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.
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
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.
Tuesday, 31 March 2009
ISOLDE – All Things To Fall Like Marching Men
Penny Poppet
The duo of Robin Barnes and Andrew Chalk, Isolde represent one of the several examples of untainted creativity typical of the English area of exploration where mystery, melancholy and concreteness meet, as if the musicians were trying to depict the course of existence with all its gradations of awareness and forgetfulness, everything occurring under a next-to-downpour sky.
Two crucial elements, more or less present everywhere, constitute the groundwork of this CD. On the one hand, field recordings of birds and other creatures from the woods apparently taped in nocturnal settings, their extended pseudo-wailings seemingly defining a substratum of sufferance. These sounds are unquestionably not soothing, rather evoking the consciousness of being gone astray somewhere without a chance of returning home. The second critical constituent is the stable presence of the electric guitars, recorded warts and all – probably via microphones placed quite distant from the amplifiers, whose hum is nevertheless audible at times – in a room shaped and sized to exalt their slight detuning, thus generating waves of conflicting upper partials and grey-tinged metallic resonances that add a degree of ambiguity to an already difficult-to-fathom soundscape.
What is evident since the very beginning is a mutilation of commonly accepted meanings, an unrealistic yet extremely crude representation of coincidences that might be lucky or terrible, the will immobilized by a raw sensation of daze that appears both infatuating and grotesque. A house of mirrors that gives back the distorted image of illusions ready to be destroyed by an unending gloominess. This crippled aesthetic is strikingly hard to accept but once we penetrate the essence of this inhospitable music, the realization of something important that’s there to be picked up and preserved in the depths of our fortitude immediately occurs.
Fascinatingly unfriendly, deeply significant reflections by a pair of artists whose seriousness remains distant from suspicion, an unfinished beauty calling out remote sympathies. We need more items like this to replace the fake assurances of inexistent sunrises auspicated by releases where the initial splendour vanishes the morning after.
The duo of Robin Barnes and Andrew Chalk, Isolde represent one of the several examples of untainted creativity typical of the English area of exploration where mystery, melancholy and concreteness meet, as if the musicians were trying to depict the course of existence with all its gradations of awareness and forgetfulness, everything occurring under a next-to-downpour sky.
Two crucial elements, more or less present everywhere, constitute the groundwork of this CD. On the one hand, field recordings of birds and other creatures from the woods apparently taped in nocturnal settings, their extended pseudo-wailings seemingly defining a substratum of sufferance. These sounds are unquestionably not soothing, rather evoking the consciousness of being gone astray somewhere without a chance of returning home. The second critical constituent is the stable presence of the electric guitars, recorded warts and all – probably via microphones placed quite distant from the amplifiers, whose hum is nevertheless audible at times – in a room shaped and sized to exalt their slight detuning, thus generating waves of conflicting upper partials and grey-tinged metallic resonances that add a degree of ambiguity to an already difficult-to-fathom soundscape.
What is evident since the very beginning is a mutilation of commonly accepted meanings, an unrealistic yet extremely crude representation of coincidences that might be lucky or terrible, the will immobilized by a raw sensation of daze that appears both infatuating and grotesque. A house of mirrors that gives back the distorted image of illusions ready to be destroyed by an unending gloominess. This crippled aesthetic is strikingly hard to accept but once we penetrate the essence of this inhospitable music, the realization of something important that’s there to be picked up and preserved in the depths of our fortitude immediately occurs.
Fascinatingly unfriendly, deeply significant reflections by a pair of artists whose seriousness remains distant from suspicion, an unfinished beauty calling out remote sympathies. We need more items like this to replace the fake assurances of inexistent sunrises auspicated by releases where the initial splendour vanishes the morning after.
Sunday, 22 March 2009
CHRISTINE SEHNAOUI / MICHEL WAISVISZ – Shortwave
Al Maslakh
This splendid music originates from a series of recordings captured at the notorious GRM studios in Paris in two different periods of 2007. Christine Sehnaoui (alto sax) and the late Michel Waisvisz (playing The Hands, one of his weird self-made instruments designed to pilot synth modules) amassed such a quantity of material during these sessions that, reportedly, six versions of the program were considered for release. Judging from the fascinatingly transfixing animation of the sounds concocted, this writer could probably have accepted a sextuple - but let’s be thankful anyway for a single disc’s worth of improvised radiance.
The determinant factor in attributing a magna cum laude mark to Shortwave is the tightness of the conversation between the musicians, who appear at the apex of their edifice of receptiveness throughout. Although digressions and contrasts are firmly at the basis of a shrewd analysis of timbral multiplicity there’s a definite inner apparatus at work, fuelled by lucid organization and instant configuration. Sehnaoui is a proficient saxophone surveyor who manages to find pictographic sides even in the harsher facets of her playing; the ability of eliciting sweet-sounding venom in disparate contexts and a swift sensitivity to conditions of extreme variability are but two of the numerous resources that she brings to the table. Waisvisz is a demanding partner in that sense, a gatherer of impulsive spills and unsentimental twists that rarely allow the listener to individuate familiar eventualities. Yet he’s also the holder of an uncharacteristic sort of sympathy, every discharge organically projected in the surrounding environment, spontaneously delineating a deeper conception of the acoustic phenomenon.
The mixture is unmistakably successful, gravity and irony easily living together over the course of the record; there are occasions in which distinguishing gurgling sublingual flutters from obstreperous synthetic patchworks is not exactly unproblematic. Recognizable features in the originality of an artistic pairing to which, unfortunately, we will only be able to listen again by preserving this gorgeous CD among the best specimens of enthrallingly munificent free improvisation.
This splendid music originates from a series of recordings captured at the notorious GRM studios in Paris in two different periods of 2007. Christine Sehnaoui (alto sax) and the late Michel Waisvisz (playing The Hands, one of his weird self-made instruments designed to pilot synth modules) amassed such a quantity of material during these sessions that, reportedly, six versions of the program were considered for release. Judging from the fascinatingly transfixing animation of the sounds concocted, this writer could probably have accepted a sextuple - but let’s be thankful anyway for a single disc’s worth of improvised radiance.
The determinant factor in attributing a magna cum laude mark to Shortwave is the tightness of the conversation between the musicians, who appear at the apex of their edifice of receptiveness throughout. Although digressions and contrasts are firmly at the basis of a shrewd analysis of timbral multiplicity there’s a definite inner apparatus at work, fuelled by lucid organization and instant configuration. Sehnaoui is a proficient saxophone surveyor who manages to find pictographic sides even in the harsher facets of her playing; the ability of eliciting sweet-sounding venom in disparate contexts and a swift sensitivity to conditions of extreme variability are but two of the numerous resources that she brings to the table. Waisvisz is a demanding partner in that sense, a gatherer of impulsive spills and unsentimental twists that rarely allow the listener to individuate familiar eventualities. Yet he’s also the holder of an uncharacteristic sort of sympathy, every discharge organically projected in the surrounding environment, spontaneously delineating a deeper conception of the acoustic phenomenon.
