reliability. It only takes a peep at the label’s catalogue to realize that many stalwarts of modern-day improvisation – Marilyn Crispell to John Butcher, Joëlle Léandre to Vinny Golia – have been recording for Michel Passaretti’s ever-consistent label.
Looking at the participants in Wake is enough to comprehend that this is one of those albums in which there’s no need of sticking tags on something that - borrowing the name of Alfred Harth’s earliest ensemble - is definable as “just music”, executed with commendable balance of fervour and wisdom in unconditional technical superiority. The careers of Gratkowski (clarinet, bass clarinet, alto sax), Winant (vibraphone, percussion) and Brown (piano, live electronics) feature a sort of Gotha in regard to collaborations and commissions, all three having performed works by worldwide known composers and played with the very best in the areas of free music, jazz and contemporary classical. Without throwing hundreds of names, a quick check of the artists’ respective websites tells everything: we’re in presence of jack of all trades and masters of each one of them.
The five tracks of this CD – a rare occasion in which a duration of circa 73 minutes is not perceived as a yoke – enclose a whole host of complicated techniques and instant answers which, if utilized by lesser instrumentalists, would almost resemble a gallery of technically advanced trickery. In “Scrabble”, for example, the trio exploits the toneless sides of their apparatuses marvellously, gradually transforming a jungle of wet pops, lingual abstruseness, light hits and general inharmonic insidiousness into a phraseology bursting with astute superimpositions of concise fragments and diligent anti-embellishments, resembling a downgraded orchestra losing its pieces bit by bit in sublime decadence as the time elapses. In the subsequent piece, the gorgeous “Parallax”, the tension generated by the reticent call-and-response between Winant’s quivering vibes and metals, Gratkowski’s precisely sensitive undertones and Brown’s slightly misshapen perturbations is substantial, the musicians not laying to rest on a defined tonal centre in favour of an irresistible predisposition to well-dressed discomposure.
What separates the contenders from the pretenders is the sense of “on-the-spot composition” that underscores the entire disc. The threesome utilize a “full-acuity” approach, intuitions placed right in the heart of a continuously blossoming interaction where divergent moods, lyrical hesitations and conscious probing symbolize a fusion of purposes which, in the end, sounds like a studied ceremony. The electronic factor is often crucial in gathering the timbres under an umbrella of tactful morphing, the character of the instruments altered exactly as necessary; an ideal measure of pragmatism, which prevents the playing from taking the “gone astray” road to improvisational blankness. The ears get appreciative both for the single voices and the deriving composite textures, a spectacular tidiness constantly visible down to the minute particulars of blowouts that might appear as specialist gibberish at first yet, contrariwise, correspond to rites of passage towards an acoustically balanced, literally enlightened even-handedness.
A thoroughly recommended set worthy of scrupulous investigations: additional qualities will be materializing with every new spin.
Sunday, 7 June 2009
NIKOLAUS GERSZEWSKI – Ordinary Music Vol.3 For String Trio And Double Bass
Creative Sources
Totally mysterious to this purple prose etcher until this morning, the sounds imagined by Nikolaus Gerszewski possess the qualities typical of those produced by time-honoured composers, despite the fact that he started his music-writing activity – as an autodidact - only in 2003, after having worked as a visual artist and writer in previous years. The impulse for this new expressive method, influenced both by the aforesaid experiences and the studying of opuses by John Cage, Cornelius Cardew and Christian Wolff, came in the exact moment in which Gerszewski concentrated on the theory of “ordinary music”, the term implying a continuation of the non-representational features of figurative art in the sonic realm and the participation of trained and untrained musicians to the execution of materials mainly built on the superimposition of “layers, surfaces and objects”, thus privileging the spatial dimension as opposed to the temporal.
The scores are in essence diagrams in which the performers are instructed about what to do, without excessive concern for practice-related aspects – indeed, this piece was not rehearsed at all before its premiere, at Lisbon’s Goethe Institut in the February of 2008. The severe focus and committed empathy shown by the quartet – the composer on violin, Ernesto Rodrigues on viola and metronome, Guilherme Rodrigues on cello and Hernâni Faustino on double bass - makes for over 38 minutes of superbly synchronized improvisation, completely devoid of axioms and clichés yet somehow affirmative in regard to a logical chain of events and ideal meshing of the instrumental tints. Call-and-response phrases are interchanged with instinctively well-placed successions of awe-inspiring glissandos, percussive knocks and scraped tremolos blending in far-from-comfortable counterpoints that, however, emphasize the aura of wholeness that surrounds the players.
The depth of this respect, for the partners and the underlying concept alike, is such that there’s not a note or gesture that appears inconsiderate or, worse, selfish. In virtue of the basic premises, what ‘s heard in this album definitely borders on the extraordinary, Gerszewski’s essential notion notwithstanding.
Totally mysterious to this purple prose etcher until this morning, the sounds imagined by Nikolaus Gerszewski possess the qualities typical of those produced by time-honoured composers, despite the fact that he started his music-writing activity – as an autodidact - only in 2003, after having worked as a visual artist and writer in previous years. The impulse for this new expressive method, influenced both by the aforesaid experiences and the studying of opuses by John Cage, Cornelius Cardew and Christian Wolff, came in the exact moment in which Gerszewski concentrated on the theory of “ordinary music”, the term implying a continuation of the non-representational features of figurative art in the sonic realm and the participation of trained and untrained musicians to the execution of materials mainly built on the superimposition of “layers, surfaces and objects”, thus privileging the spatial dimension as opposed to the temporal.
The scores are in essence diagrams in which the performers are instructed about what to do, without excessive concern for practice-related aspects – indeed, this piece was not rehearsed at all before its premiere, at Lisbon’s Goethe Institut in the February of 2008. The severe focus and committed empathy shown by the quartet – the composer on violin, Ernesto Rodrigues on viola and metronome, Guilherme Rodrigues on cello and Hernâni Faustino on double bass - makes for over 38 minutes of superbly synchronized improvisation, completely devoid of axioms and clichés yet somehow affirmative in regard to a logical chain of events and ideal meshing of the instrumental tints. Call-and-response phrases are interchanged with instinctively well-placed successions of awe-inspiring glissandos, percussive knocks and scraped tremolos blending in far-from-comfortable counterpoints that, however, emphasize the aura of wholeness that surrounds the players.
The depth of this respect, for the partners and the underlying concept alike, is such that there’s not a note or gesture that appears inconsiderate or, worse, selfish. In virtue of the basic premises, what ‘s heard in this album definitely borders on the extraordinary, Gerszewski’s essential notion notwithstanding.
