Systems Neutralizers
You’re in a wretched condition: things don’t go well, there is no work, much less money, and the perspectives of living decorously appear bleak whatever angle you try to look from. While pondering about the kind of miracle that needs to happen to rescue what’s remained of a healthy fortitude from a progressively cadaveric existence, the button “play” is pushed and The Ascension: The Sequel welcomes the lucky victim, a Kalasnikov shooting bullets of pure vibrating energy.
Glenn Branca is back, conducting a sextet of young performers including four guitarists (Eveline Buhler, Eric Hubel, Reg Bloor, Greg McMullen) plus bassist Ryan Walsh and an extraordinary drummer responding to the name of Libby Fab, an incredible rhythm machine gifted with a gorgeous snare accent. The group is able to sustain any type of cross-examination and respond with the sort of impolite solidity - regulated by a remarkable discipline – which transforms the composer’s ideas into radiant shimmering, iridescent chords systematically overlapping over a monstrous pulse to engender overcharged harmonies that lull the brain until one’s out to the world, willing to accept every consequence that the excess of volume and the weight of significance will bring. This is achieved through peculiarly tuned instruments – Branca knows something on how a cluster should sound celestial to the ears of the cognoscenti – that get masterfully intertwined and superimposed, thus immortalizing the man’s furtherance of an acoustic research that’s probably too spiritually advanced for the intelligentsia, content to pointlessly disparage and arbitrate without realizing that under these implausible sonic floods lies the key that unlocks the doubts of many of us. At least, those who have realized that words are an inadequate method of expression for theories that exist just in terms of physical manifestation.
If one listens to the paroxysmal crescendo of “Lesson N°3 (Tribute To Steve Reich)”, or to the superb resonances elicited by the juxtaposition of the different parts in the amazing “Quadratonic”, and remains unaffected – or, even worse, irritated – that means that there’s a problem with that person. This is a record that consists of violent natural phenomena more than sheer music. Scorching rage hiding a blissful beauty, only revealed if we put forward a nude soul. One of the best Branca albums ever, the accomplishment of a sacred wholeness, the synthesis of decades of investigation delivered by an ensemble that looks lean and mean as an Asian junior lightweight. I’m ready to be taken, I’ve always been. The rest doesn’t matter anymore: this is the glorious clangour of life.
Monday, 29 March 2010
Friday, 26 March 2010
MIRIODOR - Avanti!
Cuneiform
The Italian word baptizing the CD translates as “forward!”, and apparently Miriodor are not intentioned to stop their march anytime soon. With this outing, the multi-instrumentalist Canadian quartet comprising Bernard Falaise, Pascal Globensky, Rémi Leclerc and Nicolas Masino (helped by saxophonists Pierre Labbé and Marie-Chantal Leclair and trumpeter Maxime St-Pierre) confirms that there’s still room for aggressive intelligence on the cloth of progressive rock stained by RIO liquids. The band’s tight as a tourniquet (as Roger Waters would have it) and my feet keep attempting to tap behind impractical metrical scansions.
Titles are shown both in French and English language on the cover; I chose the latter to indicate them. “Bewitchment” introduces a measure of uneasy diffidence in businesslike fashion through frightening riffs and power chords, yet it also flourishes in elegant outbreaks where the geometries of the single parts represent a distillation of instrumental discipline. The angular “Dare Devil” is an expression of hyperactive chiselling of a familiarly bizarre sonic matter, mixing adventurous counterpoint and recognized structures with Pygmy echoes and choking distortion. “Meeting Point” utilizes elements recalling Philip Glass, Goblin, Conventum and Lars Hollmer quite masterfully, the main theme a folk nightmare in its melodically skewed sarcasm (your scribe has been mentally singing it for days now), not to mention the excellent use of pre-recorded tapes to add further weirdness to the recipe.