The mixture is unmistakably successful, gravity and irony easily living together over the course of the record; there are occasions in which distinguishing gurgling sublingual flutters from obstreperous synthetic patchworks is not exactly unproblematic. Recognizable features in the originality of an artistic pairing to which, unfortunately, we will only be able to listen again by preserving this gorgeous CD among the best specimens of enthrallingly munificent free improvisation.
Thursday, 12 March 2009
MARY HALVORSON TRIO – Dragon’s Head
Firehouse 12
Announced from all sides as the “new thing” in contemporary jazz’s register of innovative guitarists, Mary Halvorson – who’s used to be surrounded by artists on the same level as Anthony Braxton, Jessica Pavone, Nate Wooley and Elliott Sharp - is indeed a musician gifted with a sturdy personality, immediately evident by listening to this set with bassist John Hebert and drummer Ches Smith. Halvorson utilizes a clean timbre, only rarely blemished by effects and even more infrequently invading the territories where “overdrive” is the keyword – listen to “Momentary Lapse” to recognize that mayhem is not beyond reach for this lean (and sometimes mean) girl.
In a recent magazine feature, Halvorson reportedly affirms to have “thrown caution to the wind” while composing these tracks, as she did her best to forget about the limitations of what was taught at school in regard to “jazz notions”. This notwithstanding, the whole of Dragon’s Head remains absolutely intelligible, its unique schemes visible at a first glance but instantly forgotten when the trio shift gears to full-throttle improvisation mode. “Scant Frame” is a gorgeous example in that sense, beginning with a logic of skewed discretion that soon mutates into a series of disobedient runs towards the disintegration of conservatism, truly electrifying if ever kept in check by Halvorson’s inside watchdog of compositional order.
To realize how far this music gets from tradition, think that the monster whose icon popped up in my mind was a mixture of Sonny Sharrock, Emily Remler and Forever Einstein, the latter evoked by the incredibly emaciated yet extremely functional themes of pieces like “Sank Silver Purple White”, which remind me of Charles Vrtacek O’ Meara’s angularly basic linear exposition. Hebert and Smith form a natural partnership with Halvorson (their work in “Too Many Ties” is alone worth of the whole effort ), a feel justified by the perceivable consistency of musicians who sound more as a strong-minded three-headed unit than a “rhythm section plus guitar star” inflexible commonplace. In a nutshell, unrepentant and respectful at once.
Play loud – there’s meat for everyone here – and yes, this young lady is definitely for real.
Announced from all sides as the “new thing” in contemporary jazz’s register of innovative guitarists, Mary Halvorson – who’s used to be surrounded by artists on the same level as Anthony Braxton, Jessica Pavone, Nate Wooley and Elliott Sharp - is indeed a musician gifted with a sturdy personality, immediately evident by listening to this set with bassist John Hebert and drummer Ches Smith. Halvorson utilizes a clean timbre, only rarely blemished by effects and even more infrequently invading the territories where “overdrive” is the keyword – listen to “Momentary Lapse” to recognize that mayhem is not beyond reach for this lean (and sometimes mean) girl.
In a recent magazine feature, Halvorson reportedly affirms to have “thrown caution to the wind” while composing these tracks, as she did her best to forget about the limitations of what was taught at school in regard to “jazz notions”. This notwithstanding, the whole of Dragon’s Head remains absolutely intelligible, its unique schemes visible at a first glance but instantly forgotten when the trio shift gears to full-throttle improvisation mode. “Scant Frame” is a gorgeous example in that sense, beginning with a logic of skewed discretion that soon mutates into a series of disobedient runs towards the disintegration of conservatism, truly electrifying if ever kept in check by Halvorson’s inside watchdog of compositional order.
To realize how far this music gets from tradition, think that the monster whose icon popped up in my mind was a mixture of Sonny Sharrock, Emily Remler and Forever Einstein, the latter evoked by the incredibly emaciated yet extremely functional themes of pieces like “Sank Silver Purple White”, which remind me of Charles Vrtacek O’ Meara’s angularly basic linear exposition. Hebert and Smith form a natural partnership with Halvorson (their work in “Too Many Ties” is alone worth of the whole effort ), a feel justified by the perceivable consistency of musicians who sound more as a strong-minded three-headed unit than a “rhythm section plus guitar star” inflexible commonplace. In a nutshell, unrepentant and respectful at once.
Play loud – there’s meat for everyone here – and yes, this young lady is definitely for real.
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
OKKYUNG LEE / PETER EVANS / STEVE BERESFORD – Check For Monsters
Emanem
The irredeemable insurrectional spirit animating the protagonists of these two sets - recorded in New York and Philadelphia in March 2008 - constitutes the axis of Check For Monsters, a CD which presents the bewildering aspects of a trio performance regulated by high-calibre musicianship. Never really exacerbating the inharmonious character of their expression, these artists do the utmost to reach an acceptable balance between a compulsory sense of disrespectfulness for the norm and an exhaustive analysis of the possibilities of the instruments, at least for what concerns the not-overly-extreme regions of timbre; namely, without recurring to preparations and additional dissections of machines that alone are sufficient to guarantee an appreciable degree of pandemonium.
Indeed the musical barometer indicates turbulence more often than not, yet finesse is clearly perceivable all over the program. The three-minded logic that moves “Yinothanot” - almost eighteen minutes of last-chance insinuations and magnificent in-your-face rambling – is explicative of the general approach to this music. Evans is the perennial frontrunner, his trumpets sustaining the attention usually given to a wasp: we’re careful not to be stung when it flies, ready to be fascinated by its colours and features as it walks on a window. Beresford alternates deviously reminiscent phraseologies and eruptive outbursts, somehow managing to hang about the areas of pianism where his charismatic sincerity shines brightly. Lee’s cello sounds elegantly divergent at times, but is frequently and obviously the collating factor of parts which would otherwise tend to a stubborn affirmation of specific rights and needs – which, in improvisation, typically translates into technically advanced incomprehensibleness. “Gwendol Ap Siencyn” begins as a quasi-serialist chamber piece, then turns left to arrive at sonorities halfway through disgruntled incompatibility and genuine eagerness – always with a bitter aftertaste, though.
Arduous listening for the ill-equipped, this is nevertheless a rewarding album under any circumstance, uncompromising music whose unsentimental physiognomy symbolizes the best answer to the fossilization lurking behind the corners of theoretical autonomy.
The irredeemable insurrectional spirit animating the protagonists of these two sets - recorded in New York and Philadelphia in March 2008 - constitutes the axis of Check For Monsters, a CD which presents the bewildering aspects of a trio performance regulated by high-calibre musicianship. Never really exacerbating the inharmonious character of their expression, these artists do the utmost to reach an acceptable balance between a compulsory sense of disrespectfulness for the norm and an exhaustive analysis of the possibilities of the instruments, at least for what concerns the not-overly-extreme regions of timbre; namely, without recurring to preparations and additional dissections of machines that alone are sufficient to guarantee an appreciable degree of pandemonium.
