New World
Tom Johnson's Rational Melodies had been released twice already in the past, both times featuring a solo instrumentalist (flutist Eberhard Blum and clarinettist Roger Heaton respectively). This edition constitutes the first recorded version of the piece performed by a chamber group, for the occasion France's Dedalus. The painstaking study of the material and the zeal shown in tackling it caused an encouraging response from the composer, according to whom "the interpreters have added so much insight to the music that the music itself has grown". Saying that after 28 years from the initial sketching means a lot, but Johnson is quite right. Although the work is incontrovertibly influenced by his typically minimalist mathematic designs, different stylistic factors and a sense of dry humour are astutely brought to the fore by the performers.
It's difficult to trace elegiac tints or emotional resonance in a score that consists of reiterated straightforward figurations, only altered by adding or subtracting notes, shifting the pauses and challenging the instrumentalists with the juxtaposition of diverse metrical sequences. Dedalus execute all of the above with a mix of technically superior acuity and visible paradox: one can't help but think about Sylvester the Cat tiptoeing behind a wall as cyclical string pizzicatos distinguish certain sections, and some of the chromatically melodic passages might be useful for an Arabian parody. The way in which the events - and absences thereof - are calculated to succeed allows each movement to engrave the memory enough for a transient positive reception. Yet what ultimately lingers on is the sonic core of a conception which still sounds strikingly effective, perfectly in line with this man 's musical interests over several decades.
Saturday, 26 June 2010
Friday, 25 June 2010
JOACHIM GIES & SOUND / BODY / CELLS – Shimmering
Leo
Rather appealing things and a clutch of good vibrations come from this trio formed by saxophonist Gies (alto and tenor plus glockenspiel and rattles), soprano vocalist Ronni Gilla and percussionist Denis Stilke, recorded at Berlin’s Johanniskirche in 2009. The church location is ideal for this music, the acoustic properties of the sacred edifice exalting a type of interplay which – quite intelligently - leaves a lot of breathing room for the single elements to reveal their nuances. So, what are these people doing? Picture a cross-pollination of leisurely unfolding ceremonials, a few ECM echoes (this being told with optimistic intent) and a female voice whose gamut comprises influences ranging from native American chanting to Meredith Monk, technically grounded in impeccable fashion. I don’t know exactly why, but certain accents from Gilla – who’s not really a revolutionary singer, yet her performance is outstanding throughout – transported my imagination across territories bordering with Arvo Pärt’s work, at times influenced by African currents. She interacts with Gies’ conscientious dissection of multiphonics and reliable phrasing adequately, Stilke providing the right percussive gradations for any setting with expert hands and caring ears.
Thursday, 17 June 2010
SYLVIA HALLETT & MIKE ADCOCK - Reduced
The Orchestra Pit Recording Company
After acknowledging the wonderful name of the releasing label, let’s take a look at the tools. Violin, saw, bicycle wheel, lentils, FX pedals, voice (SH); accordion, guitar, autoharp, marble chute, percussion (MA). The instrumental array is more or less what was expected from these artists, the duo’s brilliance lying in the unremitting exploitation of the consequent nuances which in Reduced are plentiful, vivacious and, in various instances, surprising in peculiar ways. Hallett and Adcock embody the concept of instant creativity informed by an innocence comparable to that exuding from children at play (check “Only Tulle” to have an idea). The outcome is an album that offers episodes of wholesome evocativeness together with others that sound a little timid, if equally imbued with earnestness. The very first tracks appear in fact as a sort of reciprocal questioning between players intent in finding useful ideas through the exploration of timbres that may lack an actual weight, but still make sense in the grand scheme of things. The initial “Gewgaws” – an indescribable “acoustic sci-fi” atmosphere with wavering pitches and percussive droplets – is a virtual miniature portrait of the pair’s untainted quintessence.
Several are the outstanding qualities in this music, features that the memory gladly retains as orientation points over the course of mandatory repeated listens. The clever use of loops is a welcome reminder of how a typically useless trick that, in other circumstances, hides an absolute creative poverty becomes instead a means to transcendence in the right hands. Hallett uses the device as the basis for the engrossing harmonic motionlessness of “Strange Power! I Trust Thy Might”, whereas in “Betty Martin” - another favourite of mine - the magnificent conversation of a seagull-like violin and a melancholic accordion gradually morphs into a mild hallucination, overlaid amassments of whirling figurations generating huge masses of grainy vibration. The conclusive “Shudder To Think” is characterized by a sinuously oscillating acute tone – supposedly Hallett’s processed vocalizations, yet it actually resembles a Theremin – against Adcock’s clusters in the high register. It leaves us suspended in doubt, once again confirming that excessive certainties eradicate purity from naïve inventiveness.
Despite the simple components, this is a record that requires persistent attention, ready to repay our absorption with lots of uniquely charming sounds and curious improvisational concepts. A cloaked gem, really.