“Standard Deviation” begins with another great ancient-sounding spirit followed by absurdist dissonance, then shifts the focus on a deranged dance replete with disturbing juxtapositions. Each part sounds completely unambiguous and pretty distinct to the ears yet, at the same time, a fantastic sense of stability permeates this chapter. “To Be Determined”, the longest selection on offer, remains unusually calm with rarefied synthetic scents and a National Health-like outer shell (including a characteristic electric piano and several semi-acoustic interludes). Nevertheless, under the apparent tranquillity a few winks to fractured tempos and intricate interconnections amidst warped faces and ghostly voices do appear. The title track transmits additional messages from the office of utopian mercilessness, sampled utterances used as rhythmic basis in between chromatic roundabouts that might look reachable for the memory to retain but are instead extremely problematical. “Shadow Of The Alarm Clock” is the final episode, once more characterized by a mixture of substantial riffage and resolute blackness just slightly broken by those splendidly intertwining guitars, a recurring element of transparency among the numerous complexities that the record presents.
Outstanding stuff all the way, we need albums like this every six months or less.
The Italian word baptizing the CD translates as “forward!”, and apparently Miriodor are not intentioned to stop their march anytime soon. With this outing, the multi-instrumentalist Canadian quartet comprising Bernard Falaise, Pascal Globensky, Rémi Leclerc and Nicolas Masino (helped by saxophonists Pierre Labbé and Marie-Chantal Leclair and trumpeter Maxime St-Pierre) confirms that there’s still room for aggressive intelligence on the cloth of progressive rock stained by RIO liquids. The band’s tight as a tourniquet (as Roger Waters would have it) and my feet keep attempting to tap behind impractical metrical scansions.
Titles are shown both in French and English language on the cover; I chose the latter to indicate them. “Bewitchment” introduces a measure of uneasy diffidence in businesslike fashion through frightening riffs and power chords, yet it also flourishes in elegant outbreaks where the geometries of the single parts represent a distillation of instrumental discipline. The angular “Dare Devil” is an expression of hyperactive chiselling of a familiarly bizarre sonic matter, mixing adventurous counterpoint and recognized structures with Pygmy echoes and choking distortion. “Meeting Point” utilizes elements recalling Philip Glass, Goblin, Conventum and Lars Hollmer quite masterfully, the main theme a folk nightmare in its melodically skewed sarcasm (your scribe has been mentally singing it for days now), not to mention the excellent use of pre-recorded tapes to add further weirdness to the recipe.
“Standard Deviation” begins with another great ancient-sounding spirit followed by absurdist dissonance, then shifts the focus on a deranged dance replete with disturbing juxtapositions. Each part sounds completely unambiguous and pretty distinct to the ears yet, at the same time, a fantastic sense of stability permeates this chapter. “To Be Determined”, the longest selection on offer, remains unusually calm with rarefied synthetic scents and a National Health-like outer shell (including a characteristic electric piano and several semi-acoustic interludes). Nevertheless, under the apparent tranquillity a few winks to fractured tempos and intricate interconnections amidst warped faces and ghostly voices do appear. The title track transmits additional messages from the office of utopian mercilessness, sampled utterances used as rhythmic basis in between chromatic roundabouts that might look reachable for the memory to retain but are instead extremely problematical. “Shadow Of The Alarm Clock” is the final episode, once more characterized by a mixture of substantial riffage and resolute blackness just slightly broken by those splendidly intertwining guitars, a recurring element of transparency among the numerous complexities that the record presents.
Outstanding stuff all the way, we need albums like this every six months or less.
Monday, 22 March 2010
ALAN COURTIS / JAIME GENOVART / CHRISTOF KURZMANN / PABLO RECHE – Palmar Zähler
Mikroton
The six tracks comprised by Palmar Zähler were recorded in 2008 in Buenos Aires, Kurzmann being the only European member of the quartet amidst three Argentineans (including a new name for yours truly: Genovart, credited with “recording, synth, soft”). The instrumentation also comprises homemade violin, contact mic, mp3, tapes & processing (Courtis), lloopp, clarinet and voice (Kurzmann), minidisc, iPod, Alesis Nanoverb, Korg MS10 (Reche). This is a classic case of music that literally shuts its doors in the face of the listeners, preventing them to come in easily. Although all parts are layered with a neatness that contrasts with the generally unfriendly tones of which the whole is permeated, the general impression is one of difficulty in abandoning ourselves to the flux of the events, repeated listens not so helpful in unlocking the mechanisms revealing the secret beauties hypothetically lying in.