Indeed the musical barometer indicates turbulence more often than not, yet finesse is clearly perceivable all over the program. The three-minded logic that moves “Yinothanot” - almost eighteen minutes of last-chance insinuations and magnificent in-your-face rambling – is explicative of the general approach to this music. Evans is the perennial frontrunner, his trumpets sustaining the attention usually given to a wasp: we’re careful not to be stung when it flies, ready to be fascinated by its colours and features as it walks on a window. Beresford alternates deviously reminiscent phraseologies and eruptive outbursts, somehow managing to hang about the areas of pianism where his charismatic sincerity shines brightly. Lee’s cello sounds elegantly divergent at times, but is frequently and obviously the collating factor of parts which would otherwise tend to a stubborn affirmation of specific rights and needs – which, in improvisation, typically translates into technically advanced incomprehensibleness. “Gwendol Ap Siencyn” begins as a quasi-serialist chamber piece, then turns left to arrive at sonorities halfway through disgruntled incompatibility and genuine eagerness – always with a bitter aftertaste, though.
Arduous listening for the ill-equipped, this is nevertheless a rewarding album under any circumstance, uncompromising music whose unsentimental physiognomy symbolizes the best answer to the fossilization lurking behind the corners of theoretical autonomy.
VERYAN WESTON – Allusions
Emanem
Veryan Weston is both a peerless virtuoso, his uncontaminated figurations and innovative intuitions difficult to compare with anyone else’s, and a shamefully overlooked pianist when the stupid games of name-throwing begin. Allusions, which comprises almost the entirety of a concert recorded in 2002 at the Librairie Mollat in Bordeaux, may be used as a toe-dipper for the unversed despite its specific character, nearer to pure ad-libbing (or, as per Martin Davidson’s definition, “stream of consciousness improvising”) than previous records by the same artist which were based on prearranged structures, such as the unforgettable Tessellations (also on Emanem). This is one of those items who should hypothetically open many people’s eyes about the fact that the planet with 88 keys is not exclusively revolving around Köln: there are also musicians whose intellect features a couple of supplementary gears.
The problem, perhaps, lies in how the general audience might react to the use of those “supplementary gears”: the wonderful decentralizations of chords, the self-reliance of Weston’s fingers as opposed to the pre-digested concepts which several presumed masters punch the clock of our tolerance with, and the now inert, now furious dynamics succeeding minute in, minute out could easily push back someone who approaches a solo piano effort with the disinterested attitude of a cretin, that kind of yes-I-know-what-it-is-ism which prevents knowledge and experience from depositing even a few seeds of curiosity in the mind of a human being.
Over the course of these seven tracks, we’re marvellously attended by a realistically down-to-earth, yet hypercritically incorruptible creativity. This music appears in gushes and trickles, nearly materializing in ever-multiplying figures in front of the listener for barely a handful of seconds; then it goes straight to the archive of generic recollection, the place where a record is filed as a “colour” rather than effectively committed to memory. It leaves an indelible mark, yet there’s not a single fraction – except maybe for the short citation of “Somewhere Over The Rainbow” – which we’ll be able to literally recall. However, consider yourselves stone-hearted if you’re not moved by the wondrous harmonic passages in the final section of “Traces Of Nuts”.
Allusions is a fundamental addition to any creditable collection, in the hope that its originator finally receives the accolades he’s been deserving for decades by a larger social segment.
Veryan Weston is both a peerless virtuoso, his uncontaminated figurations and innovative intuitions difficult to compare with anyone else’s, and a shamefully overlooked pianist when the stupid games of name-throwing begin. Allusions, which comprises almost the entirety of a concert recorded in 2002 at the Librairie Mollat in Bordeaux, may be used as a toe-dipper for the unversed despite its specific character, nearer to pure ad-libbing (or, as per Martin Davidson’s definition, “stream of consciousness improvising”) than previous records by the same artist which were based on prearranged structures, such as the unforgettable Tessellations (also on Emanem). This is one of those items who should hypothetically open many people’s eyes about the fact that the planet with 88 keys is not exclusively revolving around Köln: there are also musicians whose intellect features a couple of supplementary gears.
The problem, perhaps, lies in how the general audience might react to the use of those “supplementary gears”: the wonderful decentralizations of chords, the self-reliance of Weston’s fingers as opposed to the pre-digested concepts which several presumed masters punch the clock of our tolerance with, and the now inert, now furious dynamics succeeding minute in, minute out could easily push back someone who approaches a solo piano effort with the disinterested attitude of a cretin, that kind of yes-I-know-what-it-is-ism which prevents knowledge and experience from depositing even a few seeds of curiosity in the mind of a human being.
Over the course of these seven tracks, we’re marvellously attended by a realistically down-to-earth, yet hypercritically incorruptible creativity. This music appears in gushes and trickles, nearly materializing in ever-multiplying figures in front of the listener for barely a handful of seconds; then it goes straight to the archive of generic recollection, the place where a record is filed as a “colour” rather than effectively committed to memory. It leaves an indelible mark, yet there’s not a single fraction – except maybe for the short citation of “Somewhere Over The Rainbow” – which we’ll be able to literally recall. However, consider yourselves stone-hearted if you’re not moved by the wondrous harmonic passages in the final section of “Traces Of Nuts”.
Allusions is a fundamental addition to any creditable collection, in the hope that its originator finally receives the accolades he’s been deserving for decades by a larger social segment.
Sunday, 1 March 2009
RICHARD PINHAS / MERZBOW – Keio Line
Cuneiform
An implausible collaboration, you might think. Yet Richard Pinhas and Masami Akita have been reciprocal admirers for years; when the occasion arose in 2007, they started playing together - both live and in “a strange studio at the end of the metro Keio Line” - subsequently manipulating the results and gathering enough material for a double CD that brims with sweet mercilessness: divine for many, appalling for the rest. In my case the reaction was, to some extent, a mixed bag of feelings.
Although Pinhas’ metatronic style is explicitly deriving from a slight modification of the concept of Frippertronics, the guitarist often achieves an outcome that surpasses the original in terms of pure psychosomatic gratification. Huge masses of superimposed lines, enhanced by saturation and additional processing, give birth to repeated episodes of supreme fulfilment: while listening to certain sections of this record – but the same, with greater consequence on the mind, happened with the previous outings on this very label – one feels like shifting gears towards a dimension where sound is sufficient to render people impregnable to any attack, even of the physical sort. In a word, those stratifications make us feel invincible.
Merzbow, who utilizes an EMS Synthi and a laptop to do his thing, is obviously a master of the game and calling him a “noise artist” has somehow become a reductive cliché. The pulsating-and-chopping patterns, extemporaneous upsurges and magmatic fumes appearing from behind amidst the thick clouds generated by the Deleuze-inspired French soundscaper succeed as an alternative source of power, yet not completely as far as a true compositional sense should be involved. The two sonic entities appear paralleled, not really as a single body. Merzbow’s heavy blows and Pinhas’ choking vapours are easily discernible; despite the obvious mutual respect, the music does not result in a consistent whole, akin as it is to a rotating showcase of the individual aesthetics, with rare intersections.
Therefore, even if Keio Line remains an intriguing release characterized by several moments of brutal bliss, in truth I believe that it doesn’t stand out in relation to its potential. The best that these artists are able to offer has still to be found in their respective solo productions.