After acknowledging the wonderful name of the releasing label, let’s take a look at the tools. Violin, saw, bicycle wheel, lentils, FX pedals, voice (SH); accordion, guitar, autoharp, marble chute, percussion (MA). The instrumental array is more or less what was expected from these artists, the duo’s brilliance lying in the unremitting exploitation of the consequent nuances which in Reduced are plentiful, vivacious and, in various instances, surprising in peculiar ways. Hallett and Adcock embody the concept of instant creativity informed by an innocence comparable to that exuding from children at play (check “Only Tulle” to have an idea). The outcome is an album that offers episodes of wholesome evocativeness together with others that sound a little timid, if equally imbued with earnestness. The very first tracks appear in fact as a sort of reciprocal questioning between players intent in finding useful ideas through the exploration of timbres that may lack an actual weight, but still make sense in the grand scheme of things. The initial “Gewgaws” – an indescribable “acoustic sci-fi” atmosphere with wavering pitches and percussive droplets – is a virtual miniature portrait of the pair’s untainted quintessence.
Several are the outstanding qualities in this music, features that the memory gladly retains as orientation points over the course of mandatory repeated listens. The clever use of loops is a welcome reminder of how a typically useless trick that, in other circumstances, hides an absolute creative poverty becomes instead a means to transcendence in the right hands. Hallett uses the device as the basis for the engrossing harmonic motionlessness of “Strange Power! I Trust Thy Might”, whereas in “Betty Martin” - another favourite of mine - the magnificent conversation of a seagull-like violin and a melancholic accordion gradually morphs into a mild hallucination, overlaid amassments of whirling figurations generating huge masses of grainy vibration. The conclusive “Shudder To Think” is characterized by a sinuously oscillating acute tone – supposedly Hallett’s processed vocalizations, yet it actually resembles a Theremin – against Adcock’s clusters in the high register. It leaves us suspended in doubt, once again confirming that excessive certainties eradicate purity from naïve inventiveness.
Despite the simple components, this is a record that requires persistent attention, ready to repay our absorption with lots of uniquely charming sounds and curious improvisational concepts. A cloaked gem, really.
Wednesday, 16 June 2010
PER ANDERS NILSSON / STEN SANDELL / RAYMOND STRID – Beam Stone
Psi
“Each sound has its own narrative!” is the original motto of Beam Stone, the trio of Per Anders Nilsson (computer, synthesizer), Sten Sandell (piano, prepared piano, electronics and voice) and Raymond Strid (percussion). Formed in 2006, the group plays intensely through a cycle of electroacoustic prospects that seem to defy whatever logic people might try to relate to the resulting music. It is indeed a type of improvisation that is “viscerally cerebral” and essentially textural, not linked to any kind of universally intended linear or harmonic concept, if not in a futuristically brutal form linking these investigations to the analysis and subsequent decomposition of a defined timbre. According to that, the record offers more than a moment of illumination to those who are growing tired of listening to pre-digested “free formats” typically informed by repeated visits to the extremes of jazz and its derivative ramifications.
Obviously the conspicuous effect of synthesizers, computers and electronics on the listener’s consideration is a primary factor, and one of the most attractive ones. The clouds of gaseous matters elicited in “Peneplain”, for example, are underlined by a constant hum that almost defines the track as a drone piece, despite the presence of divergent noises and other forms of eccentric propagation. The preposterous morsels of detuned rarefaction heard at the beginning of “Luster” blend admirably with the piano in an overall mood of alien anarchy, leading to next-to-incongruous modifications of pitches and chords. The acoustic explorations are handled with the usual cold efficiency by Sandell, an idiosyncratic pianist like few others. He chooses a series of notes, builds entire castles upon their obstinate repetition, bringing the harmonics out and fusing those characteristics with Strid’s individual indeterminacy (although perennially immersed in concreteness). This uncontainable whole is swallowed and regurgitated in triturated protrusions by Nilsson’s computerized setup. Periodically we find ourselves looking at a partial dissolution of common sense; that’s also the exact reason for which this set shines of an absolutely distinctive identity.
“Each sound has its own narrative!” is the original motto of Beam Stone, the trio of Per Anders Nilsson (computer, synthesizer), Sten Sandell (piano, prepared piano, electronics and voice) and Raymond Strid (percussion). Formed in 2006, the group plays intensely through a cycle of electroacoustic prospects that seem to defy whatever logic people might try to relate to the resulting music. It is indeed a type of improvisation that is “viscerally cerebral” and essentially textural, not linked to any kind of universally intended linear or harmonic concept, if not in a futuristically brutal form linking these investigations to the analysis and subsequent decomposition of a defined timbre. According to that, the record offers more than a moment of illumination to those who are growing tired of listening to pre-digested “free formats” typically informed by repeated visits to the extremes of jazz and its derivative ramifications.