Most colours tends to the ashen side of the spectrum, revolving around sonorities ranging from bleeping signals and shrilling highs to intrusions of harsher, almost molesting flurries that cause a sense of indistinct distress. Droning elements are used with conscious care, without exaggeration. The ideas are mainly compatible, the unfolding of the improvisations unwelcomingly natural; points in common with the work of other artists operating in the same field are present (Günter Müller is a hovering ghost throughout). Some components do work very efficiently, others less (I don’t like when vocals are involved , to be entirely honest). Overall, a complicated evaluation. For sure this is a well planned recording, executed with intelligence except for a couple of short segments; yet it’s also very difficult to accept in terms of sheer aural gratification. An interesting experiment from serious explorers, but not gifted with the intrinsic radiance that characterizes the memorable episodes of the genre.
The six tracks comprised by Palmar Zähler were recorded in 2008 in Buenos Aires, Kurzmann being the only European member of the quartet amidst three Argentineans (including a new name for yours truly: Genovart, credited with “recording, synth, soft”). The instrumentation also comprises homemade violin, contact mic, mp3, tapes & processing (Courtis), lloopp, clarinet and voice (Kurzmann), minidisc, iPod, Alesis Nanoverb, Korg MS10 (Reche). This is a classic case of music that literally shuts its doors in the face of the listeners, preventing them to come in easily. Although all parts are layered with a neatness that contrasts with the generally unfriendly tones of which the whole is permeated, the general impression is one of difficulty in abandoning ourselves to the flux of the events, repeated listens not so helpful in unlocking the mechanisms revealing the secret beauties hypothetically lying in.
Most colours tends to the ashen side of the spectrum, revolving around sonorities ranging from bleeping signals and shrilling highs to intrusions of harsher, almost molesting flurries that cause a sense of indistinct distress. Droning elements are used with conscious care, without exaggeration. The ideas are mainly compatible, the unfolding of the improvisations unwelcomingly natural; points in common with the work of other artists operating in the same field are present (Günter Müller is a hovering ghost throughout). Some components do work very efficiently, others less (I don’t like when vocals are involved , to be entirely honest). Overall, a complicated evaluation. For sure this is a well planned recording, executed with intelligence except for a couple of short segments; yet it’s also very difficult to accept in terms of sheer aural gratification. An interesting experiment from serious explorers, but not gifted with the intrinsic radiance that characterizes the memorable episodes of the genre.
Sunday, 14 March 2010
MARIO DIAZ DE LEÓN – Enter Houses Of
Tzadik
A multi-instrumentalist composer born in Minnesota but residing in NY, Mario Diaz De León’s music has been thoroughly inspired by numerous experiences, starting with his role as a guitar player in hardcore punk groups and culminating in studies with the late Maryanne Amacher and George Lewis. Declared influences are - among a number of other things and humans – Scelsi, Ligeti, Dumitrescu and Radulescu. Not bad for a 31-year old who started to write for classical instruments only in 2001, and today is able to keep us on the edge of our pants with a vibrant synthesis of drama and idiosyncratic creativity.
The opening “Mansion” alternates obsessive flutes and unfeeling computerized appearances in a series of pre-constructed scenarios in which noise and percussion establish an environment of shifting balances and hardly bearable tensions, a sense of perilous imminence characterizing the entire piece, which sounds more improvised than composed in a rather fresh way. “The Flesh Needs Fire” - for flute, clarinets and electronics - is a juicy taster of the composer’s unique identity, explicated through assortments of glistening juxtapositions and climactic crescendos of morphing harmonics amidst granular ruggedness which, later on, give room to rhythmically challenging contrapuntal appropriations.