An implausible collaboration, you might think. Yet Richard Pinhas and Masami Akita have been reciprocal admirers for years; when the occasion arose in 2007, they started playing together - both live and in “a strange studio at the end of the metro Keio Line” - subsequently manipulating the results and gathering enough material for a double CD that brims with sweet mercilessness: divine for many, appalling for the rest. In my case the reaction was, to some extent, a mixed bag of feelings.
Although Pinhas’ metatronic style is explicitly deriving from a slight modification of the concept of Frippertronics, the guitarist often achieves an outcome that surpasses the original in terms of pure psychosomatic gratification. Huge masses of superimposed lines, enhanced by saturation and additional processing, give birth to repeated episodes of supreme fulfilment: while listening to certain sections of this record – but the same, with greater consequence on the mind, happened with the previous outings on this very label – one feels like shifting gears towards a dimension where sound is sufficient to render people impregnable to any attack, even of the physical sort. In a word, those stratifications make us feel invincible.
Merzbow, who utilizes an EMS Synthi and a laptop to do his thing, is obviously a master of the game and calling him a “noise artist” has somehow become a reductive cliché. The pulsating-and-chopping patterns, extemporaneous upsurges and magmatic fumes appearing from behind amidst the thick clouds generated by the Deleuze-inspired French soundscaper succeed as an alternative source of power, yet not completely as far as a true compositional sense should be involved. The two sonic entities appear paralleled, not really as a single body. Merzbow’s heavy blows and Pinhas’ choking vapours are easily discernible; despite the obvious mutual respect, the music does not result in a consistent whole, akin as it is to a rotating showcase of the individual aesthetics, with rare intersections.
Therefore, even if Keio Line remains an intriguing release characterized by several moments of brutal bliss, in truth I believe that it doesn’t stand out in relation to its potential. The best that these artists are able to offer has still to be found in their respective solo productions.
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
MIKE KHOURY & PIOTR MICHALOWSKI – Reason Sound Sound Reason
Abzu
Jon Rose once titled one of his albums Violin Music For Restaurants, and now Mike Khoury (same instrument) and Piotr Michalowski (soprano sax, bass clarinet) revise and expand that concept, as a large chunk of this CD was recorded at Argiero’s Restaurant in Ann Arbor, Michigan, the typical background of such a place often emerging behind the playing: jangling of knives and forks, curious children and the meagre, almost distracted applause at the end of the performance. Yet these guys are not rendering a muzak version of “Just The Way You Are”.
As a matter of fact, the combination of timbres generated by the comrades is exquisite, although not all the pieces are immediately graspable. Neatness and serenity appear to be the main traits of this collection, those qualities also informed by a technically superior, if modest nobility. Khoury and Michalowski sound like men whose single dilemma is defining a kind of expression that even ordinary people can understand, despite the complexity of some of the intertwining lines. A commitment to near-perfection that leaves a lot of room for instantaneous creativity, the mix of ingredients generating a sort of advanced folk-ish idiom contaminated by a good measure of non-conformity under an apparently trouble-free façade.
A not-quite-consonant ode to relax, masterfully executed by artists who could act as condescending virtuosos but instead are content of sharing their vision with those who happen to be in front of them, either eating or listening – or both. An unassuming loveliness is what remains for us at home.
Jon Rose once titled one of his albums Violin Music For Restaurants, and now Mike Khoury (same instrument) and Piotr Michalowski (soprano sax, bass clarinet) revise and expand that concept, as a large chunk of this CD was recorded at Argiero’s Restaurant in Ann Arbor, Michigan, the typical background of such a place often emerging behind the playing: jangling of knives and forks, curious children and the meagre, almost distracted applause at the end of the performance. Yet these guys are not rendering a muzak version of “Just The Way You Are”.
As a matter of fact, the combination of timbres generated by the comrades is exquisite, although not all the pieces are immediately graspable. Neatness and serenity appear to be the main traits of this collection, those qualities also informed by a technically superior, if modest nobility. Khoury and Michalowski sound like men whose single dilemma is defining a kind of expression that even ordinary people can understand, despite the complexity of some of the intertwining lines. A commitment to near-perfection that leaves a lot of room for instantaneous creativity, the mix of ingredients generating a sort of advanced folk-ish idiom contaminated by a good measure of non-conformity under an apparently trouble-free façade.
A not-quite-consonant ode to relax, masterfully executed by artists who could act as condescending virtuosos but instead are content of sharing their vision with those who happen to be in front of them, either eating or listening – or both. An unassuming loveliness is what remains for us at home.
Monday, 23 February 2009
CORY ALLEN – The Fourth Way
Quiet Design
After reading the press release’s depiction of The Fourth Way as “a collection of rich minimal ambient works” I was surprised to be greeted by a couple of pretty aggressive tracks such as “Exedra” and “Telepathic Solve”, constructed on acridness and interference more than relief-inducing signals and calming timbres. The latter piece gives a good idea of Cory Allen’s ability in attributing inherent movement to a static soundscape: restrained embryonic chords are practically engulfed by a continuous flow of radiations until they manage to emerge in the mix as glittering remnants of infatuation for an indefinable object of desire.
The instruments privileged by the composer are a Fender Rhodes (clearly at the basis of “In Search Of Miracul” and the beautifully nostalgic “All Suns”) and a Moog Voyager, with the “assistance” of a Moog ring modulator in some instance. The scenarios generated by these machines are then subjected to a sprinkling of “various software environments and raw computer data”. This prevents the music from becoming too sugary, keeping it sufficiently distant from the routines typical of many operators in this field. Two short episodes named “Chordata Analysis” contribute to lower the overall level of consonance through inhospitably noisy settings and ominous purrs.
The final “We Have Lots Of Time” – a title expressing a feeling which is exactly opposite to the one this writer is perennially burdened from – is possibly the album’s best, evoking atmospheres reminiscent of Thomas Köner and Christopher McFall while showcasing Allen’s original concept quite satisfactorily. It’s a worthy conclusion for a fine outing, a record that grows with each listen and – at least in my case – was better enjoyed without headphones.
After reading the press release’s depiction of The Fourth Way as “a collection of rich minimal ambient works” I was surprised to be greeted by a couple of pretty aggressive tracks such as “Exedra” and “Telepathic Solve”, constructed on acridness and interference more than relief-inducing signals and calming timbres. The latter piece gives a good idea of Cory Allen’s ability in attributing inherent movement to a static soundscape: restrained embryonic chords are practically engulfed by a continuous flow of radiations until they manage to emerge in the mix as glittering remnants of infatuation for an indefinable object of desire.
The instruments privileged by the composer are a Fender Rhodes (clearly at the basis of “In Search Of Miracul” and the beautifully nostalgic “All Suns”) and a Moog Voyager, with the “assistance” of a Moog ring modulator in some instance. The scenarios generated by these machines are then subjected to a sprinkling of “various software environments and raw computer data”. This prevents the music from becoming too sugary, keeping it sufficiently distant from the routines typical of many operators in this field. Two short episodes named “Chordata Analysis” contribute to lower the overall level of consonance through inhospitably noisy settings and ominous purrs.
The final “We Have Lots Of Time” – a title expressing a feeling which is exactly opposite to the one this writer is perennially burdened from – is possibly the album’s best, evoking atmospheres reminiscent of Thomas Köner and Christopher McFall while showcasing Allen’s original concept quite satisfactorily. It’s a worthy conclusion for a fine outing, a record that grows with each listen and – at least in my case – was better enjoyed without headphones.