Saturday, 6 June 2009
PAPER WINGS – Ash Field
Black Petal / Pseudoarcana
New Zealand is the land where droning guitars seem to burgeon better than anywhere else in the world, as demonstrated by overlords such as Peter Wright and Rosy Parlane. Another man from that country – Anthony Milton, curator of Pseudoarcana – confirms his advanced position in this sector thanks to this artefact realized in 2005 with fellow guitarist Anthony Guerra (from Australia – the air currents are the same) under the Paper Wings logo. The material was “recorded in a small room on a winter’s day”, yet it launches blazing darts of long-reverb howling distortion with which the men in question inflame and exasperate the notion of nearly motionless wailing, titillating disjointed chords and barely conceivable overtones until they’re transformed in divine violins played with a chainsaw.
If one listens to the record via headphones, the sharp richness deriving from the conflicting upper partials (also enhanced by a slight detuning of some of the strings, supposedly deliberate) will be probably lost, not to mention your hearing. This is music that necessitates to be enjoyed with considerable help from the walls and corners of a large space in order to let tonal butterflies spotted with hundreds of strange colours start fluttering around, overdriven feedback or not. The temperament of the album is informed by a feel of reclusive shyness, in turn symbolized by its harmonic content: saturation a go-go, cleaner arpeggios, nervous strumming, everything Guerra and Milton decide to utilize expresses moods placed halfway through desperate helplessness and celestial providence. It takes a while to acknowledge the unpolished beauty of Ash Field, but once you get to the point it offers plenty of affecting exhalations.
New Zealand is the land where droning guitars seem to burgeon better than anywhere else in the world, as demonstrated by overlords such as Peter Wright and Rosy Parlane. Another man from that country – Anthony Milton, curator of Pseudoarcana – confirms his advanced position in this sector thanks to this artefact realized in 2005 with fellow guitarist Anthony Guerra (from Australia – the air currents are the same) under the Paper Wings logo. The material was “recorded in a small room on a winter’s day”, yet it launches blazing darts of long-reverb howling distortion with which the men in question inflame and exasperate the notion of nearly motionless wailing, titillating disjointed chords and barely conceivable overtones until they’re transformed in divine violins played with a chainsaw.
If one listens to the record via headphones, the sharp richness deriving from the conflicting upper partials (also enhanced by a slight detuning of some of the strings, supposedly deliberate) will be probably lost, not to mention your hearing. This is music that necessitates to be enjoyed with considerable help from the walls and corners of a large space in order to let tonal butterflies spotted with hundreds of strange colours start fluttering around, overdriven feedback or not. The temperament of the album is informed by a feel of reclusive shyness, in turn symbolized by its harmonic content: saturation a go-go, cleaner arpeggios, nervous strumming, everything Guerra and Milton decide to utilize expresses moods placed halfway through desperate helplessness and celestial providence. It takes a while to acknowledge the unpolished beauty of Ash Field, but once you get to the point it offers plenty of affecting exhalations.
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
MEMORIZE THE SKY – In Former Times
Clean Feed
A stunning surprise coming from the Portuguese label in the second half of 2008 is this superb album, interpreted by the trio of Matt Bauder (tenor sax, clarinet), Zach Wallace (double bass) and Aaron Siegel (snare drum, bass drum, vibraphone). Memorize The Sky - a gorgeous name for starters - embody that kind of expressive research halfway through jazz, EAI and minimalism which doesn’t stand in a precise spot yet appears extremely firm in its intentions, not to mention aesthetic implications which, in this particular case, are central enough to place the record in the pantheon of private pleasures for different varieties of listener. What I actually mean is that this substance is addictive in a deeper sense, symbolizing a wisdom that comes from within, on both sides of the performer/audience bond. The artists sound genuinely involved, instinctively linked to something higher; the addressees become active witnesses in the gradual progress of a rite where sounds spring from the intuitive nucleus of being more than the machines which produce them.
When instrumentalists manage to catch splinters of infinity without sounding overly distressed or ambiguously abstruse, that’s already an encouraging sign. With In Former Times three individual entities have reached the ideal balance between an ecstatic vision and the earthly qualities of their tools, privileging the droning aspects of fairly static improvisations which nevertheless are alimented by a continuous, literally incessant movement. Bauder’s reeds sing for the naked spirit of overtone heavenliness, comforting in shuddering instability, searching for bygone energies that are still there to retrieve. Wallace’s arco is often utilized with the tremolo technique, generating an ominous steadiness which will finally unveil the most beautiful reward if only one is trustful of those growling frequencies. Siegel delivers a combination of shamanic intensity and masterful control of the dynamics, never lost in indulgent patterns or equivocal trickery, the trio’s real engine in terms of evocative drive. Inexplicable, thoroughly connecting music which we enjoyed time and again in blissful contentment.
A stunning surprise coming from the Portuguese label in the second half of 2008 is this superb album, interpreted by the trio of Matt Bauder (tenor sax, clarinet), Zach Wallace (double bass) and Aaron Siegel (snare drum, bass drum, vibraphone). Memorize The Sky - a gorgeous name for starters - embody that kind of expressive research halfway through jazz, EAI and minimalism which doesn’t stand in a precise spot yet appears extremely firm in its intentions, not to mention aesthetic implications which, in this particular case, are central enough to place the record in the pantheon of private pleasures for different varieties of listener. What I actually mean is that this substance is addictive in a deeper sense, symbolizing a wisdom that comes from within, on both sides of the performer/audience bond. The artists sound genuinely involved, instinctively linked to something higher; the addressees become active witnesses in the gradual progress of a rite where sounds spring from the intuitive nucleus of being more than the machines which produce them.
When instrumentalists manage to catch splinters of infinity without sounding overly distressed or ambiguously abstruse, that’s already an encouraging sign. With In Former Times three individual entities have reached the ideal balance between an ecstatic vision and the earthly qualities of their tools, privileging the droning aspects of fairly static improvisations which nevertheless are alimented by a continuous, literally incessant movement. Bauder’s reeds sing for the naked spirit of overtone heavenliness, comforting in shuddering instability, searching for bygone energies that are still there to retrieve. Wallace’s arco is often utilized with the tremolo technique, generating an ominous steadiness which will finally unveil the most beautiful reward if only one is trustful of those growling frequencies. Siegel delivers a combination of shamanic intensity and masterful control of the dynamics, never lost in indulgent patterns or equivocal trickery, the trio’s real engine in terms of evocative drive. Inexplicable, thoroughly connecting music which we enjoyed time and again in blissful contentment.
