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.
Thursday, 30 April 2009
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.
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
MIRKO UHLIG & MARCUS OBST – The Vertical Horse Lesson
Ibrik
The weird title of this self-produced 3-inch CD comes from a bizarre circumstance: Uhlig and Obst (the latter better known as Dronæment) unsuccessfully tried to take horseback riding lessons a while ago, both ending their experience with a dramatic failure, the stallion mercilessly sending them back to earth (in all senses). Dishonoured and depressed, the aspirant riders decided to make good use of the accident by putting two different microphones on the horse, respectively on the mane and in the nostrils (to be honest I still wonder if the couple’s report of the episode on the press release is indeed a joke), to capture animal-related sonic materials to be altered in the studio.
I really don’t know how sounds derived from the movements of a horse can be turned into creamily humming drones, but these German boys made it happen. These twenty one minutes – subdivided in nine tracks, heaven knows the reason of this discontinuity – spread intoxicating caresses all around, in some cases making the loose parts in my room rattle from the intensity of the sub-bass frequencies. A very simple idea that functions brilliantly: the repeat mode will surely help in prolonging the contagious bliss that the listening educes. Thanks to these magnificent mumblings from the essence of equine illumination, it’s Deutschland Über Alles all over again.
The weird title of this self-produced 3-inch CD comes from a bizarre circumstance: Uhlig and Obst (the latter better known as Dronæment) unsuccessfully tried to take horseback riding lessons a while ago, both ending their experience with a dramatic failure, the stallion mercilessly sending them back to earth (in all senses). Dishonoured and depressed, the aspirant riders decided to make good use of the accident by putting two different microphones on the horse, respectively on the mane and in the nostrils (to be honest I still wonder if the couple’s report of the episode on the press release is indeed a joke), to capture animal-related sonic materials to be altered in the studio.
I really don’t know how sounds derived from the movements of a horse can be turned into creamily humming drones, but these German boys made it happen. These twenty one minutes – subdivided in nine tracks, heaven knows the reason of this discontinuity – spread intoxicating caresses all around, in some cases making the loose parts in my room rattle from the intensity of the sub-bass frequencies. A very simple idea that functions brilliantly: the repeat mode will surely help in prolonging the contagious bliss that the listening educes. Thanks to these magnificent mumblings from the essence of equine illumination, it’s Deutschland Über Alles all over again.
PALI MEURSAULT – Un(zéro)deux
Entr’acte
Recorded in Grenoble in 2007, this music was conceived utilizing location recordings and found objects. The risk of predictability, as always with this type of offer, is particularly high but Meursault did a good job by producing a soundscape that remunerates our concentration, working at various stages of perceptiveness.
In a way the piece is sketched like the curve of life itself: starting from extremely reduced elements - although oddly manipulated since the very beginning - it progressively evolves into a well-shaped body whose muscles are entirely delineated, reaching its conclusive phase in bitter, if expected decay. The quasi-biotic character of the initial sections is instantly accepted by the expert ear, preparing us for the subsequent stages where - layer upon layer - the sonic stratagems gradually increase their thickness and, with it, the psychological impact, which at certain moments becomes significant. The potential ability to discern sources and mechanics doesn’t imply that emotions are not warranted: in particular, a section of looped aircraft moans is alone worth of the whole CD, even if each episode strikes as a rational consequence of what had come prior. This is not a “taped-in-town, stuck-in-the-mix” kind of joke; the fact that Meursault managed to reach this level of attention-gripping quality during a live performance impresses me greatly. A distant comparison, exclusively in terms of attitude towards research, might be Toy.Bizarre’s sound art. Yet an individual personality is easily detectable here, as this artist does not indulge in mere copycat-ism.
When enamelled emptiness leaves room to genuine diligence, there’s a reason for celebrating. In a world jam-packed with people who - being unable to get a different line of work - literally reinvent themselves as manufacturers of sounds (often making nice money out of inexpert audiences), the freshness of a record like Un(zéro)deux is all the more welcome.