“II.23” - Wendy Richman’s viola at the same time fighting and courting an array of murmured menaces and ungentle intrusions - is one of the most emotionally charged tracks on offer, the demonstration of what’s possible to accomplish with a correct dosage of coldness and passion in a sublime fusion of acoustic and electronic. The subsequent “2.20” unites a string trio and the ever-present abstractness in a concentrated inflammation which does not preclude the possibility of entering the sonic picture almost concretely, such are the vividness of the narration and the brilliance of the concept. The final portion of this score comprises some seriously engrossing intuitions - please go and check yourselves.
The album is sealed by “Gated Eclipse”. The pedestrian dulcis in fundo commonplace would be appropriate enough, hadn’t the excellence of the preceding material already alerted about this man’s potential. A complex combination of effective sharpness and poignant stability is generated by a magnificent sextet – flute, clarinet, piano, percussion, violin and cello – tuning the music to impenetrable auras while leaving us catch a vague glimpse of superior levels of understanding. Now, think of the endless ages spent by many poor souls to “interpret” the compositional mechanisms of “illustrious geniuses” – you know, Vivaldi, Mozart, Strauss and the likes, people who churned out petite playgroup songs adorned by orchestral bric-a-brac upon commission for the ecstasy of spiritually undersized aural illiterates. As one sees all of this rendered null and void by a synthetic sublimation of cosmic harmony lasting just over 13 minutes, sneers of irony and tears of compassion are equally justified.
A multi-instrumentalist composer born in Minnesota but residing in NY, Mario Diaz De León’s music has been thoroughly inspired by numerous experiences, starting with his role as a guitar player in hardcore punk groups and culminating in studies with the late Maryanne Amacher and George Lewis. Declared influences are - among a number of other things and humans – Scelsi, Ligeti, Dumitrescu and Radulescu. Not bad for a 31-year old who started to write for classical instruments only in 2001, and today is able to keep us on the edge of our pants with a vibrant synthesis of drama and idiosyncratic creativity.
The opening “Mansion” alternates obsessive flutes and unfeeling computerized appearances in a series of pre-constructed scenarios in which noise and percussion establish an environment of shifting balances and hardly bearable tensions, a sense of perilous imminence characterizing the entire piece, which sounds more improvised than composed in a rather fresh way. “The Flesh Needs Fire” - for flute, clarinets and electronics - is a juicy taster of the composer’s unique identity, explicated through assortments of glistening juxtapositions and climactic crescendos of morphing harmonics amidst granular ruggedness which, later on, give room to rhythmically challenging contrapuntal appropriations.
“II.23” - Wendy Richman’s viola at the same time fighting and courting an array of murmured menaces and ungentle intrusions - is one of the most emotionally charged tracks on offer, the demonstration of what’s possible to accomplish with a correct dosage of coldness and passion in a sublime fusion of acoustic and electronic. The subsequent “2.20” unites a string trio and the ever-present abstractness in a concentrated inflammation which does not preclude the possibility of entering the sonic picture almost concretely, such are the vividness of the narration and the brilliance of the concept. The final portion of this score comprises some seriously engrossing intuitions - please go and check yourselves.
The album is sealed by “Gated Eclipse”. The pedestrian dulcis in fundo commonplace would be appropriate enough, hadn’t the excellence of the preceding material already alerted about this man’s potential. A complex combination of effective sharpness and poignant stability is generated by a magnificent sextet – flute, clarinet, piano, percussion, violin and cello – tuning the music to impenetrable auras while leaving us catch a vague glimpse of superior levels of understanding. Now, think of the endless ages spent by many poor souls to “interpret” the compositional mechanisms of “illustrious geniuses” – you know, Vivaldi, Mozart, Strauss and the likes, people who churned out petite playgroup songs adorned by orchestral bric-a-brac upon commission for the ecstasy of spiritually undersized aural illiterates. As one sees all of this rendered null and void by a synthetic sublimation of cosmic harmony lasting just over 13 minutes, sneers of irony and tears of compassion are equally justified.
SLW – Fifteen Point Nine Grams
Organized Music From Thessaloniki
This is the second CD released by the quartet of Burkhard Beins (selected percussion, objects), Lucio Capece (soprano sax, bass clarinet, preparations), Rhodri Davies (electric harp, electro-acoustic devices) and Toshimaru Nakamura (no-input mixing board). It features a live recording from 2007 at the NPAI Festival in Parthenay, France, yet it sounds – for any purpose and effect – like a studio session.