Wednesday, 27 May 2009
ARC – The Pursuit Of Happiness
Emanem
The trio of Sylvia Hallett (violin & electronics, voice), Danny Kingshill (cello, voice) and Gus Garside (double bass & electronics), Arc were born in 1988 but only in this, their third album, chose to use additional enhancements as the previous two releases - 1992’s Remembering on Uneasy Listening and 1993’s Out Of Amber on Slam – were completely acoustic, then as now exploring the “collective language that draws on the European textures of the violin family”. Every operation and (more or less premeditated) occurrence that this recording introduces appears to have been seriously considered: there’s no question about an almost total lack of light-heartedness and joviality in favour of something that echoes the creative uncertainties (typically leading to great discoveries) and the limitlessness of the field of research probed by three artists who sound like participating in a first meeting, in a positive sense.
Even in absence of excessive smiling the record manages to steer well clear of pretentiousness and intellectual obesity. The musicians’ complete adherence to a credo of darkish melodic elongations and textural proficiency, the extensive treatments of the material with classy instrumental dignity – no preparations really detectable, just the uncontaminated tones of the whole gamut of bowed strings vibrating – are enough to establish an atmosphere whose severity is counterbalanced by the diverse contrapuntal permutations that these improvisations show. Hallett, Kingshill and Garside are concentrated yet never self-centred, the see-through quality of the final result the perfect evidence of a honest attitude, a will to accept any consequence for what they decide to play. This is beautifully speckled music that can’t be possibly approached without razor-sharp attentiveness: you must follow its uncertain lines, evaporating contradictions, corpulent resonances and dissonant flights while getting rid of the presumption of having understood the mechanics at work. Only through this method one realizes how handsome these creations are.
The trio of Sylvia Hallett (violin & electronics, voice), Danny Kingshill (cello, voice) and Gus Garside (double bass & electronics), Arc were born in 1988 but only in this, their third album, chose to use additional enhancements as the previous two releases - 1992’s Remembering on Uneasy Listening and 1993’s Out Of Amber on Slam – were completely acoustic, then as now exploring the “collective language that draws on the European textures of the violin family”. Every operation and (more or less premeditated) occurrence that this recording introduces appears to have been seriously considered: there’s no question about an almost total lack of light-heartedness and joviality in favour of something that echoes the creative uncertainties (typically leading to great discoveries) and the limitlessness of the field of research probed by three artists who sound like participating in a first meeting, in a positive sense.
Even in absence of excessive smiling the record manages to steer well clear of pretentiousness and intellectual obesity. The musicians’ complete adherence to a credo of darkish melodic elongations and textural proficiency, the extensive treatments of the material with classy instrumental dignity – no preparations really detectable, just the uncontaminated tones of the whole gamut of bowed strings vibrating – are enough to establish an atmosphere whose severity is counterbalanced by the diverse contrapuntal permutations that these improvisations show. Hallett, Kingshill and Garside are concentrated yet never self-centred, the see-through quality of the final result the perfect evidence of a honest attitude, a will to accept any consequence for what they decide to play. This is beautifully speckled music that can’t be possibly approached without razor-sharp attentiveness: you must follow its uncertain lines, evaporating contradictions, corpulent resonances and dissonant flights while getting rid of the presumption of having understood the mechanics at work. Only through this method one realizes how handsome these creations are.
Saturday, 23 May 2009
PETER WRIGHT – Snow Blind
Install
The luminiferous flock of Peter Wright’s guitars has come again to rescue this poor listener, forced to the ropes by the attack of dwarf clones whose inconsistency is directly proportional to the consideration they receive. Snow Blind, for good measure, is a double CD (hooray!) that sends the magnitude of the quivering signals pretty high in the scale: nearly two hours of blissfully deafening roars, succulently plangent drones and disturbed ringing tones. Depurative, febrifugal, unreasonably suggestive stuff designed for your personalities to develop as angelic children in dissolute adult bodies. And that’s not all, folks.
Ever since the initial and splendidly titled “The Drunken Master In His Crumbling Citadel”, Wright incites the listener to the contemplation of a murky ecstasy through a self-explanatory urban commentary: a field recording of a bona fide drunkard, muttering his own truth (incomprehensibly for this scrutinizer) amidst metropolitan echoes and gradually swallowing walls of wailing axes depicting an idyllic harmonic tissue. A stark contrast, nonetheless suggesting something that sounds, for lack of a better adjective, divine. The discriminating acumen shown by the New Zealander in the assemblage of superimposed distortions (frequently sounding particularly consonant) is in this case counterbalanced by various recourses to extremely rudimentary, yet devastating melodies (check the first disc’s final episode “Follow The Leader”, the very title hinting to a concept that makes me recoil in horror) which should ideally encourage a brighter vision of a decaying materialism but in the end elicits a peculiar type of quiet desperation, to say the least.
As always, the guitarist looks especially interested in changing the gradation of timbres via altered varieties of equalization, a knowledgeable processing that literally disintegrates chords and lines into sparkling smidgens of gritty idiosyncrasy. And those drones: the best on the market for over a decade now. Amplifiers at 11 are not enough to emulate what this man manages to achieve with a simple arpeggio surrounded by thousands of mashed-snail reverberations. Let me tell you once and for all: people like Wright and, on a different playground, Aidan Baker are the initiators of this kind of modern-day six-string painting. The rest are for the large part cheap imitators that occasionally strike a mere ounce of gold with an appropriate choice of colours, nothing more.
Therefore save your money - thus preventing some pathetically incompetent, tinnitus-inducing retrograde from impersonating the god of hermitic thaumaturgy in a valve-amped Walhalla - and support those who have been walking the walk after talking the talk for decades, barely noticed, utterly enlightened. The grief-stricken broken illusions portrayed in this gorgeous release might fight a bit with the witty cleverness of their creator’s real-life attitude (perceivable even in his website and email updates); still, they’re undoubtedly the nearest thing to a representation of guitar-based endlessness that I can think of. A bulletin like this is a good reason to be grateful.
The luminiferous flock of Peter Wright’s guitars has come again to rescue this poor listener, forced to the ropes by the attack of dwarf clones whose inconsistency is directly proportional to the consideration they receive. Snow Blind, for good measure, is a double CD (hooray!) that sends the magnitude of the quivering signals pretty high in the scale: nearly two hours of blissfully deafening roars, succulently plangent drones and disturbed ringing tones. Depurative, febrifugal, unreasonably suggestive stuff designed for your personalities to develop as angelic children in dissolute adult bodies. And that’s not all, folks.
