Nu-Jazz
MacDonald (saxophone) and Davidson (guitar) met Fujii (piano) and Tamura (trumpet) at the Centre For The Contemporary Arts in Glasgow in 2005, drummer Bancroft acting as the percussive link between the pairs. The technical combinations are surprisingly diversified from a piece to another. The initial cyclical jumpiness of "Navigation" and the calm rarefaction of "Parallel Shapes" are but short introductions to a string of distinct images that, however, appear as entirely corresponding. Openings towards a roominess nearly approaching ECM-derived moods are not absent ("Overload" a fulgent example in that sense, Fujii and Tamura generating austere waves of acoustic entrancement). "A Strange Prediction" is somewhat inexplicable, played as it is around scattered piano chords and silently accurate choices of involvement from the other instruments, the trumpet intermittently caught in autistic replication of a fragment.
"Two Blocks East" features an odd concurrence of instrumental nonattendance and call-and-response desirousness in what's perhaps the only concession to literal EAI, before summoning forth the regular timbres in all connotations, shifting the focus on increasingly angrier free jazz until a quiet ending. "Into The Diversion" makes good use of power-driven appliances à la Rowe on Davidson's axe then grows in intensity, MacDonald adopting a confrontational stance through his arresting voice. After the tonelessly brief, quirky "Oxygenitis", "How Did I Get Here" meshes Schweizer-esque instances and guitar-based deliberateness in total coolness, Bancroft suggesting hypothetical pulses in the background prior to the sax remaining alone again. "Euphoria" concludes the program with a pinch of sadness, once more placing Fujii and Tamura's fragility at the basis of the improvisation.
Throughout this brilliant album the participants can be seen reinforcing their personalities under the dim yet inextinguishable light of collective artistic integrity. Please rescue Cities from an unmerited anonymity.
Friday, 28 May 2010
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
WALTER & SABRINA – Two Tales
Danny Dark
Just in case you weren’t attentive, Walter Cardew and Stephen “Sabrina” Moore parted ways last year. The email exchanges subsequent to the decision – apparently due to Cardew’s will – constitute an essential part of the libretto that comes with this edition, comprising the Two Tales CD and a book called Amalgam, Gotta Get A Shag. We are also introduced to the script to an unrealized short movie, Cor Blimey, You’ll Never Get Rid Of That. Add to this the thorniest music you’re likely to hear in half a decade and realize why the duo was first dignified, then abruptly thrown amidst the pariahs by the erstwhile “specialized” avant-garde press. As Cardew wrote in the accompanying letter, “there’s plenty here to get your teeth into, I hope”. Provided that one doesn’t break them, of course.
The poetry of human dissipation that has characterized the story of WandS is exalted at the maximum degree. The graphic description of sleazy sexual acts and the overall aura of grimy desperation surrounding the wretched lives of the persons involved in the “plots” is set in a typically perplexing literary style that lets the listener confused in between warped glimpses and nightmarish flashes, similarly to the by-products of the mind of a drunkard fallen asleep in front of a C-level hard-core flick. Everything is fragments, snippets, indistinct details, lewd memories, obliteration of eroticism, sanctification of the most absolute immorality. And yet we’re listening and reading assiduously while thinking what’s wrong with us, still interested in analyzing the reasons of a stimulus that, in its purest form, should cause a levitation towards the highest levels of communion and instead is very often the origin of trouble and, at worst, of psychic degeneration that occasionally leads to excessive gestures. Fascinating issues that Cardew and Moore are, as usual, unafraid to toss in our face without ointments.
The sonic substance is typified by a choice of conspicuous aspects, beginning with a severe fragmentariness. The obstinate permanence of the voices in the extreme registers of soprano (both female and male performers are utilized in that sense) defines the whole program. Some of them are processed with distortion, if in selected tiny parts; a complicatedness which is exhausting only to imagine during the realization process. One can envision poor Celia Lu’s strained vocal cords after many hours of session to execute what sounds like Schoenberg’s Sprechstimme squeezed with a sponge imbued with acid. The non-superficial ear realizes that solemn counterpoints are applied to these Pindaric flights through depravation. The arrangement of “Tale Two” is splendidly enriched by Chris Edwards’ oboe and Kati Lawrence’s bassoon – not to mention Androniki Lioukura’s exceptional performance on piano. Written pieces and improvisations are practically indistinguishable; when the engine gets going, radically remarkable stuff arises. A comparison to Crass – yes, the punk group – found on another write-up had me smiling in resignation. Do these individuals really listen to the records they’re sent? There are more intricacies in these scores than in the entire careers of certain geniuses. Have a taste of the absurdly jumbled “Untitled” – the album’s lone instrumental – to drown alone in cerebral disintegration.