VARIOUS ARTISTS - Resonant Embers
Edition Sonoro
This compilation does not include a single line of explanation, nor it indicates a basic concept around which the artists involved have worked, and right now I'm not in the condition of surfing the web for clues. The names are known enough for the cognizant ones to keep the aerials up, though, and the record indeed delivers. Matt Waldron aka irr. app. (ext.) opens the show with a thunderous cross of ritualistic reminiscences constantly altered by buzzing accumulations and entrancing harmonics, a congregation of drunken whales attacked by amplified giant flies ending in sad decadence. John Grzinich - or jgrzinich if you will – places metallic tampering and inaccessible machinations in isolated faraway ambiences, a sonic frugality somehow exalted by the threatening reverberations of the environment where the event takes place. Ubeboet (Miguel Tolosa) daydreams of a better future, his painful harmonic superimpositions and poignant string fragments floating like sorrowful butterflies eliciting currents of deep spirituality and hopeless despair.
Colin Potter persuades us about the inevitable necessity of bells by extracting the essential juice of their metal and paralleling it with almost epic surges of willpower-annihilating chords, the whole thrown slightly off-centre by peculiar resonances that strengthen the muscle of the piece by rendering it more dissonant. Paul Bradley calls out a squad of guitar-elicited fireflies illuminating a cold evening with alluring pulsations and Fripp-ish brightness in what's probably the most easy-to-memorize track of the album (which, oddly, recalls Djam Karet's Suspension And Displacement), while Maile Colbert & Tellemake analyze the discoloration of vocal counterpoint and the androgynous essence of reappearance through a different routing of murmured discretion, sort of a re-embodiment of the evocative cycles heard in Akira Rabelais' Spellewawerynsherde. Finally, Andrew Liles' piano and electronics introduce a touching violin elegy which seems to represent an ode to the perpetuation of apprehension, yet it results as an angelic song.
This compilation does not include a single line of explanation, nor it indicates a basic concept around which the artists involved have worked, and right now I'm not in the condition of surfing the web for clues. The names are known enough for the cognizant ones to keep the aerials up, though, and the record indeed delivers. Matt Waldron aka irr. app. (ext.) opens the show with a thunderous cross of ritualistic reminiscences constantly altered by buzzing accumulations and entrancing harmonics, a congregation of drunken whales attacked by amplified giant flies ending in sad decadence. John Grzinich - or jgrzinich if you will – places metallic tampering and inaccessible machinations in isolated faraway ambiences, a sonic frugality somehow exalted by the threatening reverberations of the environment where the event takes place. Ubeboet (Miguel Tolosa) daydreams of a better future, his painful harmonic superimpositions and poignant string fragments floating like sorrowful butterflies eliciting currents of deep spirituality and hopeless despair.
Colin Potter persuades us about the inevitable necessity of bells by extracting the essential juice of their metal and paralleling it with almost epic surges of willpower-annihilating chords, the whole thrown slightly off-centre by peculiar resonances that strengthen the muscle of the piece by rendering it more dissonant. Paul Bradley calls out a squad of guitar-elicited fireflies illuminating a cold evening with alluring pulsations and Fripp-ish brightness in what's probably the most easy-to-memorize track of the album (which, oddly, recalls Djam Karet's Suspension And Displacement), while Maile Colbert & Tellemake analyze the discoloration of vocal counterpoint and the androgynous essence of reappearance through a different routing of murmured discretion, sort of a re-embodiment of the evocative cycles heard in Akira Rabelais' Spellewawerynsherde. Finally, Andrew Liles' piano and electronics introduce a touching violin elegy which seems to represent an ode to the perpetuation of apprehension, yet it results as an angelic song.
Friday, 20 February 2009
ALFREDO COSTA MONTEIRO – Centre Of Mass
Another Timbre
From his adventures with Cremaster to the recent collaborations with the likes of John Duncan, Alfredo Costa Monteiro has been analyzing the fundamental nature of harmonic resonance through methods that could appear as not really innovative on a negligent listen. What we need here is exactly the opposite, as the 32 minutes of Centre Of Mass clearly show that the core of a vibration is perceivable – make that “visible” - only to those who are impermeable to words but have the channels of responsiveness wide open.
The record is built upon separated episodes of different length, all generated by the simplest means: a cymbal and “resonant objects”. Beginning with straightforward quivering essences that we can barely define as “tones”, various gradations of harmonics are explored by extracting the grime and the acid to convert what superficially appears as a grim diversification of frictional harshness into something that must be investigated starting from the rear side of the skull which, at serious volume, is the first part of the body that gets aroused by these stimulating, if admirably controlled phenomena.
Those apparently jarring superimpositions gradually evolve until they become an aggregation of protective reminiscences, as we’re thrown back in a critical setting which is probably nearer to the preliminary phase of biologic life than to the painful qualities of dissonance. Although impressively resounding the frequencies never threaten to overwhelm, looking at the listener with a sort of severe benevolence. They eclipse fear and stupor at once, tracing a mental path to be followed without hesitation in order for the very nerves to undergo a beneficial effect, a sharing of the overall wavering in the energetic flux of existence.
When the music abruptly ends one is left pondering about buried meanings and trying to give an answer to a massive amount of doubts, yet the lingering sensation is that what’s just passed might have been a rare glimpse of afterlife under the outer shell of sonic waves that – while harmonious for the well-trained – are not going to absolve the ignorant.
From his adventures with Cremaster to the recent collaborations with the likes of John Duncan, Alfredo Costa Monteiro has been analyzing the fundamental nature of harmonic resonance through methods that could appear as not really innovative on a negligent listen. What we need here is exactly the opposite, as the 32 minutes of Centre Of Mass clearly show that the core of a vibration is perceivable – make that “visible” - only to those who are impermeable to words but have the channels of responsiveness wide open.
The record is built upon separated episodes of different length, all generated by the simplest means: a cymbal and “resonant objects”. Beginning with straightforward quivering essences that we can barely define as “tones”, various gradations of harmonics are explored by extracting the grime and the acid to convert what superficially appears as a grim diversification of frictional harshness into something that must be investigated starting from the rear side of the skull which, at serious volume, is the first part of the body that gets aroused by these stimulating, if admirably controlled phenomena.
Those apparently jarring superimpositions gradually evolve until they become an aggregation of protective reminiscences, as we’re thrown back in a critical setting which is probably nearer to the preliminary phase of biologic life than to the painful qualities of dissonance. Although impressively resounding the frequencies never threaten to overwhelm, looking at the listener with a sort of severe benevolence. They eclipse fear and stupor at once, tracing a mental path to be followed without hesitation in order for the very nerves to undergo a beneficial effect, a sharing of the overall wavering in the energetic flux of existence.
When the music abruptly ends one is left pondering about buried meanings and trying to give an answer to a massive amount of doubts, yet the lingering sensation is that what’s just passed might have been a rare glimpse of afterlife under the outer shell of sonic waves that – while harmonious for the well-trained – are not going to absolve the ignorant.