Ever since the initial and splendidly titled “The Drunken Master In His Crumbling Citadel”, Wright incites the listener to the contemplation of a murky ecstasy through a self-explanatory urban commentary: a field recording of a bona fide drunkard, muttering his own truth (incomprehensibly for this scrutinizer) amidst metropolitan echoes and gradually swallowing walls of wailing axes depicting an idyllic harmonic tissue. A stark contrast, nonetheless suggesting something that sounds, for lack of a better adjective, divine. The discriminating acumen shown by the New Zealander in the assemblage of superimposed distortions (frequently sounding particularly consonant) is in this case counterbalanced by various recourses to extremely rudimentary, yet devastating melodies (check the first disc’s final episode “Follow The Leader”, the very title hinting to a concept that makes me recoil in horror) which should ideally encourage a brighter vision of a decaying materialism but in the end elicits a peculiar type of quiet desperation, to say the least.
As always, the guitarist looks especially interested in changing the gradation of timbres via altered varieties of equalization, a knowledgeable processing that literally disintegrates chords and lines into sparkling smidgens of gritty idiosyncrasy. And those drones: the best on the market for over a decade now. Amplifiers at 11 are not enough to emulate what this man manages to achieve with a simple arpeggio surrounded by thousands of mashed-snail reverberations. Let me tell you once and for all: people like Wright and, on a different playground, Aidan Baker are the initiators of this kind of modern-day six-string painting. The rest are for the large part cheap imitators that occasionally strike a mere ounce of gold with an appropriate choice of colours, nothing more.
Therefore save your money - thus preventing some pathetically incompetent, tinnitus-inducing retrograde from impersonating the god of hermitic thaumaturgy in a valve-amped Walhalla - and support those who have been walking the walk after talking the talk for decades, barely noticed, utterly enlightened. The grief-stricken broken illusions portrayed in this gorgeous release might fight a bit with the witty cleverness of their creator’s real-life attitude (perceivable even in his website and email updates); still, they’re undoubtedly the nearest thing to a representation of guitar-based endlessness that I can think of. A bulletin like this is a good reason to be grateful.
JACK WRIGHT / ALBAN BAILLY – The Harmony Of Contradictions
Sort Of / Abstract On Black
The border separating gregariousness and complacence is a subtle line that, once trespassed, usually introduces that kind of improvisation where sense of humour and joyfulness appear excessively at the forefront, thus diminishing the overall artistic value. Luckily this does not happen in The Harmony Of Contradictions, a nice set of intelligent acoustic duos, recorded in 2005 and 2006, juxtaposing the unhesitant, only apparently disconnected omnivorous concentration of saxophonist Jack Wright - his frolicsomely illegitimate erubescences as always welcome as a helping of exotic fruits amidst a chain of double cheeseburgers - and the placid yet non-rhetorical politics of Philadelphia-homed French guitarist Alban Bailly, never met before by yours truly, whose style has been marked by rock, Arabic and gypsy Balkan influences.
This is a collection of bastard dialogues that nevertheless bear the stigmata of familiarity, of course being “familiar” an adjective that will come handy exclusively to those in the know. Duets that reveal a penniless brightness, a constant regeneration of finely tuned wisecracking and unprejudiced misshapenness at the basis of a tête-à-tête involving two honourable representatives of erratic graciousness. Wright’s phrases are a journal of nomadic rambling, a multi-sided slapping of reed-based premeditation. Outbreaks, excrescences and good-looking abortions that form a vocabulary as peculiar as a sticky liquid that somehow smells fabulously: one doesn’t care dipping the finger again and again for more sniffing. Reilly operates the instrument with the same lucidity of a John Russell - sparkle and modesty in equal doses - yet he’s also notable for his determination in trading information without taking disproportionate stances. Neither foolhardy nor too respectful, he stands exactly in between, furnishing the music with a well-received balance of zinging metal, threadbare footnotes and plucked indiscreetness, the occasional “sproing” appearing in the mix when the time is right.
The border separating gregariousness and complacence is a subtle line that, once trespassed, usually introduces that kind of improvisation where sense of humour and joyfulness appear excessively at the forefront, thus diminishing the overall artistic value. Luckily this does not happen in The Harmony Of Contradictions, a nice set of intelligent acoustic duos, recorded in 2005 and 2006, juxtaposing the unhesitant, only apparently disconnected omnivorous concentration of saxophonist Jack Wright - his frolicsomely illegitimate erubescences as always welcome as a helping of exotic fruits amidst a chain of double cheeseburgers - and the placid yet non-rhetorical politics of Philadelphia-homed French guitarist Alban Bailly, never met before by yours truly, whose style has been marked by rock, Arabic and gypsy Balkan influences.
This is a collection of bastard dialogues that nevertheless bear the stigmata of familiarity, of course being “familiar” an adjective that will come handy exclusively to those in the know. Duets that reveal a penniless brightness, a constant regeneration of finely tuned wisecracking and unprejudiced misshapenness at the basis of a tête-à-tête involving two honourable representatives of erratic graciousness. Wright’s phrases are a journal of nomadic rambling, a multi-sided slapping of reed-based premeditation. Outbreaks, excrescences and good-looking abortions that form a vocabulary as peculiar as a sticky liquid that somehow smells fabulously: one doesn’t care dipping the finger again and again for more sniffing. Reilly operates the instrument with the same lucidity of a John Russell - sparkle and modesty in equal doses - yet he’s also notable for his determination in trading information without taking disproportionate stances. Neither foolhardy nor too respectful, he stands exactly in between, furnishing the music with a well-received balance of zinging metal, threadbare footnotes and plucked indiscreetness, the occasional “sproing” appearing in the mix when the time is right.
Wednesday, 20 May 2009
TL0741 – Back To Minus
HC3
More good news from Pat Gillis, whose aural fantasies make great use of synthesizers, effects and tape manipulation to achieve results which many knob-tweaking nerds can’t even daydream in terms of creative fantasy and inventiveness. A couple of titles here should give an idea about what to find: “Orchrustra” and “Morphantasia” are precisely what one would expect while travelling across the lands where the reshaping of human discernment is a daily practice. Large portions of this material were recorded directly onto two tracks during live performances, yet there’s a specific structural design in what we hear, typical example of a mind ready to catch the most infinitesimal signal to transform it into striking figurations coloured by unhinged, often plain amazing timbres.
Synthetic morsels of deeper perception, intoxicating diffusions, corrosions of remote harmonies and ringing-around orbiting bodies let us recall different exploratory eras at once; we notice an evident respect for earlier-period pioneers and an attentive ear on the evolutional side of electronic music. Gillis knows what he’s doing and Back To Minus is a highly enjoyable demonstration of the development of his sonic ideals, a perfect proportionality between the chaotic activities of contradictory anti-patterns and the intricate mechanisms that – miraculously - preserve an ideal “galactic equilibrium”.