A sheer summary cannot say that much, and it’s too late anyway. The couple is broken up, the final chapter of their life containing the kind of art that equals rare commodity these days. Music that gives the finger to the shallow-minded unfortunates who can’t read between the lines, that is excessively complex for the average critic to assimilate, and that causes people who didn’t understand it, but are afraid to appear dumb, to review it with discouraging superficiality. Heaven knows if Walter & Sabrina were truly aware that this couldn’t go far, artistically speaking, in today’s world. What I’m sure of is that their attempt won my utmost respect, besides causing the re-evaluation of all those horrific pseudo-erotic movies watched lots of years ago, forgotten masterpieces of supreme mediocrity that nevertheless possess the great merit of showing the reality of things. The type of ascension that starts from the slimy waters of filth. The holiness of squalor – now that’s a title.
Just in case you weren’t attentive, Walter Cardew and Stephen “Sabrina” Moore parted ways last year. The email exchanges subsequent to the decision – apparently due to Cardew’s will – constitute an essential part of the libretto that comes with this edition, comprising the Two Tales CD and a book called Amalgam, Gotta Get A Shag. We are also introduced to the script to an unrealized short movie, Cor Blimey, You’ll Never Get Rid Of That. Add to this the thorniest music you’re likely to hear in half a decade and realize why the duo was first dignified, then abruptly thrown amidst the pariahs by the erstwhile “specialized” avant-garde press. As Cardew wrote in the accompanying letter, “there’s plenty here to get your teeth into, I hope”. Provided that one doesn’t break them, of course.
The poetry of human dissipation that has characterized the story of WandS is exalted at the maximum degree. The graphic description of sleazy sexual acts and the overall aura of grimy desperation surrounding the wretched lives of the persons involved in the “plots” is set in a typically perplexing literary style that lets the listener confused in between warped glimpses and nightmarish flashes, similarly to the by-products of the mind of a drunkard fallen asleep in front of a C-level hard-core flick. Everything is fragments, snippets, indistinct details, lewd memories, obliteration of eroticism, sanctification of the most absolute immorality. And yet we’re listening and reading assiduously while thinking what’s wrong with us, still interested in analyzing the reasons of a stimulus that, in its purest form, should cause a levitation towards the highest levels of communion and instead is very often the origin of trouble and, at worst, of psychic degeneration that occasionally leads to excessive gestures. Fascinating issues that Cardew and Moore are, as usual, unafraid to toss in our face without ointments.
The sonic substance is typified by a choice of conspicuous aspects, beginning with a severe fragmentariness. The obstinate permanence of the voices in the extreme registers of soprano (both female and male performers are utilized in that sense) defines the whole program. Some of them are processed with distortion, if in selected tiny parts; a complicatedness which is exhausting only to imagine during the realization process. One can envision poor Celia Lu’s strained vocal cords after many hours of session to execute what sounds like Schoenberg’s Sprechstimme squeezed with a sponge imbued with acid. The non-superficial ear realizes that solemn counterpoints are applied to these Pindaric flights through depravation. The arrangement of “Tale Two” is splendidly enriched by Chris Edwards’ oboe and Kati Lawrence’s bassoon – not to mention Androniki Lioukura’s exceptional performance on piano. Written pieces and improvisations are practically indistinguishable; when the engine gets going, radically remarkable stuff arises. A comparison to Crass – yes, the punk group – found on another write-up had me smiling in resignation. Do these individuals really listen to the records they’re sent? There are more intricacies in these scores than in the entire careers of certain geniuses. Have a taste of the absurdly jumbled “Untitled” – the album’s lone instrumental – to drown alone in cerebral disintegration.
A sheer summary cannot say that much, and it’s too late anyway. The couple is broken up, the final chapter of their life containing the kind of art that equals rare commodity these days. Music that gives the finger to the shallow-minded unfortunates who can’t read between the lines, that is excessively complex for the average critic to assimilate, and that causes people who didn’t understand it, but are afraid to appear dumb, to review it with discouraging superficiality. Heaven knows if Walter & Sabrina were truly aware that this couldn’t go far, artistically speaking, in today’s world. What I’m sure of is that their attempt won my utmost respect, besides causing the re-evaluation of all those horrific pseudo-erotic movies watched lots of years ago, forgotten masterpieces of supreme mediocrity that nevertheless possess the great merit of showing the reality of things. The type of ascension that starts from the slimy waters of filth. The holiness of squalor – now that’s a title.
Monday, 24 May 2010
LIZ ALLBEE – Theseus Vs.
Resipiscent
The woman has dabbled with people of the calibre of Anthony Braxton, Fred Frith, Gino Robair and Rova, usually expressing herself through voice, trumpet and electronics. She’s also known as Luz Alibi (the card inside the silkscreened box says “Luz Alibi – Theseus Vs. The Ship Of Fools”). Oh, well. The work lasts circa 35 minutes subdivided in twelve tracks, some of them extremely concise at less than a minute. A slightly twisted absurdist mood constantly affects the songs – because these are songs, apart from a handful of anarchic digressions – so that the overall feeling is one of undeniable originality, something that is indeed difficult to compare to theoretically related stuff that I’ve heard (a whiff of Residents, perhaps?).