Recorded in Grenoble in 2007, this music was conceived utilizing location recordings and found objects. The risk of predictability, as always with this type of offer, is particularly high but Meursault did a good job by producing a soundscape that remunerates our concentration, working at various stages of perceptiveness.
In a way the piece is sketched like the curve of life itself: starting from extremely reduced elements - although oddly manipulated since the very beginning - it progressively evolves into a well-shaped body whose muscles are entirely delineated, reaching its conclusive phase in bitter, if expected decay. The quasi-biotic character of the initial sections is instantly accepted by the expert ear, preparing us for the subsequent stages where - layer upon layer - the sonic stratagems gradually increase their thickness and, with it, the psychological impact, which at certain moments becomes significant. The potential ability to discern sources and mechanics doesn’t imply that emotions are not warranted: in particular, a section of looped aircraft moans is alone worth of the whole CD, even if each episode strikes as a rational consequence of what had come prior. This is not a “taped-in-town, stuck-in-the-mix” kind of joke; the fact that Meursault managed to reach this level of attention-gripping quality during a live performance impresses me greatly. A distant comparison, exclusively in terms of attitude towards research, might be Toy.Bizarre’s sound art. Yet an individual personality is easily detectable here, as this artist does not indulge in mere copycat-ism.
When enamelled emptiness leaves room to genuine diligence, there’s a reason for celebrating. In a world jam-packed with people who - being unable to get a different line of work - literally reinvent themselves as manufacturers of sounds (often making nice money out of inexpert audiences), the freshness of a record like Un(zéro)deux is all the more welcome.
Sunday, 26 April 2009
WILLIAM BASINSKI – 92982
2062
The excruciatingly grieving mood that characterized The Disintegration Loops – William Basinski’s stylistic trademark and most renowned work – is back with a vengeance in 92982, a title corresponding to the date in which these tapes were originally manipulated to conjure up additional hues from the regions of infinite regret. After numerous attentive listens I’m still at a loss for words, such is the nearly metaphysical condition of unspecified anguish which this music elicits.
You could try and inspect Basinski’s creations with a microscope each and every time, systematically failing to label the Texan's gift as he chooses an uncomplicated harmonic sequence, loops it, layers that circular progression over and over to uncoil reminiscences depicting human decay. It’s the same aura irradiated by a portrait of an aging man who has no more reasons in life to smile at the camera. The artist’s ability is especially evident in the reiteration that opens and closes the CD, a cycle of tonal shades that can’t fail in bringing forth a sense of absolute non-belonging, that kind of inside emptiness that materializes in sensitive adolescents when they see a beloved person smiling to someone else, or when equally vulnerable children realize that no one will attend their birthday’s party. Call it “decisive delusion”, a crucial phase of existence that establishes if one’s ready for adulthood or will forever need to be reassured by moms, dads, teachers, gurus or divinities until the transformation into a total no-hoper is completed.
In particular, the concluding section – the composer’s recent reworking of the opening track’s original loop – is a two-chord ebb-and-flow that seem to express the theoretical spectrum of resonances needed to render the transition from flesh-and-bone mortality to pure energy. It easily compares to the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard, and its uncontaminated ecstasy could go on everlastingly. Also, more concrete aspects are observed when listening via headphones: the open-window mayhem of the second part, recorded while everyone was working and the phone kept ringing at Basinski’s studio that day, includes police sirens, traffic noises and, in general, metropolitan echoes that cover the dramatic colours of the main “theme” with a patina of smoggy grime. On the other hand, dig the tape machine’s dysfunctional behaviour in the third chapter, whose concept had already been exploited in Variations: A Movement In Chrome Primitive (Die Stadt). Mechanic nuances that contribute to a desolate representation, again giving the idea of something that’s not going to work for long before its definitive demise.
As yet another rainy afternoon elapses, it looks like the shadows of an uncertain future are trying to ingest the interior fortitudes of those who are by now conscious of the complete pointlessness of tormenting others with archetypal afterlife issues. There are people in this universe who don’t feel constrained to open the mouth to convey a deeper awareness, and there are rare specimens of beings prepared to disregard private sufferance and daily inanities in order to let their quintessence silently acknowledge the supremacy of evocative reverberation upon anything else.