More good news from Pat Gillis, whose aural fantasies make great use of synthesizers, effects and tape manipulation to achieve results which many knob-tweaking nerds can’t even daydream in terms of creative fantasy and inventiveness. A couple of titles here should give an idea about what to find: “Orchrustra” and “Morphantasia” are precisely what one would expect while travelling across the lands where the reshaping of human discernment is a daily practice. Large portions of this material were recorded directly onto two tracks during live performances, yet there’s a specific structural design in what we hear, typical example of a mind ready to catch the most infinitesimal signal to transform it into striking figurations coloured by unhinged, often plain amazing timbres.
Synthetic morsels of deeper perception, intoxicating diffusions, corrosions of remote harmonies and ringing-around orbiting bodies let us recall different exploratory eras at once; we notice an evident respect for earlier-period pioneers and an attentive ear on the evolutional side of electronic music. Gillis knows what he’s doing and Back To Minus is a highly enjoyable demonstration of the development of his sonic ideals, a perfect proportionality between the chaotic activities of contradictory anti-patterns and the intricate mechanisms that – miraculously - preserve an ideal “galactic equilibrium”.
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
CRAIG HILTON – Craig Hilton
Self-release
As it happens, discretion does not pay in terms of artistic recognition until the decision is taken to let someone know that you exist and do something positive, possibly not implying the standard level of overconfident egotism hiding a desperate superficiality. Craig Hilton, a composer who shows an undeniable ability but is probably too humble for his own good, is a man whose art I felt respect for since the first instants. He sent me a few of his releases a considerable while ago, as usual approached with culpable delay on my behalf, and one struggles to determine which is the best. This unassumingly packaged CDR – an entirely white sleeve, except for the titles - contains three splendidly diverse samples of this artist’s talents, each generating that sort of inner fluctuation and existential uncertainty that will never be experienced by listening to Mozart, and that is the fundamental spur to keep living selflessly.
The magnificent opening track - “Guzheng Improvisation 4” - bestirs the previously sheltered idealization of a stable mesmerism through a congruous exploration of the natural reverberation of a room; the instrument gets outrageously animated, ominously dissonant resonances alternated with turbulent contemplations of unreachable galaxies, echoes of a past reality ricocheting all around the place in an unprejudiced exhibition of open-minded creative acumen bathing in orchestral instantaneousness in one of the most absorbing music pieces heard in a long time. “Untitled Collaboration” also features Ur and, although decisively altering the scene’s characteristics, once again denotes an originality that’s there to admire. The palette in this case excludes sources of blissful entertainment almost completely, as the artists privilege vocal maledictions underscored by wavering drones and electronic morphing à la Roland Kayn, a palpable tension emerging to transform the soundscape in a paralysing demonstration of inadaptability, any sense of redemption cancelled by the awareness of a toxic incontrovertibility. “Untitled Piece For Strings” is a worthy conclusion, a wrapping layering of semi-static chords that, more than strings, seem to be born from a huge harmonium. The processing work is subtle yet effective, its foremost quality an intrinsic slow oscillation that sounds like a slight detuning, the very reason of further moments of cruel emotion.
As it happens, discretion does not pay in terms of artistic recognition until the decision is taken to let someone know that you exist and do something positive, possibly not implying the standard level of overconfident egotism hiding a desperate superficiality. Craig Hilton, a composer who shows an undeniable ability but is probably too humble for his own good, is a man whose art I felt respect for since the first instants. He sent me a few of his releases a considerable while ago, as usual approached with culpable delay on my behalf, and one struggles to determine which is the best. This unassumingly packaged CDR – an entirely white sleeve, except for the titles - contains three splendidly diverse samples of this artist’s talents, each generating that sort of inner fluctuation and existential uncertainty that will never be experienced by listening to Mozart, and that is the fundamental spur to keep living selflessly.
The magnificent opening track - “Guzheng Improvisation 4” - bestirs the previously sheltered idealization of a stable mesmerism through a congruous exploration of the natural reverberation of a room; the instrument gets outrageously animated, ominously dissonant resonances alternated with turbulent contemplations of unreachable galaxies, echoes of a past reality ricocheting all around the place in an unprejudiced exhibition of open-minded creative acumen bathing in orchestral instantaneousness in one of the most absorbing music pieces heard in a long time. “Untitled Collaboration” also features Ur and, although decisively altering the scene’s characteristics, once again denotes an originality that’s there to admire. The palette in this case excludes sources of blissful entertainment almost completely, as the artists privilege vocal maledictions underscored by wavering drones and electronic morphing à la Roland Kayn, a palpable tension emerging to transform the soundscape in a paralysing demonstration of inadaptability, any sense of redemption cancelled by the awareness of a toxic incontrovertibility. “Untitled Piece For Strings” is a worthy conclusion, a wrapping layering of semi-static chords that, more than strings, seem to be born from a huge harmonium. The processing work is subtle yet effective, its foremost quality an intrinsic slow oscillation that sounds like a slight detuning, the very reason of further moments of cruel emotion.
Saturday, 16 May 2009
THOMAS BEL – The Birds Are Still The Monarchs
Annexia
From Toulouse, France Thomas Bel is the mastermind behind an artefact whose undertones revolve around "poetical texts dealing with the fundamental question of time fleeting but never really settling down". In reality, the record is almost entirely instrumental - honestly, a couple of sung segments are very much inferior to the rest - moving along the coordinates of a homemade-tinged ambient containing reiterative fragments of undemanding melodies, hesitant electronics and various kinds of dirtiness in the mix, either hiss or just digital dilapidation, not to mention “classic” glitches and the likes. Bel plays a quantity of unspecified instruments: definitely guitars and piano, different keyboards, cello. Other sources exploited are - you guessed it - field recordings.
All in all, the typical "one among the hundreds", right? Not really. Let’s face it, this kid might not be the reincarnation of the messiah of discreetness, yet his music possesses an indisputable candour that allows us to welcome it without excessive questioning. And the raison d'être of the unrefined loveliness of some of these tracks is spelled "weird resonance": there's always something that jars with the concept of accurate tuning, and which renders even a basically worthless snippet sounding acceptable, when not melancholically connecting. This uneven kind of processing is reasonably functional, the man is adequately receptive, the pieces are OK if one doesn't expect miracles. A marvel this collection surely isn’t, but a non-invasive, nearly soporific, timid aural caress? Yes, no problem. As far as deeper implications are concerned, it looks like I missed at least part of them.
