Flux
The master of anticipation-dodging eccentricity, Frank Rothkamm renders our summer happier with a “digital cantata” composed over the 1990-91 biennium on machines that many oh-so-modern whiz kids would consider as relics: Yamaha TX16W sampler and TX81Z plus FB01 synthesizers, Atari STE computer. The ultimate punch is given by the composer’s record collection, which furnished snippets of famous (and less) voices and songs: apart from a few segments of classical music – Tchaikowskij’s The Nutcracker is not bad as a disco hook – we find unintentional cameos by Nico, David Bowie and what I perceived as an Edith Piaf/Mireille Mathieu duet in “La Vie” – yet with this genre-orphan, chivalrous studio fiend one is never sure.
The program lasts about half a hour, enough to call the timing just right. It is indeed very useful for early morning disco-based aerobic exercises (ask my wife, who instantly started shaking her butt as soon as the second track began). The near-perfection of these juxtapositions results in something that sounds impolitic and punctilious at once, gifted with the classic ironic touch that this artist is renowned for. For good measure he transcribed what the sampled people actually say, the lyrics possessing an absurdly effective way of penetrating the listener’s brain while intent in being inundated by the now-licentious, now-beatific qualities of rhythmic combinations spiced with references that go from Elvis to pornography. The superb “Interlude For Soprano And Piano” – all of its 32 seconds – is the culmination point of a release whose cleverness transpires unmistakably, even after almost 20 years from its first conception.
Rothkamm calls this an “algorithmically re-synthesized ambrosia of popular music”. Difficult words for a dim-witted mass to understand, maybe – but play the CD and impediments will immediately be forgotten. Give yourselves a couple of good, hard spins and you’re going to sens la vie.
Thursday, 30 July 2009
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
KEITH ROWE / TAKU UNAMI – ErstLive 006
Erstwhile
The AMPLIFY 2008: Light festival produced two noteworthy performances involving Keith Rowe. The solo act - released by this same label with the title ErstLive 007 - features one of the Englishman’s best efforts in the last decade, a jam-packing of implications and details (the author’s review can be found here) that has deservedly elicited a measure of debate. ErstLive 006 is the companion release and – although not accomplishing an equivalent level of emotional strength, is in any case a rewarding album.
Besides mistreating his customary table-top Steinberger with all sorts of manual and electric tools, Rowe generates and manipulates electronics via a Macintosh notebook; Unami is also seen handling a laptop (“computer with objects”) and, additionally, utilizes contraguitar and mandolin. If this suggests the incidence of regular sounds of stringed instruments in the piece, think again: the moments in which single plucks and “normal” harmonics appear are indeed infrequent, especially occurring in the second half. The dominating presence is instead that of recurring clicking pulses at variable speed that the couple uses as a sort of leitmotiv throughout; I am not really convinced that this comes from one or more metronomes, but the aural picture gets close. At first the music is informed by long pauses, extremely minimal activities leaving room to infiltrations from the external environment (the set was recorded at Tokyo’s Kid Ailack Art Hall). As the minutes elapse, the infinitesimal dynamics of the repetitive clicks gradually introduce a developed instrumental strategy, the timbres growing harsher over diverse combinations of computerized action and scraping/bouncing diffusions featuring several among the techniques that we’ve come to know and appreciate from these artists. The conclusive section increases the textural tapestry’s mass, individuating a considerable peak in an otherwise pretty tranquil, if ever-active performance, a much appreciated suggestion of escalating nervousness that aptly seals the closure.
The recommendation is to listen to both CDs –006 and 007 – comparatively to get an idea of what Rowe managed to cook for this particular occasion. But let’s not forget to give credit to Unami, his figure unquestionably relevant to help swerving the events from potential standardization, always a concrete risk in this form of exchange. This time, the traps have been cunningly eluded.
The AMPLIFY 2008: Light festival produced two noteworthy performances involving Keith Rowe. The solo act - released by this same label with the title ErstLive 007 - features one of the Englishman’s best efforts in the last decade, a jam-packing of implications and details (the author’s review can be found here) that has deservedly elicited a measure of debate. ErstLive 006 is the companion release and – although not accomplishing an equivalent level of emotional strength, is in any case a rewarding album.