Godly entities might not exist, but the presence of guardian angels becoming visible through certain kinds of sound is a truth that I’m willing to accept.
The excruciatingly grieving mood that characterized The Disintegration Loops – William Basinski’s stylistic trademark and most renowned work – is back with a vengeance in 92982, a title corresponding to the date in which these tapes were originally manipulated to conjure up additional hues from the regions of infinite regret. After numerous attentive listens I’m still at a loss for words, such is the nearly metaphysical condition of unspecified anguish which this music elicits.
You could try and inspect Basinski’s creations with a microscope each and every time, systematically failing to label the Texan's gift as he chooses an uncomplicated harmonic sequence, loops it, layers that circular progression over and over to uncoil reminiscences depicting human decay. It’s the same aura irradiated by a portrait of an aging man who has no more reasons in life to smile at the camera. The artist’s ability is especially evident in the reiteration that opens and closes the CD, a cycle of tonal shades that can’t fail in bringing forth a sense of absolute non-belonging, that kind of inside emptiness that materializes in sensitive adolescents when they see a beloved person smiling to someone else, or when equally vulnerable children realize that no one will attend their birthday’s party. Call it “decisive delusion”, a crucial phase of existence that establishes if one’s ready for adulthood or will forever need to be reassured by moms, dads, teachers, gurus or divinities until the transformation into a total no-hoper is completed.
In particular, the concluding section – the composer’s recent reworking of the opening track’s original loop – is a two-chord ebb-and-flow that seem to express the theoretical spectrum of resonances needed to render the transition from flesh-and-bone mortality to pure energy. It easily compares to the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard, and its uncontaminated ecstasy could go on everlastingly. Also, more concrete aspects are observed when listening via headphones: the open-window mayhem of the second part, recorded while everyone was working and the phone kept ringing at Basinski’s studio that day, includes police sirens, traffic noises and, in general, metropolitan echoes that cover the dramatic colours of the main “theme” with a patina of smoggy grime. On the other hand, dig the tape machine’s dysfunctional behaviour in the third chapter, whose concept had already been exploited in Variations: A Movement In Chrome Primitive (Die Stadt). Mechanic nuances that contribute to a desolate representation, again giving the idea of something that’s not going to work for long before its definitive demise.
As yet another rainy afternoon elapses, it looks like the shadows of an uncertain future are trying to ingest the interior fortitudes of those who are by now conscious of the complete pointlessness of tormenting others with archetypal afterlife issues. There are people in this universe who don’t feel constrained to open the mouth to convey a deeper awareness, and there are rare specimens of beings prepared to disregard private sufferance and daily inanities in order to let their quintessence silently acknowledge the supremacy of evocative reverberation upon anything else.
Godly entities might not exist, but the presence of guardian angels becoming visible through certain kinds of sound is a truth that I’m willing to accept.
Wednesday, 8 April 2009
DAN WARBURTON – Life In The Greenhouse
Appel Music
In February and March 2007, an exhibition curated by Anthony Huberman at Paris’ Palais de Tokyo included an installation named “Music for Plants” - by Peter Coffin - which consisted in a greenhouse where a number of musicians – among them Noël Akchoté, Hervé Boghossian, Pierre-Yves Macé and Jean-François Pauvros – played a solo set in order to entertain both the visitors and the green bystanders. Dan Warburton entered the context armed exclusively with his violin, the result being what you hear in this, the initial release of Julien Skrobek’s imprint.