My problem is that this semi-perverted amusement runs parallel to a lack of really momentous intensity; maybe this is the artist’s actual intention. Mostly revolving about trouble-free rhythmic scansions, electronically misshapen small noises and not excessively challenging instrumental configurations - repeatedly subjected to additional transformations via pitch-shifting devices and other cheaper kinds of effect - this music belongs to the colourful list of materials that sound aurally enjoyable for a change, without remaining engraved in the memory. When the hyper-processing deforming mask comes down, what’s visible is enough for pronouncing the word “oddity”, but that’s all. The talent is definitely there, though, and we would love to see it utilized for more substantial projects.
The woman has dabbled with people of the calibre of Anthony Braxton, Fred Frith, Gino Robair and Rova, usually expressing herself through voice, trumpet and electronics. She’s also known as Luz Alibi (the card inside the silkscreened box says “Luz Alibi – Theseus Vs. The Ship Of Fools”). Oh, well. The work lasts circa 35 minutes subdivided in twelve tracks, some of them extremely concise at less than a minute. A slightly twisted absurdist mood constantly affects the songs – because these are songs, apart from a handful of anarchic digressions – so that the overall feeling is one of undeniable originality, something that is indeed difficult to compare to theoretically related stuff that I’ve heard (a whiff of Residents, perhaps?).
My problem is that this semi-perverted amusement runs parallel to a lack of really momentous intensity; maybe this is the artist’s actual intention. Mostly revolving about trouble-free rhythmic scansions, electronically misshapen small noises and not excessively challenging instrumental configurations - repeatedly subjected to additional transformations via pitch-shifting devices and other cheaper kinds of effect - this music belongs to the colourful list of materials that sound aurally enjoyable for a change, without remaining engraved in the memory. When the hyper-processing deforming mask comes down, what’s visible is enough for pronouncing the word “oddity”, but that’s all. The talent is definitely there, though, and we would love to see it utilized for more substantial projects.
Sunday, 23 May 2010
PÅL ASLE PETTERSEN – Komposisjoner 2005-2008
Zang
Pettersen, born in 1975, is a Norwegian electroacoustic assembler and a renowned activist of the local avant scene. He achieves most of his stimulating sounds via regular objects and homemade stuff, apparently randomized in unpredictable fashion. Yet, if one’s attentive enough, the man also provides a structural intelligibility that facilitates the act of listening from beginning to end. There are no actual titles to these pieces, since they’re distinguished only with numbers; this tells a lot about the composer’s will of presenting the audience with factual concreteness as opposed to ineffectual drifting.
Pettersen, born in 1975, is a Norwegian electroacoustic assembler and a renowned activist of the local avant scene. He achieves most of his stimulating sounds via regular objects and homemade stuff, apparently randomized in unpredictable fashion. Yet, if one’s attentive enough, the man also provides a structural intelligibility that facilitates the act of listening from beginning to end. There are no actual titles to these pieces, since they’re distinguished only with numbers; this tells a lot about the composer’s will of presenting the audience with factual concreteness as opposed to ineffectual drifting.
If something must be said a propos of these materials is that they sound extremely good: carefully assembled and masterfully mixed, each plot putting both the fine details and the general development under an ideal light, the single elements logically connected for brains attempting to take an overall aural impression in. In terms of timbre, we’re often spanning through a distinctive sort of granular disintegration of particles that never degenerates into stupid chaos and the presence of secretive extra-low hums from the underground (a wonderful one is heard at the start of “Komposisjon 20”) and faintly vacillating static essences (“Komposisjon 16”), probably derived from something more normal than we think, opportunely processed in the studio. Seemingly, some work on pre-recorded tapes was done, too. A cold-blooded potion of altered regularity and unhinged meticulousness characterizing this excellent release in its entirety, a unique musicality living in misleadingly unmusical matters.
ACTIVITY CENTER – Lohn & Brot
Absinth
Michael Renkel and Burkhard Beins run Activity Center since 1989, working over the years with a bunch of instruments, gadgets, devices and disparate treatments - usually placed on tables - so we’re not terribly wrong when we define their fields of exploration as heavily influenced by the preparations they love to use. For this recording, which follows 1999’s Möwen And Moos, the “orchestration” is mainly characterized by Renkel’s nylon string guitar played with hundreds of atypical techniques and Beins’ usual array of astutely utilized percussion, stringed stuff such as an “eBowed and propelled zither” and electronics (also manipulated by his companion).
Lohn & Brot is a long-lasting record at 70 minutes, yet the adjective that keeps remaining in the mind for this music is “fresh”. This derives from several factors. The first is that both the whole program and the single pieces do not remain stuck on the same ideas until corrosion but – either via surprising discoveries or plain aborted experiments – the scenario is changed after a few instants. In that sense, the continuous dynamic shift of the opening track “Arbeit : Material” epitomizes the duo’s researching spirit and open-to-instant-suggestion ears. Small bumps on wood weigh similarly to a series of glittering rasgueados on the zither, microscopic clattering and carillon fragments preceded or accompanied by unyielding harmonics whose duration is manually prolonged through the electric gadgetry. A mixture of luminousness, grubbiness and pulse that results extremely sympathetic, its acknowledgement unproblematic.