From Toulouse, France Thomas Bel is the mastermind behind an artefact whose undertones revolve around "poetical texts dealing with the fundamental question of time fleeting but never really settling down". In reality, the record is almost entirely instrumental - honestly, a couple of sung segments are very much inferior to the rest - moving along the coordinates of a homemade-tinged ambient containing reiterative fragments of undemanding melodies, hesitant electronics and various kinds of dirtiness in the mix, either hiss or just digital dilapidation, not to mention “classic” glitches and the likes. Bel plays a quantity of unspecified instruments: definitely guitars and piano, different keyboards, cello. Other sources exploited are - you guessed it - field recordings.
All in all, the typical "one among the hundreds", right? Not really. Let’s face it, this kid might not be the reincarnation of the messiah of discreetness, yet his music possesses an indisputable candour that allows us to welcome it without excessive questioning. And the raison d'être of the unrefined loveliness of some of these tracks is spelled "weird resonance": there's always something that jars with the concept of accurate tuning, and which renders even a basically worthless snippet sounding acceptable, when not melancholically connecting. This uneven kind of processing is reasonably functional, the man is adequately receptive, the pieces are OK if one doesn't expect miracles. A marvel this collection surely isn’t, but a non-invasive, nearly soporific, timid aural caress? Yes, no problem. As far as deeper implications are concerned, it looks like I missed at least part of them.
STEVE RODEN – Ecstasy Showered Its Petals With The Full Peals Of The Bells
Ferns
When creative inspiration gets precisely embedded in an artist's brain, there's no risk of failure even in a short proposal like this 3-inch, whose marvellously out-of-time cover reveals - together with the title - the only source for the music: a small bell that someone gave a while back to the composer, who proceeded to exploit its resonating traits according to his celebrated ability to convert the simplest items in mesmeric milieus for the resurrection of long-forgotten interior sensibilities.
By utilizing the authentic voice of the bell and processing the relative emanations, Roden manages to reach that state of half-gaseous, half-liquid timbral instability that permits the enjoyment of a mental edge more than the recording per se, which is saying something given the brilliance of the piece. Loyal devotees and seekers of metal-derived magnetic attraction will not want to miss this one: it's plain dazzling in a semi-hypnotic kind of quietude that sounds at the same time incomparable and innate. Impressions that are constantly there, helpful for a stealing a look at infinity even when one’s unable to immediately understand this kind of magnitude.
When creative inspiration gets precisely embedded in an artist's brain, there's no risk of failure even in a short proposal like this 3-inch, whose marvellously out-of-time cover reveals - together with the title - the only source for the music: a small bell that someone gave a while back to the composer, who proceeded to exploit its resonating traits according to his celebrated ability to convert the simplest items in mesmeric milieus for the resurrection of long-forgotten interior sensibilities.
By utilizing the authentic voice of the bell and processing the relative emanations, Roden manages to reach that state of half-gaseous, half-liquid timbral instability that permits the enjoyment of a mental edge more than the recording per se, which is saying something given the brilliance of the piece. Loyal devotees and seekers of metal-derived magnetic attraction will not want to miss this one: it's plain dazzling in a semi-hypnotic kind of quietude that sounds at the same time incomparable and innate. Impressions that are constantly there, helpful for a stealing a look at infinity even when one’s unable to immediately understand this kind of magnitude.
Friday, 15 May 2009
ROZANNE LEVINE & CHAKRA TUNING – Only Moment
Acoustics
There are points in time in which a writer simply becomes exhausted from the perpetual effort for finding the accurate collocation – or, even worse, a sticker – for something that causes a type of unadulterated gratification which needs no words or definitions to be savoured at any time. When those moments come, just let the music do the healing and everything’s going to be alright, as a little dreadlocked man used to remind.
As soon as one spins Only Moment - the latest offering from Rozanne Levine’s Chakra Tuning - the room is pervaded by presences resembling spirits of well-being. Right away, the clarity of every note played, the consistency of the amalgamation among the musicians and a sense of shared endeavour for the abolishment of narrow-mindedness contribute to a private feeling of enjoyment which is absolutely not based on something “easing the nerves”, or plain silly. With each listen we find ourselves perseveringly intent in attempting a veritable penetration of every sound, like if the completion of the experience depended on a full understanding of any single acoustic event. The music comes out smoothly and extremely physically at once, influenced by so many things – natural occurrences, bird talking, native Indian chants, theatre – that the tracks might represent different segments of a being’s life cycle, and I’m writing this without the fear of sounding nonsensically hippy or esoterically lost in nowhereland, my skill in distinguishing between counterfeit illuminations and sober practices of inside connectivity rigorously trained as ever.
Levine is flanked by Perry Robinson, Mark Whitecage and Rosi Hertlein. Listening to these artists reveal their fundamental nature through the full command of the instruments is just amazing. All kinds of clarinet, saxophones, ocarinas, bird whistles and percussion are utilized by the nominal leader and her long-time male companions, while Hertlein - a mean violinist – also sings and handles additional percussive chores with the same nimbleness. The artists’ technique might be admirable, and indeed it is. But what really wins for me is the sort of opposition to hopelessness that this gorgeous recording generates as early as the circulation of the first notes in the air. Coming from a hard-boiled mankind-disparager like yours truly, this should give you something to chew over.
There are points in time in which a writer simply becomes exhausted from the perpetual effort for finding the accurate collocation – or, even worse, a sticker – for something that causes a type of unadulterated gratification which needs no words or definitions to be savoured at any time. When those moments come, just let the music do the healing and everything’s going to be alright, as a little dreadlocked man used to remind.
As soon as one spins Only Moment - the latest offering from Rozanne Levine’s Chakra Tuning - the room is pervaded by presences resembling spirits of well-being. Right away, the clarity of every note played, the consistency of the amalgamation among the musicians and a sense of shared endeavour for the abolishment of narrow-mindedness contribute to a private feeling of enjoyment which is absolutely not based on something “easing the nerves”, or plain silly. With each listen we find ourselves perseveringly intent in attempting a veritable penetration of every sound, like if the completion of the experience depended on a full understanding of any single acoustic event. The music comes out smoothly and extremely physically at once, influenced by so many things – natural occurrences, bird talking, native Indian chants, theatre – that the tracks might represent different segments of a being’s life cycle, and I’m writing this without the fear of sounding nonsensically hippy or esoterically lost in nowhereland, my skill in distinguishing between counterfeit illuminations and sober practices of inside connectivity rigorously trained as ever.