It is not the first time that an artist improvises in a gallery with people moving all over the place, and the suffocated whooshing of the large hall - which includes the chattering, the walking, the toddlers’ curiosity and most probably the distant echoes of the outside traffic – is already in itself a warmly cuddling, almost oneiric environment for the set, which essentially consists in Warburton playing a series of distinct episodes, characterized by dissimilar approaches to the instrument. The violin is exploited nervously or placidly, lyrically or percussively, very long notes versus ultra-rapid fusillades. No part of the instrument is left untouched, and the quality of the recording is good enough to reveal the different spots in which the capable hands of the manipulator try to do damage to (and with) that little box. On the other hand, there are instances in which Warburton concocts vibrant reels, sounding minimalist and Eastern European at once: picture Tony Conrad dressed like a Bulgarian folk dancer and moving semi-spastically, unable to remain fossilized on an acceptable modus operandi. Music made of instantaneous intuitions and tiny micro-events which, once put together, incarnate the meaning that each of us wants to visualize. Or maybe it’s just outstanding free improvisation, no labels attached.
The player himself can’t predict the outcome of the disquieting glissandos, plucked reflections and hyperbolic hurly-burly on his closest audience – the plants. When one listens to the microtonal ostinato around the 34th minute - the apparently invariable pitches actually shifting before the whole returns to the calmness of a trouble-free harmonic consecutiveness - we imagine that, after a tolerant acceptance of that undesired guest, the greenhouse is pervaded by a refreshing scent that might even correspond to a polite applause.
In February and March 2007, an exhibition curated by Anthony Huberman at Paris’ Palais de Tokyo included an installation named “Music for Plants” - by Peter Coffin - which consisted in a greenhouse where a number of musicians – among them Noël Akchoté, Hervé Boghossian, Pierre-Yves Macé and Jean-François Pauvros – played a solo set in order to entertain both the visitors and the green bystanders. Dan Warburton entered the context armed exclusively with his violin, the result being what you hear in this, the initial release of Julien Skrobek’s imprint.
It is not the first time that an artist improvises in a gallery with people moving all over the place, and the suffocated whooshing of the large hall - which includes the chattering, the walking, the toddlers’ curiosity and most probably the distant echoes of the outside traffic – is already in itself a warmly cuddling, almost oneiric environment for the set, which essentially consists in Warburton playing a series of distinct episodes, characterized by dissimilar approaches to the instrument. The violin is exploited nervously or placidly, lyrically or percussively, very long notes versus ultra-rapid fusillades. No part of the instrument is left untouched, and the quality of the recording is good enough to reveal the different spots in which the capable hands of the manipulator try to do damage to (and with) that little box. On the other hand, there are instances in which Warburton concocts vibrant reels, sounding minimalist and Eastern European at once: picture Tony Conrad dressed like a Bulgarian folk dancer and moving semi-spastically, unable to remain fossilized on an acceptable modus operandi. Music made of instantaneous intuitions and tiny micro-events which, once put together, incarnate the meaning that each of us wants to visualize. Or maybe it’s just outstanding free improvisation, no labels attached.
The player himself can’t predict the outcome of the disquieting glissandos, plucked reflections and hyperbolic hurly-burly on his closest audience – the plants. When one listens to the microtonal ostinato around the 34th minute - the apparently invariable pitches actually shifting before the whole returns to the calmness of a trouble-free harmonic consecutiveness - we imagine that, after a tolerant acceptance of that undesired guest, the greenhouse is pervaded by a refreshing scent that might even correspond to a polite applause.
Friday, 3 April 2009
STÉPHANE RIVES – Much Remains To Be Heard
Al Maslakh
Exclusively blowing into a soprano saxophone, Stéphane Rives signs the second solo album recorded at his name following 2003’s Fibers on Potlatch. By defining this music “neither an improvisation, nor a composition”, Rives delivers the reviewer from the burden of an apparently inevitable classification, at the same time opening a whole assortment of interpretations to something that, purely and simply, appears like a meshing of physical and metaphysical, a subtle line separating a charged hush from the extreme tension that a bodily contraption generates, and that gets reflected in the shape of prolonged insufflations, or in the wavering piercing buzzing of adjacent harmonics. It’s not an undemanding task.