DARREN TATE – A Strange Artifact
Fungal
The weirdly familiar cross of open-mindedness and ingenuity typical of Darren Tate’s solo outings is shown once more in A Strange Artifact, a not-always-quiet adventure constructed with a few instruments, the customary circumstantial participations of extraneous noises that become fundamental as the composition goes on, and Tate’s visionary reliability. The humanity, honesty and Franciscan nobility of the sonic landscapes offered by this reclusive man from Acomb, Yorkshire have been a proverbial aid for this writer’s wish of forgetting pre-digested music, nowadays remorselessly thrown up upon my patience’s finest tablecloths. Contrariwise, such a kind of album tickles the will of coming back time and again to find us absorbed by moods that only a talented artisan like Mr. Tate is able to suggest.
The first half of the CD is branded by the almost autistic undulation of a harmonium (or is this the accordion that Darren’s late neighbour Kathleen Vance left to him?), its animation underlined by an incomprehensible background hiss, probably of mechanical derivation. Halfway through the program we acknowledge the entrance – and persistence - of a meowing slide guitar and the scattered appearances of barely traceable radio snippets mixed with remote urban disturbance, the whole assuming the semblance of an abstract picture emphasized by the stable presence of an earth loop’s hum and outlandish echoes, a sort of pictorial representation of the world as equalized from within a drain hole. The general sound is transformed in an environment of sparsely peek-a-boo-ing ghosts whose immateriality is on a par with the beautifully unclear shapes characterizing the artist’s cover artwork. As usual, this is a complete, if undersized package of unpolluted artistry.
Knowing that this type of people exists, attempting to render their operations manifest (although exclusively for the small number of lucky ones who receive a copy of these very limited editions), is a motivation that reinforces the resolve of still hoping in something good for the future of human race.
The weirdly familiar cross of open-mindedness and ingenuity typical of Darren Tate’s solo outings is shown once more in A Strange Artifact, a not-always-quiet adventure constructed with a few instruments, the customary circumstantial participations of extraneous noises that become fundamental as the composition goes on, and Tate’s visionary reliability. The humanity, honesty and Franciscan nobility of the sonic landscapes offered by this reclusive man from Acomb, Yorkshire have been a proverbial aid for this writer’s wish of forgetting pre-digested music, nowadays remorselessly thrown up upon my patience’s finest tablecloths. Contrariwise, such a kind of album tickles the will of coming back time and again to find us absorbed by moods that only a talented artisan like Mr. Tate is able to suggest.
The first half of the CD is branded by the almost autistic undulation of a harmonium (or is this the accordion that Darren’s late neighbour Kathleen Vance left to him?), its animation underlined by an incomprehensible background hiss, probably of mechanical derivation. Halfway through the program we acknowledge the entrance – and persistence - of a meowing slide guitar and the scattered appearances of barely traceable radio snippets mixed with remote urban disturbance, the whole assuming the semblance of an abstract picture emphasized by the stable presence of an earth loop’s hum and outlandish echoes, a sort of pictorial representation of the world as equalized from within a drain hole. The general sound is transformed in an environment of sparsely peek-a-boo-ing ghosts whose immateriality is on a par with the beautifully unclear shapes characterizing the artist’s cover artwork. As usual, this is a complete, if undersized package of unpolluted artistry.
Knowing that this type of people exists, attempting to render their operations manifest (although exclusively for the small number of lucky ones who receive a copy of these very limited editions), is a motivation that reinforces the resolve of still hoping in something good for the future of human race.
Tuesday, 17 February 2009
BLACK TO COMM – Fractal Hair Geometry
Dekorder
For this CD, Marc Richter aka Black To Comm – who is also the label’s boss – utilized Casio and Farfisa organs, a huge amount of electronics and treatments and voice to concoct what the press release keeps describing as a “drone album”. The only way in which one can refer to that term is that all the pieces are harmonically immovable, based as they are on fixed “tonal” centres; yet there’s much more to find in Fractal Hair Geometry, an easy-to-digest outing realized via a systematic process of layering of semi-static tones, altered vocal emissions and – in “Leigh Bowery” – a 4/4 pseudo-disco beat.
As opposed to certain arrogant-sounding projects in which what shines is exclusively the composer’s sense of self, this record – which, let me be extremely clear, doesn’t belong on my hypothetical desert island anyway – is lively, funny and enjoyable. The tracks are crafted with genuine good intentions, a naïveté which renders them akin to the collections of toys of those children who don’t like going out to play with friends, preferring instead to remain secluded in their room building strange structures inhabited by teddy bears and rubber dogs. Millions of microscopic sonic events succeeding at breakneck speed while a (preferably detuned) organ symbolizes the termination of any pretence of compositional wizardry. This is music that exists merely for the duration of this selection, but in that time span it works quite alright - which is already a success.
For this CD, Marc Richter aka Black To Comm – who is also the label’s boss – utilized Casio and Farfisa organs, a huge amount of electronics and treatments and voice to concoct what the press release keeps describing as a “drone album”. The only way in which one can refer to that term is that all the pieces are harmonically immovable, based as they are on fixed “tonal” centres; yet there’s much more to find in Fractal Hair Geometry, an easy-to-digest outing realized via a systematic process of layering of semi-static tones, altered vocal emissions and – in “Leigh Bowery” – a 4/4 pseudo-disco beat.
As opposed to certain arrogant-sounding projects in which what shines is exclusively the composer’s sense of self, this record – which, let me be extremely clear, doesn’t belong on my hypothetical desert island anyway – is lively, funny and enjoyable. The tracks are crafted with genuine good intentions, a naïveté which renders them akin to the collections of toys of those children who don’t like going out to play with friends, preferring instead to remain secluded in their room building strange structures inhabited by teddy bears and rubber dogs. Millions of microscopic sonic events succeeding at breakneck speed while a (preferably detuned) organ symbolizes the termination of any pretence of compositional wizardry. This is music that exists merely for the duration of this selection, but in that time span it works quite alright - which is already a success.
Monday, 16 February 2009
NATE WOOLEY / FRED LONBERG-HOLM / JASON ROEBKE - Throw Down Your Hammer And Sing
Porter
Currently (and luckily) in a period of hyperactivity, Nate Wooley - the grey eminence of incompatible trumpeting - holds to his painstaking search for marketable lost causes in this, a disobedient trio with the gruesomely attractive cello-cum-electronics of Fred Lonberg-Holm and the humdrum-killing infection of bassist Jason Roebke. The comrades need no preamble to start stinging the ears in “Tacones Altos”, where the comparative oppositeness of registers becomes a pretext for cantankerous macerations of common sense, achieved by oscillating between the extremes of timbres with intolerant know-how. “Sans Aluminumius” (sic) is inaugurated by a fantastic series of raggedly dirty glissandos, then proceeds to mock the phobia of dissonance typical of formulaic improvisation by blowing the remnants of tone all around the place in a quest for sheer disreputableness, malevolent oxidation corroding the strings in an unprompted exhibition of low-budget anarchism.