“Passage” and “Transit” are two short links between extensive improvisations. They’re infused with a sounds-from-a-forest quality that makes them welcome even as autonomous statements. “Zone : Produkt” – the longest chapter at almost half a hour - starts with deeply resonating, sparely percussive touches then mutates to become a determined analysis of molecular improbability, lengthy acute frequencies and swift stops maintaining our attention busy throughout. The auditory channels are constantly stimulated: initially quite gently, then more vivaciously, the junction of motionless stability and noisy intoxication basically faultless. Time flies and still no tiredness, especially in virtue of the artist’s irrefutable talent in placing the sonic incidents, further enriched by a peculiar combination of sincerity and incongruity, the best example being the succession of minimal shimmer and synthetic farts found around the 20th minute, flowing into a splendidly organic blend of drone and acoustic mayhem in what’s perhaps the disc’s finest moment.
Michael Renkel and Burkhard Beins run Activity Center since 1989, working over the years with a bunch of instruments, gadgets, devices and disparate treatments - usually placed on tables - so we’re not terribly wrong when we define their fields of exploration as heavily influenced by the preparations they love to use. For this recording, which follows 1999’s Möwen And Moos, the “orchestration” is mainly characterized by Renkel’s nylon string guitar played with hundreds of atypical techniques and Beins’ usual array of astutely utilized percussion, stringed stuff such as an “eBowed and propelled zither” and electronics (also manipulated by his companion).
Lohn & Brot is a long-lasting record at 70 minutes, yet the adjective that keeps remaining in the mind for this music is “fresh”. This derives from several factors. The first is that both the whole program and the single pieces do not remain stuck on the same ideas until corrosion but – either via surprising discoveries or plain aborted experiments – the scenario is changed after a few instants. In that sense, the continuous dynamic shift of the opening track “Arbeit : Material” epitomizes the duo’s researching spirit and open-to-instant-suggestion ears. Small bumps on wood weigh similarly to a series of glittering rasgueados on the zither, microscopic clattering and carillon fragments preceded or accompanied by unyielding harmonics whose duration is manually prolonged through the electric gadgetry. A mixture of luminousness, grubbiness and pulse that results extremely sympathetic, its acknowledgement unproblematic.
“Passage” and “Transit” are two short links between extensive improvisations. They’re infused with a sounds-from-a-forest quality that makes them welcome even as autonomous statements. “Zone : Produkt” – the longest chapter at almost half a hour - starts with deeply resonating, sparely percussive touches then mutates to become a determined analysis of molecular improbability, lengthy acute frequencies and swift stops maintaining our attention busy throughout. The auditory channels are constantly stimulated: initially quite gently, then more vivaciously, the junction of motionless stability and noisy intoxication basically faultless. Time flies and still no tiredness, especially in virtue of the artist’s irrefutable talent in placing the sonic incidents, further enriched by a peculiar combination of sincerity and incongruity, the best example being the succession of minimal shimmer and synthetic farts found around the 20th minute, flowing into a splendidly organic blend of drone and acoustic mayhem in what’s perhaps the disc’s finest moment.
The conclusive “Station : Prozess” is a cross-pollination of toneless emissions, speckled overtones and hallucinated serenity caused by obliquely sliding strings and glissando insanities of the third kind, mixing – at the very point in which I’m writing - with the faraway echoes of a ceremony taking place on the opposite hill, marching band and firecrackers included. A bizarre, entirely human concoction that ultimately leaves us ready for another spin, like if what was just heard had never occurred.
Saturday, 15 May 2010
JASON KAHN – Timelines Los Angeles
Creative Sources
Subsequent to an invitation by Mark Trayle – one of the four musicians active in this recording, specifically on laptop-driven guitar – Jason Kahn composed Timelines Los Angeles as a graphic score destined to the 2008 edition of the Cal Arts Center for Experiments in Art, Information and Technology Festival. Having both the possibility of choosing the participants to the performance and the intention of designing the parts exactly for those executors and their respective personalities, the composer decided to employ Olivia Block on prepared piano and Ulrich Krieger on saxophone and electronics, whereas he is featured on percussion and analog synthesizer. Still, if a record exists that doesn’t ask for excessive deliberation about the timbral individualities this must be it, although we do identify and separate the sources (well, sort of) as the whole flows.
The best method to describe this full hour is partitioning it in sections corresponding to a general dynamic appearance. The beginning is dominated by Block, which generates a reiterated scraping first, a rumbling substratum of thick string resonance later, upon which a rarefaction of synthetic emissions and diminutive reed noises are heard. Gradually, the interferences become a series of more consistent blotches – it is actually complicated to differentiate what comes from Trayle and what from Kahn in certain instances – then, all of a sudden, an extensively violent surge (especially enhanced by Krieger’s next-to-collapse drones on the sax) keeps us on the seat of our pants for long minutes. Imagine an extract from a Phill Niblock piece, deprived of the precious components: just harshness and unfriendly frequencies, stimulating nevertheless. Everything stops suddenly, leaving the listener alone with some variety of infected steam hissing around, finely complemented by repetitive hits on a cymbal, in classic Kahn fashion, until conclusion.