By continuously holding on a rough pitch – listen to the saxophonist sucking the air in during the circular breathing process, necessary for maintaining the sound uninterrupted – the artist throws out a crucial warning sign of life, symbolizing a presence that’s as basic as a newborn child’s cry, the urge of expressing a concept of “I’m right here, in this space, and this is my voice”. After a while the evolution begins: the note starts breaking up in minuscule shards, struggling to find position and definition in the room yet already powerful enough to let us foresee a development.
This is exactly what happens halfway through the piece, when Rives decides that the moment has come to increase the thickness of the emission. What rubs the ears at that point is a kind of extremely uneven tremor rarely audible in normal circumstances, probably causing a panicky reaction to those who believe that the brain should be lulled in order to be enhanced. Instead, this French gentleman slashes the listener with ruthless textures and stabbing high frequencies until we’re ready to brawl, he himself fighting a battle against the inconsequentiality of cuteness.
The quiet segments amplify the gist of what comes after – which, as time passes by, becomes more “fleshy” and timbrally delineated, but not painless. The variations in the shades of an introverted tone produce a stunning effect of entrancement, particularly evident around the 40th plus minutes; this section is the one that definitively elevates this CD to the highest spheres of essential analysis of a sonic phenomenon. Yet when the timbres begin to be finally accepted by our systems, silence falls again. The same goes to the end, which is preceded by another series of incredible, inhuman-sounding shuddering purrs.
Incandescent lights of sensitivity define this release as a milestone of explorative nothingness. To fully comprehend the magnitude of Much Remains To Be Heard we should perhaps forget about talking for a couple of months as we realize that there’s no need of contact whatsoever, such is the huge quantity of galvanizing energies that the record transmits. It contains everything that sheer being should mean and use – absolute stillness and advanced pulsation – in a hour or so. Alternatively, you can still play a part in community rituals based on made-up blathering about doing something important for the world at large, then go home and realize that you’re feeling as good as dead instead.
Exclusively blowing into a soprano saxophone, Stéphane Rives signs the second solo album recorded at his name following 2003’s Fibers on Potlatch. By defining this music “neither an improvisation, nor a composition”, Rives delivers the reviewer from the burden of an apparently inevitable classification, at the same time opening a whole assortment of interpretations to something that, purely and simply, appears like a meshing of physical and metaphysical, a subtle line separating a charged hush from the extreme tension that a bodily contraption generates, and that gets reflected in the shape of prolonged insufflations, or in the wavering piercing buzzing of adjacent harmonics. It’s not an undemanding task.
By continuously holding on a rough pitch – listen to the saxophonist sucking the air in during the circular breathing process, necessary for maintaining the sound uninterrupted – the artist throws out a crucial warning sign of life, symbolizing a presence that’s as basic as a newborn child’s cry, the urge of expressing a concept of “I’m right here, in this space, and this is my voice”. After a while the evolution begins: the note starts breaking up in minuscule shards, struggling to find position and definition in the room yet already powerful enough to let us foresee a development.
This is exactly what happens halfway through the piece, when Rives decides that the moment has come to increase the thickness of the emission. What rubs the ears at that point is a kind of extremely uneven tremor rarely audible in normal circumstances, probably causing a panicky reaction to those who believe that the brain should be lulled in order to be enhanced. Instead, this French gentleman slashes the listener with ruthless textures and stabbing high frequencies until we’re ready to brawl, he himself fighting a battle against the inconsequentiality of cuteness.
The quiet segments amplify the gist of what comes after – which, as time passes by, becomes more “fleshy” and timbrally delineated, but not painless. The variations in the shades of an introverted tone produce a stunning effect of entrancement, particularly evident around the 40th plus minutes; this section is the one that definitively elevates this CD to the highest spheres of essential analysis of a sonic phenomenon. Yet when the timbres begin to be finally accepted by our systems, silence falls again. The same goes to the end, which is preceded by another series of incredible, inhuman-sounding shuddering purrs.