Levine is flanked by Perry Robinson, Mark Whitecage and Rosi Hertlein. Listening to these artists reveal their fundamental nature through the full command of the instruments is just amazing. All kinds of clarinet, saxophones, ocarinas, bird whistles and percussion are utilized by the nominal leader and her long-time male companions, while Hertlein - a mean violinist – also sings and handles additional percussive chores with the same nimbleness. The artists’ technique might be admirable, and indeed it is. But what really wins for me is the sort of opposition to hopelessness that this gorgeous recording generates as early as the circulation of the first notes in the air. Coming from a hard-boiled mankind-disparager like yours truly, this should give you something to chew over.
TILL THE OLD WORLD’S BLOWN UP AND A NEW ONE IS CREATED – Till The Old World’s Blown Up And A New One Is Created
Mosz
As a rule, Christian Fennesz (electric and acoustic guitars, computer), Werner Dafeldecker (double bass, tape delay, computer) and Martin Brandlmayr (drums, percussion, vibraphone, computer and piano on a track) are scarcely compromising musicians who let us stare - not infrequently in awe – at excellent designs. The hopes in this circumstance were high, especially considering that it took “over four years of intermittent activity” to complete this music, which was recorded starting from regular improvisations that each member of the trio edited into distinct short episodes from which, in turn, snippets were taken to manufacture a longer composition (circa 34 minutes). All of the above is enclosed in a pair of discs, although the one with the three separate tracks lasts 15 minutes minus: a collector’s item but not a real creative statement from this point of view.
In regard to the method, this stuff sounds a tad stylish and probably colder than expected, even if there are moments in which the correlation between the parts works particularly well, for instance when abrupt oxidized roars by Fennesz’s axe get fractured and garbled in tiny bits, perturbing Dafeldecker’s deadpan composites of bass and unhealthily processed paradoxes. Two significant hues are Brandlmayr’s vibes, a constant factor in the sonic palette, and the interspersed silences that grant additional authority to the improvised sections. Sparse appearances of wooden touches and anaemic arpeggios dilute the overall tone in part, thus altering the elegance-to-disorder ratio.
All things considered - and class being always class – this is a good-looking album of mainly manipulated materials which in any case sounds quite blasé when compared to the participants’ customary output. If ECM decided to open their doors to EAI, here’s a recording to look at with interest. My reactions are mixed: there’s no question about the sincerity of the artists’ try to stumble on new expressive ways; yet they succeeded only to some extent, despite the attractive exteriors.
As a rule, Christian Fennesz (electric and acoustic guitars, computer), Werner Dafeldecker (double bass, tape delay, computer) and Martin Brandlmayr (drums, percussion, vibraphone, computer and piano on a track) are scarcely compromising musicians who let us stare - not infrequently in awe – at excellent designs. The hopes in this circumstance were high, especially considering that it took “over four years of intermittent activity” to complete this music, which was recorded starting from regular improvisations that each member of the trio edited into distinct short episodes from which, in turn, snippets were taken to manufacture a longer composition (circa 34 minutes). All of the above is enclosed in a pair of discs, although the one with the three separate tracks lasts 15 minutes minus: a collector’s item but not a real creative statement from this point of view.
In regard to the method, this stuff sounds a tad stylish and probably colder than expected, even if there are moments in which the correlation between the parts works particularly well, for instance when abrupt oxidized roars by Fennesz’s axe get fractured and garbled in tiny bits, perturbing Dafeldecker’s deadpan composites of bass and unhealthily processed paradoxes. Two significant hues are Brandlmayr’s vibes, a constant factor in the sonic palette, and the interspersed silences that grant additional authority to the improvised sections. Sparse appearances of wooden touches and anaemic arpeggios dilute the overall tone in part, thus altering the elegance-to-disorder ratio.
All things considered - and class being always class – this is a good-looking album of mainly manipulated materials which in any case sounds quite blasé when compared to the participants’ customary output. If ECM decided to open their doors to EAI, here’s a recording to look at with interest. My reactions are mixed: there’s no question about the sincerity of the artists’ try to stumble on new expressive ways; yet they succeeded only to some extent, despite the attractive exteriors.
Thursday, 30 April 2009
MICHAEL BLAKE / KRESTEN OSGOOD – Control This
Clean Feed
“I am very proud of this album because when I hear the music, I hear how well we know each other”, writes drummer Kresten Osgood in the liners. A beautiful note of friendship to his partner in this duo, saxophonist Michael Blake (here on soprano, alto and tenor), both also members of Blake Tartare and active since many years, respectively, on the Copenhagen and New York scenes, collaborations including names of the calibre of Sam Rivers, Paul Bley and The Lounge Lizards. The extreme enjoyableness of Control This lies in the reciprocal will of constantly paying attention to what the counterpart has to say, finding every time a correct key to unlock the secrets of an ingenuity that’s often the most unadulterated source of expression in an art form that recurrently privileges selfishness over interplay.
In “Top Hat”, for example, Blake interprets a lyrical flow of linear materials ranging from melodically investigative to eloquently rigorous, his phrases breathing through Osgood’s subtly pervading, ever-attentive sinuousness. The latter commands our interest with an expert management of the dynamics, appearing like an extremely conscious percussionist whose lone interest is driving the comrade to reveal the physiology of the instrument while remaining in the realm of a pragmatic equanimity. “Cotton Mouth” begins with the artists treading parallel paths that after a few instants merge into a bundle of tortuous flurries and destroyed-and-reassembled patterns, in which – once more – we welcome a fine balance of rhythmic drive and intertwined precisions.
The record ends in total fun in a ghost track, a comical snapshot of the solid kinship between two musicians who just love playing, especially when they’re together – and not alone.
“I am very proud of this album because when I hear the music, I hear how well we know each other”, writes drummer Kresten Osgood in the liners. A beautiful note of friendship to his partner in this duo, saxophonist Michael Blake (here on soprano, alto and tenor), both also members of Blake Tartare and active since many years, respectively, on the Copenhagen and New York scenes, collaborations including names of the calibre of Sam Rivers, Paul Bley and The Lounge Lizards. The extreme enjoyableness of Control This lies in the reciprocal will of constantly paying attention to what the counterpart has to say, finding every time a correct key to unlock the secrets of an ingenuity that’s often the most unadulterated source of expression in an art form that recurrently privileges selfishness over interplay.
In “Top Hat”, for example, Blake interprets a lyrical flow of linear materials ranging from melodically investigative to eloquently rigorous, his phrases breathing through Osgood’s subtly pervading, ever-attentive sinuousness. The latter commands our interest with an expert management of the dynamics, appearing like an extremely conscious percussionist whose lone interest is driving the comrade to reveal the physiology of the instrument while remaining in the realm of a pragmatic equanimity. “Cotton Mouth” begins with the artists treading parallel paths that after a few instants merge into a bundle of tortuous flurries and destroyed-and-reassembled patterns, in which – once more – we welcome a fine balance of rhythmic drive and intertwined precisions.