Besides mistreating his customary table-top Steinberger with all sorts of manual and electric tools, Rowe generates and manipulates electronics via a Macintosh notebook; Unami is also seen handling a laptop (“computer with objects”) and, additionally, utilizes contraguitar and mandolin. If this suggests the incidence of regular sounds of stringed instruments in the piece, think again: the moments in which single plucks and “normal” harmonics appear are indeed infrequent, especially occurring in the second half. The dominating presence is instead that of recurring clicking pulses at variable speed that the couple uses as a sort of leitmotiv throughout; I am not really convinced that this comes from one or more metronomes, but the aural picture gets close. At first the music is informed by long pauses, extremely minimal activities leaving room to infiltrations from the external environment (the set was recorded at Tokyo’s Kid Ailack Art Hall). As the minutes elapse, the infinitesimal dynamics of the repetitive clicks gradually introduce a developed instrumental strategy, the timbres growing harsher over diverse combinations of computerized action and scraping/bouncing diffusions featuring several among the techniques that we’ve come to know and appreciate from these artists. The conclusive section increases the textural tapestry’s mass, individuating a considerable peak in an otherwise pretty tranquil, if ever-active performance, a much appreciated suggestion of escalating nervousness that aptly seals the closure.
The recommendation is to listen to both CDs –006 and 007 – comparatively to get an idea of what Rowe managed to cook for this particular occasion. But let’s not forget to give credit to Unami, his figure unquestionably relevant to help swerving the events from potential standardization, always a concrete risk in this form of exchange. This time, the traps have been cunningly eluded.
Friday, 17 July 2009
SETH NEHIL – Flock & Tumble
Sonoris
Seth Nehil promotes the furtherance of wrinkled soundscapes and unadulterated emotions amidst the difficult-to-admit homogenization of consistent chunks of presumed avant-gardes, which recur to limp certainties after their name is established and the funds are granted for new “adventures”.
The audio imagery comprised by Flock And Tumble is certainly not easy to decipher: it juxtaposes various proportions, meshing physical expressiveness and studio-generated propulsion according to methods characterized by an admirable uniqueness. It doesn’t necessarily respect the blueprints of thorough independence, often sounding composed to the tiniest detail, yet its freshness is perceptible even on a first and not excessively attentive listen. But it’s only with a radical incursion in the winding spirals of these sonorities that the work reveals its importance and - in various circumstances - an unpolished, modest radiance.
Take for example the contrast between the use of the voices, which Nehil exploits in unusual fashion having the performers theatrically emitting incomprehensible, almost panic-stricken clusters and sudden disconnections, and the organic qualities of the percussive features, halfway through an on-site installation and the rattling of abandoned objects in a god-forsaken area. Elements that sound remotely isolated, practically unlinked, describe instead a courageous attempt to indicate a different mindset for the listeners, invited to join a multitude of signals whose impoverished semblance does not detract from their psychological weight. The disorientation is partially amended by the less “active” sections, where everything gets levelled by electronic or heavily processed sounds that lead us across the recondite aspects of sonic disrepair, all the while maintaining a fundamental essence of artistic incorruptibility.
An important demonstration of Nehil’s abilities, this is a classic sleeper which deserves immediate exposure, well beyond the small circle of experts to which music like this is usually addressed.
Seth Nehil promotes the furtherance of wrinkled soundscapes and unadulterated emotions amidst the difficult-to-admit homogenization of consistent chunks of presumed avant-gardes, which recur to limp certainties after their name is established and the funds are granted for new “adventures”.
The audio imagery comprised by Flock And Tumble is certainly not easy to decipher: it juxtaposes various proportions, meshing physical expressiveness and studio-generated propulsion according to methods characterized by an admirable uniqueness. It doesn’t necessarily respect the blueprints of thorough independence, often sounding composed to the tiniest detail, yet its freshness is perceptible even on a first and not excessively attentive listen. But it’s only with a radical incursion in the winding spirals of these sonorities that the work reveals its importance and - in various circumstances - an unpolished, modest radiance.
Take for example the contrast between the use of the voices, which Nehil exploits in unusual fashion having the performers theatrically emitting incomprehensible, almost panic-stricken clusters and sudden disconnections, and the organic qualities of the percussive features, halfway through an on-site installation and the rattling of abandoned objects in a god-forsaken area. Elements that sound remotely isolated, practically unlinked, describe instead a courageous attempt to indicate a different mindset for the listeners, invited to join a multitude of signals whose impoverished semblance does not detract from their psychological weight. The disorientation is partially amended by the less “active” sections, where everything gets levelled by electronic or heavily processed sounds that lead us across the recondite aspects of sonic disrepair, all the while maintaining a fundamental essence of artistic incorruptibility.
An important demonstration of Nehil’s abilities, this is a classic sleeper which deserves immediate exposure, well beyond the small circle of experts to which music like this is usually addressed.
Thursday, 16 July 2009
JASON KAHN – Vanishing Point
23Five
An artist mostly renowned for the restrained tones of his music, Jason Kahn is also able to introduce those nearly imperceptible gradations in situations where overshadowing heaps of sonic layers determine the practical impossibility of looking for alternative courses of analysis for those who listen.