“Southern Ends Of The Earth” is a meeting of Webern aficionados whose incorruptibility is tested by an undesired guest trying to sneak smoothly blown intimidations in the existing conversation; yet, at one point, the music sounds like psyched-out frogs commenting the insane practices of a Alfred Hitchcock-loving jazzbo. “Saint Mary” begins with micro-crickets and misbegotten parsimony, the squeaking qualities of the wood and the cunning behavior of the three exploiters at the basis of a surreptitious degeneration of instrumental configuration ending in friction-and-howl proficiency. The album is completed, in dilapidated glory, with “Anywhere, Anyplace At All”: drops of wretched electronics underlining an ungovernable sonic gossip, kind of a soundtrack for the attempted larceny in a depressing hole already visited a hundred times by other thieves. Nothing left to steal, those previous missives didn’t tell the truth, the song is over.
Currently (and luckily) in a period of hyperactivity, Nate Wooley - the grey eminence of incompatible trumpeting - holds to his painstaking search for marketable lost causes in this, a disobedient trio with the gruesomely attractive cello-cum-electronics of Fred Lonberg-Holm and the humdrum-killing infection of bassist Jason Roebke. The comrades need no preamble to start stinging the ears in “Tacones Altos”, where the comparative oppositeness of registers becomes a pretext for cantankerous macerations of common sense, achieved by oscillating between the extremes of timbres with intolerant know-how. “Sans Aluminumius” (sic) is inaugurated by a fantastic series of raggedly dirty glissandos, then proceeds to mock the phobia of dissonance typical of formulaic improvisation by blowing the remnants of tone all around the place in a quest for sheer disreputableness, malevolent oxidation corroding the strings in an unprompted exhibition of low-budget anarchism.
“Southern Ends Of The Earth” is a meeting of Webern aficionados whose incorruptibility is tested by an undesired guest trying to sneak smoothly blown intimidations in the existing conversation; yet, at one point, the music sounds like psyched-out frogs commenting the insane practices of a Alfred Hitchcock-loving jazzbo. “Saint Mary” begins with micro-crickets and misbegotten parsimony, the squeaking qualities of the wood and the cunning behavior of the three exploiters at the basis of a surreptitious degeneration of instrumental configuration ending in friction-and-howl proficiency. The album is completed, in dilapidated glory, with “Anywhere, Anyplace At All”: drops of wretched electronics underlining an ungovernable sonic gossip, kind of a soundtrack for the attempted larceny in a depressing hole already visited a hundred times by other thieves. Nothing left to steal, those previous missives didn’t tell the truth, the song is over.
PRESLAV LITERARY SCHOOL – Pretext / Context
Glosses Fur Die Masses
Adam Thomas is a writer, musician and performer based in Newcastle Upon Tyne, Pretext / Context his third release under the PLS moniker. The record comprises two performances broadcasted by Resonance FM from the Middlesbrough Institute Of Modern Art in March 2008. For this work, Thomas utilized four dictaphones reproducing an assortment of sources: spoken text, radio signals, granular noise, extemporaneous appearances, birdsongs, urban landscapes. The artist’s aim was to “recontextualise the original material into new improvised compositions”, in this case achieved but not without a degree of difficulty.
There are recurring elements in this piece – old-style jazz, for example – which attribute a desolate familiarity to an already dismal atmosphere where the low audio quality and the worrying sentiment of certain situations make us feel projected in a previous era, the mood, in general, perceived as somewhat dejected. Jagged distortions and disconcerting juxtapositions contribute to a displacement that grows as the time slips away: this is not your typical shatteringly regretful ode to a past that won’t return. It has more to do with a latent powerlessness, not including hints to particular aesthetic laws. The music is, in that sense, literally “concrete” and should be taken and appreciated (or less) as such.
Nearer to Ake Hodell than William Basinski, PLS doesn’t really elicit ecstatic sighs and veils of tears. At times disturbing, definitely inquisitive, this composition requires attention, rewards lurking behind the corner if one’s patient enough.
Adam Thomas is a writer, musician and performer based in Newcastle Upon Tyne, Pretext / Context his third release under the PLS moniker. The record comprises two performances broadcasted by Resonance FM from the Middlesbrough Institute Of Modern Art in March 2008. For this work, Thomas utilized four dictaphones reproducing an assortment of sources: spoken text, radio signals, granular noise, extemporaneous appearances, birdsongs, urban landscapes. The artist’s aim was to “recontextualise the original material into new improvised compositions”, in this case achieved but not without a degree of difficulty.
There are recurring elements in this piece – old-style jazz, for example – which attribute a desolate familiarity to an already dismal atmosphere where the low audio quality and the worrying sentiment of certain situations make us feel projected in a previous era, the mood, in general, perceived as somewhat dejected. Jagged distortions and disconcerting juxtapositions contribute to a displacement that grows as the time slips away: this is not your typical shatteringly regretful ode to a past that won’t return. It has more to do with a latent powerlessness, not including hints to particular aesthetic laws. The music is, in that sense, literally “concrete” and should be taken and appreciated (or less) as such.
Nearer to Ake Hodell than William Basinski, PLS doesn’t really elicit ecstatic sighs and veils of tears. At times disturbing, definitely inquisitive, this composition requires attention, rewards lurking behind the corner if one’s patient enough.
Monday, 9 February 2009
ERDEM HELVACIOGLU – Wounded Breath
Aucourant
Erdem Helvacioglu is a young, budding Turkish musician who is very active in a variety of fields related with contemporary art (including films, multimedia, dance and theatre). His work has already been commissioned by important organizational entities and ensembles - two examples at the opposite sides being the 2006 World Soccer Championships and Bang On A Can All-Stars - and he has been joining forces with names comprising Mick Karn, Elliott Sharp and Saadet Türköz. In 2007, his Altered Realities on New Albion – despite receiving critical acclaim and good reviews – somehow hadn’t managed to sufficiently motivate me, but Wounded Breath is definitely a major step forward and an outstanding acousmatic record, period.
The five tracks, whose length ranges from nine to seventeen minutes, are properly conceived and better assembled, gifting us with several moments of astounding trepidation halfway through the indefiniteness of the majority of timbres and the vibrant dynamic multidimensionality that characterizes every single minute of the CD. The composer wisely chose not to exacerbate the spectacular aspect of the sonic events; as a matter of fact, this music frequently shows a deeply touching side, finely represented by the recurrent, almost motionless interruptions – mainly established on a basis of harmonic impenetrableness - that once in a while appear to deliver the pieces from any potential surplus of disaggregation. In that sense, “Lead Crystal Marbles” and “Blank Mirror” present preeminent attributes, alimenting a well-perceivable sensation of uneasiness with surprising changes of circumstances, all the while avoiding the implacable untidiness that often destroys good intentions in today’s electroacoustic melting pot. Not wanting to sound blasphemous, at times this listener was reminded of Roland Kayn’s evolutional climaxes, if only for a few seconds.
A remarkable album indeed, at least on a par with the best offered by labels such as Empreintes DIGITALes. If this is the path that Helvacioglu intends to pursue for the future, we’re all ears.