The duration of less than 45 minutes is ideal for the music to expand without unnecessary elongations and repetitions. An event is given the right time to manifest, get understood, acknowledged and – possibly - assimilated. The developing of the various phases is based upon primary colours belonging to two main categories: extensive tones – generally ruthless and quite sinister, now and then subtly stimulating – and transliterations of cryptic messages from some space between expected sound and sheer physicality of a particular vibration. The latter type of manifestation is what mostly outlines our concentration in the performance, the aims that the musicians had set achieved through motorized mechanisms, abrasive procedures or mere sensitiveness when corporeal issues – air, liquids – are a part of the test.
This is not a jovial work waking up a sense of merriment, nor it’s supernatural enough to cause the classic feeling of not belonging to reality in a certain moment. The aural symptoms are all very present, in your face, substantial even in their quietest aspects. The rare occasions in which cogitation is allowed are instantly wiped out by powerful surges, the compositeness of the sonic tissue ominously remunerative. Accordingly, the fragment from the 17th to the 21st minute - a potently collective, almost tribal massive growth - is enormously significant. One is afraid that the memory of Beins’ monstrous clatter and Capece’s piercing squeals will keep the addressee awake and overwrought for many nights to come.
Distress and deduction, explicitness and inquisition, hostility and gratification. The stability of these contrasting elements is utmost, the timbres generated an expression of enthralling cold-heartedness that nonetheless reveals a perceptive intellectual capacity. It’s something that transpires continuously from these unwelcoming blends, and becomes clearer - in different points - with each new listen.
This is the second CD released by the quartet of Burkhard Beins (selected percussion, objects), Lucio Capece (soprano sax, bass clarinet, preparations), Rhodri Davies (electric harp, electro-acoustic devices) and Toshimaru Nakamura (no-input mixing board). It features a live recording from 2007 at the NPAI Festival in Parthenay, France, yet it sounds – for any purpose and effect – like a studio session.
The duration of less than 45 minutes is ideal for the music to expand without unnecessary elongations and repetitions. An event is given the right time to manifest, get understood, acknowledged and – possibly - assimilated. The developing of the various phases is based upon primary colours belonging to two main categories: extensive tones – generally ruthless and quite sinister, now and then subtly stimulating – and transliterations of cryptic messages from some space between expected sound and sheer physicality of a particular vibration. The latter type of manifestation is what mostly outlines our concentration in the performance, the aims that the musicians had set achieved through motorized mechanisms, abrasive procedures or mere sensitiveness when corporeal issues – air, liquids – are a part of the test.
This is not a jovial work waking up a sense of merriment, nor it’s supernatural enough to cause the classic feeling of not belonging to reality in a certain moment. The aural symptoms are all very present, in your face, substantial even in their quietest aspects. The rare occasions in which cogitation is allowed are instantly wiped out by powerful surges, the compositeness of the sonic tissue ominously remunerative. Accordingly, the fragment from the 17th to the 21st minute - a potently collective, almost tribal massive growth - is enormously significant. One is afraid that the memory of Beins’ monstrous clatter and Capece’s piercing squeals will keep the addressee awake and overwrought for many nights to come.
Distress and deduction, explicitness and inquisition, hostility and gratification. The stability of these contrasting elements is utmost, the timbres generated an expression of enthralling cold-heartedness that nonetheless reveals a perceptive intellectual capacity. It’s something that transpires continuously from these unwelcoming blends, and becomes clearer - in different points - with each new listen.
Friday, 12 March 2010
SLOWCREAM - And
Nonine
In my time-honoured listening practice I have encountered a lot of musicians using sampling to construct their works. Some of them brilliant, the large part unmemorable. Well, listen to what your mature brother is going to tell now: ME Raabenstein – the Berlin-based artist who published this masterwork under the Slowcream nickname – might be one of the finest assemblers of orchestral snippets and concrete materials ever heard by this appraiser. And is spinning endlessly, never ceasing to amaze with its magnificence, exactness and intelligence. It’s been two days, and nothing else was accepted as the house’s soundtrack.