It takes time to agree to this music. It’s definitely uneasy on the ears - despite the whispered attributes defining its large part - and the structure is so evidently subdivided that a lightweight mind might find hard to follow the fluctuation of events in its entirety. Once the initial coat of unfriendliness is melted, though, there’s no stopping in enjoying it completely; that’s why I’d classify this CD as “wisely unwelcoming”. Then, as usual, it depends on what you expect from the act of listening. If a background is needed, look somewhere else. If attentiveness and breakdown are your forte, a lot of meat is here to chomp on.
Subsequent to an invitation by Mark Trayle – one of the four musicians active in this recording, specifically on laptop-driven guitar – Jason Kahn composed Timelines Los Angeles as a graphic score destined to the 2008 edition of the Cal Arts Center for Experiments in Art, Information and Technology Festival. Having both the possibility of choosing the participants to the performance and the intention of designing the parts exactly for those executors and their respective personalities, the composer decided to employ Olivia Block on prepared piano and Ulrich Krieger on saxophone and electronics, whereas he is featured on percussion and analog synthesizer. Still, if a record exists that doesn’t ask for excessive deliberation about the timbral individualities this must be it, although we do identify and separate the sources (well, sort of) as the whole flows.
The best method to describe this full hour is partitioning it in sections corresponding to a general dynamic appearance. The beginning is dominated by Block, which generates a reiterated scraping first, a rumbling substratum of thick string resonance later, upon which a rarefaction of synthetic emissions and diminutive reed noises are heard. Gradually, the interferences become a series of more consistent blotches – it is actually complicated to differentiate what comes from Trayle and what from Kahn in certain instances – then, all of a sudden, an extensively violent surge (especially enhanced by Krieger’s next-to-collapse drones on the sax) keeps us on the seat of our pants for long minutes. Imagine an extract from a Phill Niblock piece, deprived of the precious components: just harshness and unfriendly frequencies, stimulating nevertheless. Everything stops suddenly, leaving the listener alone with some variety of infected steam hissing around, finely complemented by repetitive hits on a cymbal, in classic Kahn fashion, until conclusion.
It takes time to agree to this music. It’s definitely uneasy on the ears - despite the whispered attributes defining its large part - and the structure is so evidently subdivided that a lightweight mind might find hard to follow the fluctuation of events in its entirety. Once the initial coat of unfriendliness is melted, though, there’s no stopping in enjoying it completely; that’s why I’d classify this CD as “wisely unwelcoming”. Then, as usual, it depends on what you expect from the act of listening. If a background is needed, look somewhere else. If attentiveness and breakdown are your forte, a lot of meat is here to chomp on.
Thursday, 13 May 2010
ALBERTO PINTON / JONAS KULLHAMMAR / TORBJÖRN ZETTERBERG / KJELL NORDESON – Chant
Clean Feed
Unlike your reviewer, smart Italians know that the sooner they’ll leave the native country, the better their lives will turn for, in a direct proportion to the chances inevitably gained. In the case of baritone saxophonist and composer Alberto Pinton, Sweden has been the land in which his musical conceptions started to get the proper diffusion. This quartet – recorded in Coimbra, Portugal, during the month of July in 2008 – comprises musicians who collaborate together recurrently in a multitude of different combinations, gathered in this particular configuration upon incitement of Clean Feed’s honcho Pedro Costa.
The sense of enthusiasm, divertissement and satisfaction manifested by the players throughout the extensive program is literally touchable. The group performs superb contrapuntal themes neatly, obeying to the rules of respect when necessary, at all times ready to self-fragment and become four separate lady-killing units. Eloquence devoid of affected postures, the artists intent in establishing the truth transiting in the mind at that very moment. The double sax attack brought by Pinton, who also plays clarinet, and Kullhammar – on baritone, besides a mean tenor - is extravagant at best, elegantly moderate (so to speak) at worst. They’re aware of where they are at every minute, displaying methods for audience gratification through brilliant samples of erudite instrumental irresponsibility. Bassist Zetterberg and drummer Nordeson (featured on vibes, too, in “Let Ring”) form a proactive rhythm section that contributes to add fuel to the fire in more than one occasion; just check “Chantpagne” to realize how agitation and lucidity can sometimes coexist without damage.
Obstinate, efficient and often amusing, this music is destined to keep you heart-warming company for a good while. An excellent attempt of tearing down the walls that divide free jazz from predetermined composition, minus the excesses of diligence that would transform the whole in a sterile exercise. On the contrary, these pieces approach a combustible status quite frequently, but never deflagrate into cheapness.
Unlike your reviewer, smart Italians know that the sooner they’ll leave the native country, the better their lives will turn for, in a direct proportion to the chances inevitably gained. In the case of baritone saxophonist and composer Alberto Pinton, Sweden has been the land in which his musical conceptions started to get the proper diffusion. This quartet – recorded in Coimbra, Portugal, during the month of July in 2008 – comprises musicians who collaborate together recurrently in a multitude of different combinations, gathered in this particular configuration upon incitement of Clean Feed’s honcho Pedro Costa.