Erdem Helvacioglu is a young, budding Turkish musician who is very active in a variety of fields related with contemporary art (including films, multimedia, dance and theatre). His work has already been commissioned by important organizational entities and ensembles - two examples at the opposite sides being the 2006 World Soccer Championships and Bang On A Can All-Stars - and he has been joining forces with names comprising Mick Karn, Elliott Sharp and Saadet Türköz. In 2007, his Altered Realities on New Albion – despite receiving critical acclaim and good reviews – somehow hadn’t managed to sufficiently motivate me, but Wounded Breath is definitely a major step forward and an outstanding acousmatic record, period.
The five tracks, whose length ranges from nine to seventeen minutes, are properly conceived and better assembled, gifting us with several moments of astounding trepidation halfway through the indefiniteness of the majority of timbres and the vibrant dynamic multidimensionality that characterizes every single minute of the CD. The composer wisely chose not to exacerbate the spectacular aspect of the sonic events; as a matter of fact, this music frequently shows a deeply touching side, finely represented by the recurrent, almost motionless interruptions – mainly established on a basis of harmonic impenetrableness - that once in a while appear to deliver the pieces from any potential surplus of disaggregation. In that sense, “Lead Crystal Marbles” and “Blank Mirror” present preeminent attributes, alimenting a well-perceivable sensation of uneasiness with surprising changes of circumstances, all the while avoiding the implacable untidiness that often destroys good intentions in today’s electroacoustic melting pot. Not wanting to sound blasphemous, at times this listener was reminded of Roland Kayn’s evolutional climaxes, if only for a few seconds.
A remarkable album indeed, at least on a par with the best offered by labels such as Empreintes DIGITALes. If this is the path that Helvacioglu intends to pursue for the future, we’re all ears.
Wednesday, 4 February 2009
ZBIGNIEW KARKOWSKI & DANIEL MENCHE – Unleash
Alien 8
Recorded “in person and in real time” by the protagonists in a Portland studio in 2008, Unleash (nomen omen) is the first of two collaborations between Menche and Karkowski, here exclusively credited with “live electronics”. If you had pictured a sort of mega-rumble clash of noise gods, the Ali vs. Foreman of royal harshness, the outcome should be adequately gratifying for your (possibly damaged) ears to place this album among the most interesting releases of both artists, at least as far as intensity and viciousness are concerned.
The six consecutive movements leave no doubt indeed: apart from Menche’s pseudo tribal drumming appearing every once in a while and soon engulfed by a mass of rapacious stridencies, the overall feel is one of pretty conscientious craft in the assemblage of growingly harsh manifestations of barely controlled power. Surges and discharges are unequivocally unremitting, the hurtful quality of the distortion a veritable threat for ill-equipped cerebra, the systematic onslaught of medium-to-high frequencies absolutely relentless except for the last couple of minutes, as the piece reaches its natural demise.
At the end of this nuclear confrontation my head is literally buzzing, the mind asking if we’re still young and fresh enough to keep enduring this kind of aural cure. The delirious scribbler is renewing his subscription for another season in the belief that he’ll be healed, definitively delivered from the bags of idiocy that human words continuously try to dump in all those unfilled skulls.
Recorded “in person and in real time” by the protagonists in a Portland studio in 2008, Unleash (nomen omen) is the first of two collaborations between Menche and Karkowski, here exclusively credited with “live electronics”. If you had pictured a sort of mega-rumble clash of noise gods, the Ali vs. Foreman of royal harshness, the outcome should be adequately gratifying for your (possibly damaged) ears to place this album among the most interesting releases of both artists, at least as far as intensity and viciousness are concerned.
The six consecutive movements leave no doubt indeed: apart from Menche’s pseudo tribal drumming appearing every once in a while and soon engulfed by a mass of rapacious stridencies, the overall feel is one of pretty conscientious craft in the assemblage of growingly harsh manifestations of barely controlled power. Surges and discharges are unequivocally unremitting, the hurtful quality of the distortion a veritable threat for ill-equipped cerebra, the systematic onslaught of medium-to-high frequencies absolutely relentless except for the last couple of minutes, as the piece reaches its natural demise.
At the end of this nuclear confrontation my head is literally buzzing, the mind asking if we’re still young and fresh enough to keep enduring this kind of aural cure. The delirious scribbler is renewing his subscription for another season in the belief that he’ll be healed, definitively delivered from the bags of idiocy that human words continuously try to dump in all those unfilled skulls.
JOE MORRIS / BARRE PHILLIPS – Elm City Duets
Clean Feed
What transpires from Elm City Duets after repeated dutiful listens is an impression of mutual regard, a quality which should be at the basis of cognisant interplay in every juncture. All the more complicated is fulfilling such an ambition in a guitar/double bass duo, a situation that only on the odd occasion warrants really good results - especially in terms of dynamics. Morris manifests a fan-like mindset in the liner notes, where he recalls his first meetings with Phillips many years following his “melting” the B side of Archie Shepp’s New Thing At Newport.
The actual music in the CD doesn’t reveal any sort of excessive veneration, though, thus we can effortlessly appreciate the consideration given by the artists to the infinitesimal detail as opposed to prefabricated incidents. A sparkling chord occurs because it was meant to be there at that moment, yet no one knew in advance; a touching arcoed lament appears out of nowhere to project our own inner tremor in the area of unintentional thankfulness. In essence, we’re talking about a fairly untreated acoustic interface between two distinguished improvisers who give birth to frequent moments of superb artistic purity, either slightly encrusted by the strident features of the instruments or defined by an extremely efficient juxtaposition of smart clusters, percussive clattering, minimal patterns and strenuous contrapuntal digressions.
In times of abundant eruptions of psycho-babbling vacuum, here’s a rare chance for the appreciation of a rather complex, yet kind-hearted expression of zealous musicianship by creative entities who have turned their will to remain unadulterated in a world of dubious circumstances into a distinct trait of tightly established earnestness, the sort of skill where even a minor blemish becomes an attribute to approve and learn from.
What transpires from Elm City Duets after repeated dutiful listens is an impression of mutual regard, a quality which should be at the basis of cognisant interplay in every juncture. All the more complicated is fulfilling such an ambition in a guitar/double bass duo, a situation that only on the odd occasion warrants really good results - especially in terms of dynamics. Morris manifests a fan-like mindset in the liner notes, where he recalls his first meetings with Phillips many years following his “melting” the B side of Archie Shepp’s New Thing At Newport.
The actual music in the CD doesn’t reveal any sort of excessive veneration, though, thus we can effortlessly appreciate the consideration given by the artists to the infinitesimal detail as opposed to prefabricated incidents. A sparkling chord occurs because it was meant to be there at that moment, yet no one knew in advance; a touching arcoed lament appears out of nowhere to project our own inner tremor in the area of unintentional thankfulness. In essence, we’re talking about a fairly untreated acoustic interface between two distinguished improvisers who give birth to frequent moments of superb artistic purity, either slightly encrusted by the strident features of the instruments or defined by an extremely efficient juxtaposition of smart clusters, percussive clattering, minimal patterns and strenuous contrapuntal digressions.
In times of abundant eruptions of psycho-babbling vacuum, here’s a rare chance for the appreciation of a rather complex, yet kind-hearted expression of zealous musicianship by creative entities who have turned their will to remain unadulterated in a world of dubious circumstances into a distinct trait of tightly established earnestness, the sort of skill where even a minor blemish becomes an attribute to approve and learn from.
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