Incandescent lights of sensitivity define this release as a milestone of explorative nothingness. To fully comprehend the magnitude of Much Remains To Be Heard we should perhaps forget about talking for a couple of months as we realize that there’s no need of contact whatsoever, such is the huge quantity of galvanizing energies that the record transmits. It contains everything that sheer being should mean and use – absolute stillness and advanced pulsation – in a hour or so. Alternatively, you can still play a part in community rituals based on made-up blathering about doing something important for the world at large, then go home and realize that you’re feeling as good as dead instead.
STEINBRÜCHEL – Sustain
Koyuki
A nice drone is what the doctor orders for putting the body and the mind in full-respite mode, but that drone should be made by people who know what they’re doing. Enter Ralf Steinbrüchel – engenderer of the most stimulating brand of electronica in recent years – and sleep like an angel, as Sustain represents exactly the kind of alleviating experience that one would want to reiterate forever, even while yawning his day away at the office.
Wouldn’t it be good, as Nik Kershaw used to sing, if every ugly face and meaningless sentence muttered by squeaking chicken-like creatures were completely cancelled by a robust juxtaposition of low frequencies - only slightly enhanced by intertwining, spiralling harmonic recurrences and (presumably) shortwave radio - that sounds as a wonderfully stuck church organ? You just have to spin this 3-inch CD – infinite repeat is a must – and let your interior mechanisms do the rest. The bulk of this music is sturdily built, the foundations never shake, the result is excellent, including the crunchy noise - similar to ancient vinyl - accompanying the conclusion of the piece. Diffusing from the speakers, this stuff is intoxicating and marvellously hypnotic. Sometimes a raspy curmudgeon loves to be caressed by a Swiss architect who’s able to generate extraordinary currents of aural bliss: this small gem definitely belongs in Steinbrüchel’s very best production – and in your collection.
A nice drone is what the doctor orders for putting the body and the mind in full-respite mode, but that drone should be made by people who know what they’re doing. Enter Ralf Steinbrüchel – engenderer of the most stimulating brand of electronica in recent years – and sleep like an angel, as Sustain represents exactly the kind of alleviating experience that one would want to reiterate forever, even while yawning his day away at the office.
Wouldn’t it be good, as Nik Kershaw used to sing, if every ugly face and meaningless sentence muttered by squeaking chicken-like creatures were completely cancelled by a robust juxtaposition of low frequencies - only slightly enhanced by intertwining, spiralling harmonic recurrences and (presumably) shortwave radio - that sounds as a wonderfully stuck church organ? You just have to spin this 3-inch CD – infinite repeat is a must – and let your interior mechanisms do the rest. The bulk of this music is sturdily built, the foundations never shake, the result is excellent, including the crunchy noise - similar to ancient vinyl - accompanying the conclusion of the piece. Diffusing from the speakers, this stuff is intoxicating and marvellously hypnotic. Sometimes a raspy curmudgeon loves to be caressed by a Swiss architect who’s able to generate extraordinary currents of aural bliss: this small gem definitely belongs in Steinbrüchel’s very best production – and in your collection.
Thursday, 2 April 2009
THE MICROSCOPIC SEPTET – Lobster Leaps In
Cuneiform
After the fantastic retrospective double whammy published by Cuneiform in 2006 (two volumes of History Of The Micros, featuring everything the group had released until then), The Microscopic Septet started a period of touring, the performances welcomed by enthusiastic audiences most everywhere. This prompted the co-leaders, sax player Phillip Johnston and pianist Joel Forrester, to return to a semi-regular activity and, especially, to record this new artefact – the first in twenty years.
Lobster Leaps In might lack a tad of the efficiency and some of the unpredictable explosions of hilarity of the earlier materials, yet it remains a valid release in every aspect, with hints to a middle-aged kind of harmonic exquisiteness that should not be overlooked. The superimposition of styles typical of the band has remained intact, but the quality of playing is now enriched by a more relaxed, nearly contemplative feel that occasionally becomes the reason – preposterously, one would think – of a pinch of sadness, that deriving from the scent of epochs that are gone forever. As hard as one tries to mask the mood under a layer of waxy cheerfulness, the memories keep lingering on; for sure the music contributes to raise the spirit, not to throw us in a hole of depression.