The sense of enthusiasm, divertissement and satisfaction manifested by the players throughout the extensive program is literally touchable. The group performs superb contrapuntal themes neatly, obeying to the rules of respect when necessary, at all times ready to self-fragment and become four separate lady-killing units. Eloquence devoid of affected postures, the artists intent in establishing the truth transiting in the mind at that very moment. The double sax attack brought by Pinton, who also plays clarinet, and Kullhammar – on baritone, besides a mean tenor - is extravagant at best, elegantly moderate (so to speak) at worst. They’re aware of where they are at every minute, displaying methods for audience gratification through brilliant samples of erudite instrumental irresponsibility. Bassist Zetterberg and drummer Nordeson (featured on vibes, too, in “Let Ring”) form a proactive rhythm section that contributes to add fuel to the fire in more than one occasion; just check “Chantpagne” to realize how agitation and lucidity can sometimes coexist without damage.
Obstinate, efficient and often amusing, this music is destined to keep you heart-warming company for a good while. An excellent attempt of tearing down the walls that divide free jazz from predetermined composition, minus the excesses of diligence that would transform the whole in a sterile exercise. On the contrary, these pieces approach a combustible status quite frequently, but never deflagrate into cheapness.
Wednesday, 12 May 2010
SYLVAIN CHAUVEAU – Touching Down Lightly
Creative Sources
A well-mannered, gently resonating, partially Feldmanesque (or “post-Grubbs”, as one sneering friend of mine put it) offer for solo piano that doesn't necessitate a huge lot of absorption, though the latter surely helps in discovering a bit of deeper feelings in the interstices between notes and silence. Appreciable for its delicate thoughtfulness and accuracy of rendition, this is another of those releases – several were sighted on these shores in recent times - that fit in numerous kinds of categorization without the urge of going astray with words. Minimalism, improvisation, soundtrack, nearly ambient (ahem) in occasional instances - almost anything will do (“New Age” would indeed be a little excessive/offensive).
A well-mannered, gently resonating, partially Feldmanesque (or “post-Grubbs”, as one sneering friend of mine put it) offer for solo piano that doesn't necessitate a huge lot of absorption, though the latter surely helps in discovering a bit of deeper feelings in the interstices between notes and silence. Appreciable for its delicate thoughtfulness and accuracy of rendition, this is another of those releases – several were sighted on these shores in recent times - that fit in numerous kinds of categorization without the urge of going astray with words. Minimalism, improvisation, soundtrack, nearly ambient (ahem) in occasional instances - almost anything will do (“New Age” would indeed be a little excessive/offensive).
At various degrees of listening volume the CD works fine, warranting long moments of tranquillity. Quite honestly, it’s preferable when it slips along, and even behind, your evening activities, leaving a chance of enjoying the clear resonances generated by Chauveau's fragments of chords, skeletally repetitive melodies and single tones. Now, I like to think that something extremely insightful is implicit in the consecutiveness of these simple gestures; still, the sonic outcome does not encourage disproportionate analyses. Not many comparisons are available, too, if not the vague references quoted at the beginning. Let’s leave it at this: definitely a pleasurable listen, but not an extraordinary artistic announcement. When in need of giving yourselves some relief after a hard day, Touching Down Lightly performs the job admirably. If you're looking for a solipsist masterpiece, the search isn’t over.
Sunday, 9 May 2010
CHRISTOPH GALLIO / OLAF RUPP – Fasane Hula Punk
Rapid Moment
Fasane Hula Punk (don't ask) combines a saxophonist (Gallio, on soprano throughout) with a guitarist (Rupp), players of whom I've been deepening my knowledge quite sparingly, but also regularly – with a declared preference for the former's output, to be honest. Nonetheless, this meeting is really one of a kind - and a complete success - for a series of reasons. The first is the totally unadulterated quality of the music produced in the thirteen (unnamed) tracks. No hint to pre-constructed itemization, or to any sort of genre characterization; yet the lucidity with which these dissertations occur is beyond belief, the artists’ timbral unambiguousness and clearness of intents manifest in every single minute of the CD. Secondarily, there's the extreme democracy shown by both participants, who let their instruments do the talking without sounding despotic, always respecting the reciprocal needs of space while limiting conceptual annihilation intelligently, a bright zaniness defining the more squawking utterances. In a word, a strong sense of integration exists between the spontaneously emitted parts, be them notes or noise; this is something from which the listener benefits enormously. Lastly, the absolute clarity of the instantaneous statements, mainly expressed through sparkling string timbres (Rupp is unquestionably capable of muddying up the whole in a second, though) and show-stopping articulations of reed phraseologies, revealing Gallio's utmost command of an untainted instrumental virtuosity. The cover – among the most absurd artworks seen in a long time – is the ideal container of an entirely satisfying, ear-restorative release.