The record ends in total fun in a ghost track, a comical snapshot of the solid kinship between two musicians who just love playing, especially when they’re together – and not alone.
Wednesday, 29 April 2009
SEAN CONLY – Re:Action
Clean Feed
Bassist Sean Conly wrote the music of Re:Action “to let people play the way they play”, yet this quartet – which includes a two-forward saxophone section consisting of Tony Malaby and Michael Attias plus Pheeroan Aklaff on drums – is tightly self-disciplined and performs with composed fire, so to speak. The result is an excellent album, in which no trace of lackadaisical indetermination is found, a persuasive interpretation of tunes that sound exuberantly enthusiastic, calmly scowling, intelligently disengaged from the normalcy of jazz formulas.
The opening cover of Eric Dolphy’s “Gazzelloni” instantly establishes the fundamental temperament, an abjuration of traditional rules that nevertheless concedes very little to the cannibalistic freedom of uneducated freewheeling: the group is solid, its cohesion clearly evident since the first measures of the tune. In a completely different setting – Conly’s “Saitta” – there’s room for classic soloing by the leader, but the theme is what actually gets noticed, a combination of impassive angularity and rhythmic brashness that causes automatic movements of the limbs.
One also digs the skillfully soft-spoken “Luminiferous Aether” and “Illes Du Vent”, penned by Conly with Attias, in which the delicate side of the bassist’s personality is paralleled by the reedist’s refined classiness and sensibility in brief episodes of reciprocal good manners. On the other hand, “Something I Said?” brings in a degree of tension immediately lessened by a warm bass solo introducing additional contrapuntal conviviality immersed in agreeable dissonance.
Although I dare anybody to memorize a single minute of this record, the mark that it leaves is one of indelible brightness, splendidly symbolized by the gorgeous arrangement of “Suburban Angst”, which sounds like someone trying to escape from creditors by running in alleys, Aklaff spectacularly breaking the tempos while Malaby and Attias exchange incendiary darts with unbelievable ease, ready to return to home base when the composite leit-motif calls everybody back. Even an oddity such as the abstract-sounding “Concrete Garden” seems perfectly placed in the record’s context, therefore no more words: go get this CD pronto. It’s great.
Bassist Sean Conly wrote the music of Re:Action “to let people play the way they play”, yet this quartet – which includes a two-forward saxophone section consisting of Tony Malaby and Michael Attias plus Pheeroan Aklaff on drums – is tightly self-disciplined and performs with composed fire, so to speak. The result is an excellent album, in which no trace of lackadaisical indetermination is found, a persuasive interpretation of tunes that sound exuberantly enthusiastic, calmly scowling, intelligently disengaged from the normalcy of jazz formulas.
The opening cover of Eric Dolphy’s “Gazzelloni” instantly establishes the fundamental temperament, an abjuration of traditional rules that nevertheless concedes very little to the cannibalistic freedom of uneducated freewheeling: the group is solid, its cohesion clearly evident since the first measures of the tune. In a completely different setting – Conly’s “Saitta” – there’s room for classic soloing by the leader, but the theme is what actually gets noticed, a combination of impassive angularity and rhythmic brashness that causes automatic movements of the limbs.
One also digs the skillfully soft-spoken “Luminiferous Aether” and “Illes Du Vent”, penned by Conly with Attias, in which the delicate side of the bassist’s personality is paralleled by the reedist’s refined classiness and sensibility in brief episodes of reciprocal good manners. On the other hand, “Something I Said?” brings in a degree of tension immediately lessened by a warm bass solo introducing additional contrapuntal conviviality immersed in agreeable dissonance.
Although I dare anybody to memorize a single minute of this record, the mark that it leaves is one of indelible brightness, splendidly symbolized by the gorgeous arrangement of “Suburban Angst”, which sounds like someone trying to escape from creditors by running in alleys, Aklaff spectacularly breaking the tempos while Malaby and Attias exchange incendiary darts with unbelievable ease, ready to return to home base when the composite leit-motif calls everybody back. Even an oddity such as the abstract-sounding “Concrete Garden” seems perfectly placed in the record’s context, therefore no more words: go get this CD pronto. It’s great.
SKINWELL – Tunnels
.Angle.Rec.
Domesticated daydreaming is not enough for Skinwell, the duo of Martin Dumais (multislab processing, analog melodic extractions) and Christian Corvellec (initial templates and layers, digital processing). The colorful credits notwithstanding, the planning of Tunnels is merely essential: short segments of sonic uneasiness and acidic transiency get meshed, extensively stretched and devitalized to produce soundscapes whose stagnant temperament reveals instead lots of inside movements. The practically unrecognizable substances utilized to reach the desired levels of angst sound compact, markedly unkind, in a way illuminating on reality: these tracks depict a human race on its last legs, the worst aspects underlined by an ceaseless gloominess. We find no silly optimism, no openings to a better future, no blue skies: a deadpan elaboration of sufferance recited by ill-fated souls inhabiting lands where glitter is prohibited.
Despite the pronounced pessimism, the conscious listener is going to accept these bulletins of distress without a problem, and the repetition of this experience is recommended to help disemboweling the corpse of your inhibition. Call it “advanced post-industrialism of the third kind” - or upsetting ambient, should you choose a low-level playback. Not suitable to seekers of fatuous peacefulness.
Domesticated daydreaming is not enough for Skinwell, the duo of Martin Dumais (multislab processing, analog melodic extractions) and Christian Corvellec (initial templates and layers, digital processing). The colorful credits notwithstanding, the planning of Tunnels is merely essential: short segments of sonic uneasiness and acidic transiency get meshed, extensively stretched and devitalized to produce soundscapes whose stagnant temperament reveals instead lots of inside movements. The practically unrecognizable substances utilized to reach the desired levels of angst sound compact, markedly unkind, in a way illuminating on reality: these tracks depict a human race on its last legs, the worst aspects underlined by an ceaseless gloominess. We find no silly optimism, no openings to a better future, no blue skies: a deadpan elaboration of sufferance recited by ill-fated souls inhabiting lands where glitter is prohibited.
Despite the pronounced pessimism, the conscious listener is going to accept these bulletins of distress without a problem, and the repetition of this experience is recommended to help disemboweling the corpse of your inhibition. Call it “advanced post-industrialism of the third kind” - or upsetting ambient, should you choose a low-level playback. Not suitable to seekers of fatuous peacefulness.
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