Obviously the conspicuous effect of synthesizers, computers and electronics on the listener’s consideration is a primary factor, and one of the most attractive ones. The clouds of gaseous matters elicited in “Peneplain”, for example, are underlined by a constant hum that almost defines the track as a drone piece, despite the presence of divergent noises and other forms of eccentric propagation. The preposterous morsels of detuned rarefaction heard at the beginning of “Luster” blend admirably with the piano in an overall mood of alien anarchy, leading to next-to-incongruous modifications of pitches and chords. The acoustic explorations are handled with the usual cold efficiency by Sandell, an idiosyncratic pianist like few others. He chooses a series of notes, builds entire castles upon their obstinate repetition, bringing the harmonics out and fusing those characteristics with Strid’s individual indeterminacy (although perennially immersed in concreteness). This uncontainable whole is swallowed and regurgitated in triturated protrusions by Nilsson’s computerized setup. Periodically we find ourselves looking at a partial dissolution of common sense; that’s also the exact reason for which this set shines of an absolutely distinctive identity.
BOB MARSH / JIM RYAN / SPIRIT – The Spirit Moves Us
Edgetone
The Spirit Moves Us fuses three chief practitioners of free interplay of San Francisco’s Bay Area in a completely spontaneous session recorded in May 2009. The recording gives the idea of a single microphone take, lots of natural reverberations surrounding the ceaseless spurts and fluxes generated by these stray combatants. The title is obviously borrowed from percussionist Spirit, who characterizes the procedures quite effectively via a complete redesigning of the essential concepts of rhythm, which gets literally pulverized into minuscule scraps useful for every occurrence. Over this extreme fragmentation, Jim Ryan confirms a typically wide-minded approach to phrasing, inserting zigzagging splinters of serenity, reflective quirkiness and slight scents of primitive rites amidst a continuous melodic fluctuation that – either through saxophone or flute – keeps defining him as a singular reed player not easily fitting in categories (unless we want to include “semi-principled liberty” among them). Marsh's cello often sounds deep and cavernous like a double bass. I don't know if this comes from the use of pitch transposing devices (the trio seems to recur to digital delay regularly and gladly), but the result makes one think nonfigurative painting rather than chamber music. His arco discernment locates supplies of interesting colours mating with the rest of the timbral palette well enough to sustain our interest for a fair while. Infrequent spots of improvisational tiredness are present, yet they get negated by the artists’ irrefutable integrity.
The Spirit Moves Us fuses three chief practitioners of free interplay of San Francisco’s Bay Area in a completely spontaneous session recorded in May 2009. The recording gives the idea of a single microphone take, lots of natural reverberations surrounding the ceaseless spurts and fluxes generated by these stray combatants. The title is obviously borrowed from percussionist Spirit, who characterizes the procedures quite effectively via a complete redesigning of the essential concepts of rhythm, which gets literally pulverized into minuscule scraps useful for every occurrence. Over this extreme fragmentation, Jim Ryan confirms a typically wide-minded approach to phrasing, inserting zigzagging splinters of serenity, reflective quirkiness and slight scents of primitive rites amidst a continuous melodic fluctuation that – either through saxophone or flute – keeps defining him as a singular reed player not easily fitting in categories (unless we want to include “semi-principled liberty” among them). Marsh's cello often sounds deep and cavernous like a double bass. I don't know if this comes from the use of pitch transposing devices (the trio seems to recur to digital delay regularly and gladly), but the result makes one think nonfigurative painting rather than chamber music. His arco discernment locates supplies of interesting colours mating with the rest of the timbral palette well enough to sustain our interest for a fair while. Infrequent spots of improvisational tiredness are present, yet they get negated by the artists’ irrefutable integrity.
Sunday, 13 June 2010
JEAN-LUC GUIONNET - Non-Organic Bias
Herbal International
I’m not the kind of person who squanders precious time in decoding people’s visions when they’re expressed via written concepts that, even after an accurate translation, bury the exact aims and grounds of an artistic statement under the dozens of question marks engendered by a (willingly?) unclear explanation, or the transliteration of a daydream. This happens when I try and read Jean-Luc Guionnet’s notes to the three pieces comprised by Non-Organic Bias, which make your purple prose merchant resemble a hieratic minimalist in comparison.
Therefore this writer reverted to the more palatable food. That means the music which, in this occasion, was born from the sound(s) of organ(s), subjected to various types of alteration, granularization and dismemberment. It was not an easy mission to accomplish, despite the hypothetical unfussiness of the music’s gestation and overall structure. The main motive: a big discrepancy in the results generated by the two traditional methods of enjoying the content of a disc. In fact, the frequencies privileged by Guionnet are so damn near and below the ground that, from the speakers, the large part of this double album behaves like an all-engulfing gathering of humongous purrs and potent winds as heard from within a padded room, sporadically interrupted by jarring clusters in the higher registers, or rendered totally awesome through the use of sloping slow motion and other kinds of techniques. In those circumstances, the composer nears some of our favourite masters’s expressive nuances. Xenakis (mais oui!), Kayn, a smidgen of flanged-out Palestine and Niblock in a few brief instances. I’m shivering at the thought of the nonentities who might have the guts to sample parts of this record and reprocess them for their own worthless businesses.