Fasane Hula Punk (don't ask) combines a saxophonist (Gallio, on soprano throughout) with a guitarist (Rupp), players of whom I've been deepening my knowledge quite sparingly, but also regularly – with a declared preference for the former's output, to be honest. Nonetheless, this meeting is really one of a kind - and a complete success - for a series of reasons. The first is the totally unadulterated quality of the music produced in the thirteen (unnamed) tracks. No hint to pre-constructed itemization, or to any sort of genre characterization; yet the lucidity with which these dissertations occur is beyond belief, the artists’ timbral unambiguousness and clearness of intents manifest in every single minute of the CD. Secondarily, there's the extreme democracy shown by both participants, who let their instruments do the talking without sounding despotic, always respecting the reciprocal needs of space while limiting conceptual annihilation intelligently, a bright zaniness defining the more squawking utterances. In a word, a strong sense of integration exists between the spontaneously emitted parts, be them notes or noise; this is something from which the listener benefits enormously. Lastly, the absolute clarity of the instantaneous statements, mainly expressed through sparkling string timbres (Rupp is unquestionably capable of muddying up the whole in a second, though) and show-stopping articulations of reed phraseologies, revealing Gallio's utmost command of an untainted instrumental virtuosity. The cover – among the most absurd artworks seen in a long time – is the ideal container of an entirely satisfying, ear-restorative release.
COLIN POTTER / PHIL MOULDYCLIFF – Grey Skies On Ashpalt
Beta-Lactam Ring
The title, first. Is that “Ashpalt” or “Asphalt”? I wasn’t persuaded, and googling around didn’t help that much. The spelling, on both the cover and the disc of this limited edition (100 copies) – and, especially, on the label’s website - corresponds to the former. That will remain. (STOP PRESS May 11, 2010: Colin Potter just informed me that it's a case of dragged-along typo - it was supposed to be "Asphalt"...)
Let's stick to what's ascertainable – that is, the sonic content. This is a delightfully soothing release, constructed with recordings that principally derive from echoes of urban and rural zones which were entirely gathered by Phil Mouldycliff, who calls them “audio debris field”. The choice of sources might be well known, but something digs deeper in this collection of talking people, bell towers, blackbirds, cars and related – and never toxic – emissions. I can't put my finger on the rationale behind the following affirmation, however a number of artists active in this area seem to gift the most obvious human manifestation captured on tape with a spiritual essence, a familiar character, a sensitiveness that elsewhere is totally unknown. Mouldycliff is definitely a member of this restricted group, all his materials heard in this place having always met total approval. No bombast, no protrusions, just regular sounds carefully chosen and deployed. Quite often, that's enough.
This notwithstanding, after Potter's processing and mixing measures kick in, daily reality turns into a striking form of semi-abstract acoustic art. A slight deformation of the overtones here, a few gentle touches of echoing shimmer there, more mildly warped gurgling treatments over there, and even the unfriendly materializations (not many, indeed...) become reasons for merriness. We couldn't really compare the totality of these elements to analogous memories: a little bit of everything - at least partially connected to the genres touched by these men through the years - is visible, synthesized in a completely personal statement. One that gives pleasure in abundant doses without making us feeling guilty of appreciating an easier-to-swallow record for a change.
The title, first. Is that “Ashpalt” or “Asphalt”? I wasn’t persuaded, and googling around didn’t help that much. The spelling, on both the cover and the disc of this limited edition (100 copies) – and, especially, on the label’s website - corresponds to the former. That will remain. (STOP PRESS May 11, 2010: Colin Potter just informed me that it's a case of dragged-along typo - it was supposed to be "Asphalt"...)
Let's stick to what's ascertainable – that is, the sonic content. This is a delightfully soothing release, constructed with recordings that principally derive from echoes of urban and rural zones which were entirely gathered by Phil Mouldycliff, who calls them “audio debris field”. The choice of sources might be well known, but something digs deeper in this collection of talking people, bell towers, blackbirds, cars and related – and never toxic – emissions. I can't put my finger on the rationale behind the following affirmation, however a number of artists active in this area seem to gift the most obvious human manifestation captured on tape with a spiritual essence, a familiar character, a sensitiveness that elsewhere is totally unknown. Mouldycliff is definitely a member of this restricted group, all his materials heard in this place having always met total approval. No bombast, no protrusions, just regular sounds carefully chosen and deployed. Quite often, that's enough.
This notwithstanding, after Potter's processing and mixing measures kick in, daily reality turns into a striking form of semi-abstract acoustic art. A slight deformation of the overtones here, a few gentle touches of echoing shimmer there, more mildly warped gurgling treatments over there, and even the unfriendly materializations (not many, indeed...) become reasons for merriness. We couldn't really compare the totality of these elements to analogous memories: a little bit of everything - at least partially connected to the genres touched by these men through the years - is visible, synthesized in a completely personal statement. One that gives pleasure in abundant doses without making us feeling guilty of appreciating an easier-to-swallow record for a change.