Difficult, in fact, to remain at a standstill when listening to the persistently changing scenarios of “Got Lucky”, catchy melodies unfolding upon an ever-varying succession of impressions. Yet the beginning of the subsequent track, “Lies”, almost reminds of Henry Cow - or Muffins, if you will - in its solemn approach to contrapuntal convergence before the piece takes complete shape, a swinging journey to boogie and reminisce with. The execution, here as in large portions of the album, is technically perfect – except various moments in which the “relax factor” introduces a few missed appointments in terms of rhythmic precision. But it’s all acceptable and, in a way, part of the game.
The greatness of this ensemble – also comprising Don Davis, Mike Hashim, Dave Sewelson, David Hofstra and Richard Dworkin – resides in the detached manner in which the music is rendered, just like a combo performing night after night while facing dancing folks. They know the tunes inside and out, thus being able to carry out the set while looking at the bizarre facets of human interrelation occurring in front of their eyes. “Almost Right”, though, would probably have caused additional trouble in times of war, full as it is of extremely dissonant parallelisms and quirky counter-themes. Needless to say, it’s among the disc’s best tracks.
In the era of computerized vacuum, this outing is a veritable oasis of acoustic relief. Good vibrations or nostalgic echoes, it doesn’t matter: the Micros belong to that endangered species called “musicians”. Those strange animals who can really play an instrument and transmit energies, a living organism with its muscles, bones, wrinkles and several scars, too – and whose appearance elicits immediate recognition and respect.
After the fantastic retrospective double whammy published by Cuneiform in 2006 (two volumes of History Of The Micros, featuring everything the group had released until then), The Microscopic Septet started a period of touring, the performances welcomed by enthusiastic audiences most everywhere. This prompted the co-leaders, sax player Phillip Johnston and pianist Joel Forrester, to return to a semi-regular activity and, especially, to record this new artefact – the first in twenty years.
Lobster Leaps In might lack a tad of the efficiency and some of the unpredictable explosions of hilarity of the earlier materials, yet it remains a valid release in every aspect, with hints to a middle-aged kind of harmonic exquisiteness that should not be overlooked. The superimposition of styles typical of the band has remained intact, but the quality of playing is now enriched by a more relaxed, nearly contemplative feel that occasionally becomes the reason – preposterously, one would think – of a pinch of sadness, that deriving from the scent of epochs that are gone forever. As hard as one tries to mask the mood under a layer of waxy cheerfulness, the memories keep lingering on; for sure the music contributes to raise the spirit, not to throw us in a hole of depression.
Difficult, in fact, to remain at a standstill when listening to the persistently changing scenarios of “Got Lucky”, catchy melodies unfolding upon an ever-varying succession of impressions. Yet the beginning of the subsequent track, “Lies”, almost reminds of Henry Cow - or Muffins, if you will - in its solemn approach to contrapuntal convergence before the piece takes complete shape, a swinging journey to boogie and reminisce with. The execution, here as in large portions of the album, is technically perfect – except various moments in which the “relax factor” introduces a few missed appointments in terms of rhythmic precision. But it’s all acceptable and, in a way, part of the game.
The greatness of this ensemble – also comprising Don Davis, Mike Hashim, Dave Sewelson, David Hofstra and Richard Dworkin – resides in the detached manner in which the music is rendered, just like a combo performing night after night while facing dancing folks. They know the tunes inside and out, thus being able to carry out the set while looking at the bizarre facets of human interrelation occurring in front of their eyes. “Almost Right”, though, would probably have caused additional trouble in times of war, full as it is of extremely dissonant parallelisms and quirky counter-themes. Needless to say, it’s among the disc’s best tracks.
In the era of computerized vacuum, this outing is a veritable oasis of acoustic relief. Good vibrations or nostalgic echoes, it doesn’t matter: the Micros belong to that endangered species called “musicians”. Those strange animals who can really play an instrument and transmit energies, a living organism with its muscles, bones, wrinkles and several scars, too – and whose appearance elicits immediate recognition and respect.