What started as a commission from an unspecified modern dance project has developed into five tracks of impeccably constructed bionic creations, pieces where a mood – usually quite dramatic – is immediately established with just a couple of touches. From there, the music evolves without looking back: either looped or seamed in diverse permutations these fragments leave enraptured, halfway through a desolate sense of broken-heartedness and the awe that children feel during the first evening at the auditorium with their parents. There’s something in Slowcream’s approach that renders the whole event majestic, minus the pomposity. Overwhelmingly simple, one would say, with peculiarly resounding reverberations and occasional dissonant factors that add to the mystery.
The samples are meshed with live improvisation, the culprit being Greg Haines who adds cellos and organs in three episodes. His suggestive contributions provide the definitive coup de grace for any latent resistance, adding a dose of ambiguity to atmospheres solemn enough to cause the rational activity to completely stop, in order to focus to the acoustic intensification. In particular, “Moisture” – built upon a pizzicato background – elicits unspeakable memories via the juxtaposition of a hummed low-register melody amidst marvellous string glissandos and sparse hints to pianistic moderation. This discipline of the unexpected is signified by compositional shapes that may give the impression of typicality at the outset but, on the contrary, represent splendidly amorphous examples of cut’n’paste creativity. The entire album is replete with this kind of sensibility, the attention to every detail perceptible in each of its 40 minutes, the emotional level always high.
I had not met Slowcream until yesterday, yet am willing to bet that as soon as your copy of And starts spraying these substances in the room you’ll be instantly hooked. This is an extraordinary release which will appeal to open-minded classical lovers, minimalism, sampladelia and – in general - those who are able to distinguish a serious craftsman from a dabbler right away. No reason exists to miss it.
In my time-honoured listening practice I have encountered a lot of musicians using sampling to construct their works. Some of them brilliant, the large part unmemorable. Well, listen to what your mature brother is going to tell now: ME Raabenstein – the Berlin-based artist who published this masterwork under the Slowcream nickname – might be one of the finest assemblers of orchestral snippets and concrete materials ever heard by this appraiser. And is spinning endlessly, never ceasing to amaze with its magnificence, exactness and intelligence. It’s been two days, and nothing else was accepted as the house’s soundtrack.
What started as a commission from an unspecified modern dance project has developed into five tracks of impeccably constructed bionic creations, pieces where a mood – usually quite dramatic – is immediately established with just a couple of touches. From there, the music evolves without looking back: either looped or seamed in diverse permutations these fragments leave enraptured, halfway through a desolate sense of broken-heartedness and the awe that children feel during the first evening at the auditorium with their parents. There’s something in Slowcream’s approach that renders the whole event majestic, minus the pomposity. Overwhelmingly simple, one would say, with peculiarly resounding reverberations and occasional dissonant factors that add to the mystery.
The samples are meshed with live improvisation, the culprit being Greg Haines who adds cellos and organs in three episodes. His suggestive contributions provide the definitive coup de grace for any latent resistance, adding a dose of ambiguity to atmospheres solemn enough to cause the rational activity to completely stop, in order to focus to the acoustic intensification. In particular, “Moisture” – built upon a pizzicato background – elicits unspeakable memories via the juxtaposition of a hummed low-register melody amidst marvellous string glissandos and sparse hints to pianistic moderation. This discipline of the unexpected is signified by compositional shapes that may give the impression of typicality at the outset but, on the contrary, represent splendidly amorphous examples of cut’n’paste creativity. The entire album is replete with this kind of sensibility, the attention to every detail perceptible in each of its 40 minutes, the emotional level always high.
I had not met Slowcream until yesterday, yet am willing to bet that as soon as your copy of And starts spraying these substances in the room you’ll be instantly hooked. This is an extraordinary release which will appeal to open-minded classical lovers, minimalism, sampladelia and – in general - those who are able to distinguish a serious craftsman from a dabbler right away. No reason exists to miss it.
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