Friday, 7 May 2010
SUM – Invenio Ergo
Matchless
Sum is the trio of Eddie Prévost on drums plus North Ireland’s guitarist Ross Lambert and alto saxophonist Seymour Wright, the latter’s Seymour Wright Of Derby among the most interesting solo saxophone recordings heard in the last years. This double CD comprises a live set recorded at London’s Café Oto on February 8th, 2009. Considering my decent level of knowledge of the work of at least two of the involved musicians (Lambert representing the less notorious quantity in this circumstance), I approached this outing with a degree of certitude regarding the presumable quality of the resulting product. A delusion was waiting around the corner.
Although the trio’s technical and cultural grounding is out of question, the bulk of this music is somewhat negligible and uninspiring. There’s no background analysis or historical/intellectual reference that could alter this belief, maintained even after following someone’s advice of giving the record additional chances (done, to no avail), as if three thorough listens weren’t enough. One can circumnavigate the bitter reality at will, either by disserting on the thematic quotes scattered all over the program and the dismemberment of renowned tunes, or summoning forth improbable similarities. James Blood Ulmer - whose style was defined harmelodic (sic) in another review of this very item on a famed magazine - is a particularly amusing case in point. But the noticeable separation in the stereo field – Wright on the right, Lambert on the left, Prévost central – is the same that is perceived in terms of lack of synthesis and overall character.
The only events that raise a modicum of curiosity are Wright’s sporadic attempts to explore the extreme registers of his instrument by alternating undersized spurts, kernels of notes and well-placed single squeaks to fairly traditional phraseology. In general, though, everybody remains confined within the borders of an abortive, jazz-tinged tearoom improvisation that, on the whole, fails to engage. Even when the artists go for a visit to the regions of rarefaction, the shortage of meaningful interaction is astounding. More than evoking uncontaminated types of bare-boned interplay, the acoustic imagery at large appears instead pretty ordinary, when not plain run-of-the-mill. And this happens over the course of two discs, for good measure.
Significantly, Brian Morton’s liners recite “None of these players would claim to be making a historic document, and one senses in them different kinds of diffidence to the act of making a record in the first place” and, at the very end, “They create, therefore we are”. You’d want to accept as truth that the affirmation is ironic, as Invenio Ergo might represent, in the opposite case, a manifesto for the aspiration to doing nothing. Given this hypothetical hesitancy about the idea of such a release, I’m not mincing words: this concert was best left in the attendees’ short-term memory, its artistic impact definitely not on a par with Matchless’ customary standards. And the “Invenio Ergo Sum” pun sounds forced, too.
Sum is the trio of Eddie Prévost on drums plus North Ireland’s guitarist Ross Lambert and alto saxophonist Seymour Wright, the latter’s Seymour Wright Of Derby among the most interesting solo saxophone recordings heard in the last years. This double CD comprises a live set recorded at London’s Café Oto on February 8th, 2009. Considering my decent level of knowledge of the work of at least two of the involved musicians (Lambert representing the less notorious quantity in this circumstance), I approached this outing with a degree of certitude regarding the presumable quality of the resulting product. A delusion was waiting around the corner.
Although the trio’s technical and cultural grounding is out of question, the bulk of this music is somewhat negligible and uninspiring. There’s no background analysis or historical/intellectual reference that could alter this belief, maintained even after following someone’s advice of giving the record additional chances (done, to no avail), as if three thorough listens weren’t enough. One can circumnavigate the bitter reality at will, either by disserting on the thematic quotes scattered all over the program and the dismemberment of renowned tunes, or summoning forth improbable similarities. James Blood Ulmer - whose style was defined harmelodic (sic) in another review of this very item on a famed magazine - is a particularly amusing case in point. But the noticeable separation in the stereo field – Wright on the right, Lambert on the left, Prévost central – is the same that is perceived in terms of lack of synthesis and overall character.
The only events that raise a modicum of curiosity are Wright’s sporadic attempts to explore the extreme registers of his instrument by alternating undersized spurts, kernels of notes and well-placed single squeaks to fairly traditional phraseology. In general, though, everybody remains confined within the borders of an abortive, jazz-tinged tearoom improvisation that, on the whole, fails to engage. Even when the artists go for a visit to the regions of rarefaction, the shortage of meaningful interaction is astounding. More than evoking uncontaminated types of bare-boned interplay, the acoustic imagery at large appears instead pretty ordinary, when not plain run-of-the-mill. And this happens over the course of two discs, for good measure.
Significantly, Brian Morton’s liners recite “None of these players would claim to be making a historic document, and one senses in them different kinds of diffidence to the act of making a record in the first place” and, at the very end, “They create, therefore we are”. You’d want to accept as truth that the affirmation is ironic, as Invenio Ergo might represent, in the opposite case, a manifesto for the aspiration to doing nothing. Given this hypothetical hesitancy about the idea of such a release, I’m not mincing words: this concert was best left in the attendees’ short-term memory, its artistic impact definitely not on a par with Matchless’ customary standards. And the “Invenio Ergo Sum” pun sounds forced, too.
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