THE DAVE FOX GROUP FEATURING BRUCE EISENBEIL - Home Again
Konnex
Besides being a jazz specialist pianist Dave Fox is also classically trained, although you might not guess it by listening to Home Again, the third CD by The Dave Fox Group after 2004’s Gatewalk and 2007’s If These Songs Could Talk. Comprising the leader on grand piano, clavinet, Fender Rhodes and Hammond B-3 organ plus Bruce Eisenbeil (guitar), Pat Lawrence (bass) and Jon Marc Ryan Dale (drums), this incarnation of the ensemble couldn’t play a minute of formulaic music if one threatened them at gunpoint. Impertinent approaches to improvisation pullulate all over the record and outrageously climactic manifestations of lawlessness abound, with just the slightest exception of the conclusive - and vaguely, distantly tonal - “Home Again, For Now”, whose character mostly derives from jangling chords and overdriven strategies from Eisenbeil’s heavily processed axe.
An opposite example is constituted by “The Well-Prepared Suitcase”: the musicians strive to implement a rather unstructured type of instant invention without caring too much about the ribaldry that some of these semi-educated noises might evoke, generating a rebellious feeling in the (until then) unperturbed listener. “An Encounter With A Street Troll” – what a fabulous title for a piece – is probably the ideal symbolization of the band’s risky demeanour, chock full as it is of sudden increases in the fury-to-calmness ratio and striking exuberance at one and the same time.
Eisenbeil’s clear-sightedness in alternating distortion and purity during incessant circumventions of normalcy is as always astonishing – cultivated punk, if there was ever a better representative – and Fox receives wholeheartedly whatever is thrown his way, counterattacking with idiosyncratic commitment bathed in the sound of instruments from the 60s. Lawrence and Dale smirk appreciatively, swapping footnotes and oddball permutations that hypothetically should never be allowed in a “rhythm section” (ha!).
But this is the fractal tempo of real life’s enigmatic attractiveness, and – contrarily to the welcoming seduction of hypocrite gleaming – this raw charm entices more and more with each listen.
Besides being a jazz specialist pianist Dave Fox is also classically trained, although you might not guess it by listening to Home Again, the third CD by The Dave Fox Group after 2004’s Gatewalk and 2007’s If These Songs Could Talk. Comprising the leader on grand piano, clavinet, Fender Rhodes and Hammond B-3 organ plus Bruce Eisenbeil (guitar), Pat Lawrence (bass) and Jon Marc Ryan Dale (drums), this incarnation of the ensemble couldn’t play a minute of formulaic music if one threatened them at gunpoint. Impertinent approaches to improvisation pullulate all over the record and outrageously climactic manifestations of lawlessness abound, with just the slightest exception of the conclusive - and vaguely, distantly tonal - “Home Again, For Now”, whose character mostly derives from jangling chords and overdriven strategies from Eisenbeil’s heavily processed axe.
An opposite example is constituted by “The Well-Prepared Suitcase”: the musicians strive to implement a rather unstructured type of instant invention without caring too much about the ribaldry that some of these semi-educated noises might evoke, generating a rebellious feeling in the (until then) unperturbed listener. “An Encounter With A Street Troll” – what a fabulous title for a piece – is probably the ideal symbolization of the band’s risky demeanour, chock full as it is of sudden increases in the fury-to-calmness ratio and striking exuberance at one and the same time.
Eisenbeil’s clear-sightedness in alternating distortion and purity during incessant circumventions of normalcy is as always astonishing – cultivated punk, if there was ever a better representative – and Fox receives wholeheartedly whatever is thrown his way, counterattacking with idiosyncratic commitment bathed in the sound of instruments from the 60s. Lawrence and Dale smirk appreciatively, swapping footnotes and oddball permutations that hypothetically should never be allowed in a “rhythm section” (ha!).
But this is the fractal tempo of real life’s enigmatic attractiveness, and – contrarily to the welcoming seduction of hypocrite gleaming – this raw charm entices more and more with each listen.
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