Vanishing Point is a proposition generated by the combination of live and studio materials in which we individuate three different phases, initially characterized by the virtual absence of Kahn’s exemplarily elusive nuances and intangible decays. The opening is in fact an abrupt in-your-face declaration of discomfort, a wall of coarse noise and short waves that only after a while allows to spot something under the blur, the percussive arsenal gradually finding its way towards the midpoint of our consideration. Circa 18 minutes in, this somewhat aggressive avalanche disappears to reveal more of the structures created by the composer, mainly via rolling/roaring drums and cymbals together with lots of supplementary insertions, whose intimidating escalation continues for protracted periods of uneasiness. In certain circumstances one thinks of Jon Mueller, if just for short glimpses.
Yet it’s exactly in this instant that we realize about the staying supremacy and, to some extent, reassuring stability of this accumulation, as the auricular membranes start recognizing a basic code of vibration which permits the acceptance of this controlled brutality in the same manner in which people living in industrial areas become used to the constant din and feel at home in it. The difference lies in the application of hardly measurable shades in the encircling buzzing energy - which is precisely what identifies the composition, attributing a harmonic cryptogram of sorts to what untutored ears might judge as sheer racket. The third and last phase determines the conclusion of the process, the transition from potential confusion to the discernment of weak colours and alterations which were practically impossible to perceive at first. The continuous stifled resonance of a tuned drum, easily mistakable for a gong, accompanies the gradual morphing of the piece into pseudo-quietness during the final stages.
Throughout the conception of this work Kahn thought deeply of his daughter Louise, whose death due to SIDS, at 3 months of age, had occurred not long before. Naturally, the concept of vanishing became extremely important in regard to that sad circumstance. Nevertheless what I see represented almost graphically is the symbolization of the ascension to a superior level, the passage from the infected reality of earthly life to the state of completely uncontaminated being, leaving corporeal impediments behind. Not a disappearance, then: a transformation.
An intense, strong set confirming Kahn among the mainstays in the lands of non-generic artistic expression, Vanishing Point is informed by a sense of responsive acuity and insightful propensity to the emotional expansion of physical phenomena.
An artist mostly renowned for the restrained tones of his music, Jason Kahn is also able to introduce those nearly imperceptible gradations in situations where overshadowing heaps of sonic layers determine the practical impossibility of looking for alternative courses of analysis for those who listen.
Vanishing Point is a proposition generated by the combination of live and studio materials in which we individuate three different phases, initially characterized by the virtual absence of Kahn’s exemplarily elusive nuances and intangible decays. The opening is in fact an abrupt in-your-face declaration of discomfort, a wall of coarse noise and short waves that only after a while allows to spot something under the blur, the percussive arsenal gradually finding its way towards the midpoint of our consideration. Circa 18 minutes in, this somewhat aggressive avalanche disappears to reveal more of the structures created by the composer, mainly via rolling/roaring drums and cymbals together with lots of supplementary insertions, whose intimidating escalation continues for protracted periods of uneasiness. In certain circumstances one thinks of Jon Mueller, if just for short glimpses.
Yet it’s exactly in this instant that we realize about the staying supremacy and, to some extent, reassuring stability of this accumulation, as the auricular membranes start recognizing a basic code of vibration which permits the acceptance of this controlled brutality in the same manner in which people living in industrial areas become used to the constant din and feel at home in it. The difference lies in the application of hardly measurable shades in the encircling buzzing energy - which is precisely what identifies the composition, attributing a harmonic cryptogram of sorts to what untutored ears might judge as sheer racket. The third and last phase determines the conclusion of the process, the transition from potential confusion to the discernment of weak colours and alterations which were practically impossible to perceive at first. The continuous stifled resonance of a tuned drum, easily mistakable for a gong, accompanies the gradual morphing of the piece into pseudo-quietness during the final stages.
Throughout the conception of this work Kahn thought deeply of his daughter Louise, whose death due to SIDS, at 3 months of age, had occurred not long before. Naturally, the concept of vanishing became extremely important in regard to that sad circumstance. Nevertheless what I see represented almost graphically is the symbolization of the ascension to a superior level, the passage from the infected reality of earthly life to the state of completely uncontaminated being, leaving corporeal impediments behind. Not a disappearance, then: a transformation.
An intense, strong set confirming Kahn among the mainstays in the lands of non-generic artistic expression, Vanishing Point is informed by a sense of responsive acuity and insightful propensity to the emotional expansion of physical phenomena.
Saturday, 11 July 2009
STRØM - Shunt
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.
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.
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.
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