But if you need to assess the actual compositional value of this outing, headphones turn out to be necessary. Also, they must be able to tolerate the centre-of-the-earth throbbing grumble that a piece such as “Espace Bas” constantly elicits, otherwise what you’re hearing is going to be inexorably blemished by the gnarly rattle of earphone membranes unable to perform a truthful conversion of the acoustic mass (in this place a recent cheap Philips worked much better than an old expensive Beyerdynamic). Only at that point one is in the condition of acknowledging Guionnet’s subtle craft, his finely tuned superimposition of roar, wheeze and flutter, the diligence in placing slight substrata and virtually inconspicuous details in the mix. And become acquainted with the presence of extremely acute pitches and foreboding virtual choirs (“Estuaire” is fantastic in that sense). We’re as distant from “ambient” as a metropolitan inferno is from an airport’s waiting hall, regardless of what can be peeped around the web. These are the organ’s bowels screaming, get the picture?
This stuff should be experienced intensely, differently and continually to merely break the external ice of its impenetrability. Success is not a given, which is one of the many reasons behind my attraction towards this thick slab of a release. Consequently, let me join the admiring queue and declare that a copy of this item is mandatory in a serious listener’s collection. The verbal contortions are entirely forgiven.
I’m not the kind of person who squanders precious time in decoding people’s visions when they’re expressed via written concepts that, even after an accurate translation, bury the exact aims and grounds of an artistic statement under the dozens of question marks engendered by a (willingly?) unclear explanation, or the transliteration of a daydream. This happens when I try and read Jean-Luc Guionnet’s notes to the three pieces comprised by Non-Organic Bias, which make your purple prose merchant resemble a hieratic minimalist in comparison.
Therefore this writer reverted to the more palatable food. That means the music which, in this occasion, was born from the sound(s) of organ(s), subjected to various types of alteration, granularization and dismemberment. It was not an easy mission to accomplish, despite the hypothetical unfussiness of the music’s gestation and overall structure. The main motive: a big discrepancy in the results generated by the two traditional methods of enjoying the content of a disc. In fact, the frequencies privileged by Guionnet are so damn near and below the ground that, from the speakers, the large part of this double album behaves like an all-engulfing gathering of humongous purrs and potent winds as heard from within a padded room, sporadically interrupted by jarring clusters in the higher registers, or rendered totally awesome through the use of sloping slow motion and other kinds of techniques. In those circumstances, the composer nears some of our favourite masters’s expressive nuances. Xenakis (mais oui!), Kayn, a smidgen of flanged-out Palestine and Niblock in a few brief instances. I’m shivering at the thought of the nonentities who might have the guts to sample parts of this record and reprocess them for their own worthless businesses.
But if you need to assess the actual compositional value of this outing, headphones turn out to be necessary. Also, they must be able to tolerate the centre-of-the-earth throbbing grumble that a piece such as “Espace Bas” constantly elicits, otherwise what you’re hearing is going to be inexorably blemished by the gnarly rattle of earphone membranes unable to perform a truthful conversion of the acoustic mass (in this place a recent cheap Philips worked much better than an old expensive Beyerdynamic). Only at that point one is in the condition of acknowledging Guionnet’s subtle craft, his finely tuned superimposition of roar, wheeze and flutter, the diligence in placing slight substrata and virtually inconspicuous details in the mix. And become acquainted with the presence of extremely acute pitches and foreboding virtual choirs (“Estuaire” is fantastic in that sense). We’re as distant from “ambient” as a metropolitan inferno is from an airport’s waiting hall, regardless of what can be peeped around the web. These are the organ’s bowels screaming, get the picture?
This stuff should be experienced intensely, differently and continually to merely break the external ice of its impenetrability. Success is not a given, which is one of the many reasons behind my attraction towards this thick slab of a release. Consequently, let me join the admiring queue and declare that a copy of this item is mandatory in a serious listener’s collection. The verbal contortions are entirely forgiven.
Friday, 11 June 2010
MARILYN LERNER / MATT BRUBECK / NICK FRASER – Ugly Beauties
Ambiances Magnétiques
Ugly Beauties is the first CD for the threesome of Lerner (piano), Brubeck (cello) and Fraser (drums). Difficult to place this music in a context without resorting to typical definitions. There is a lot of improvisation mixed with carefully trimmed material; there aren’t surpluses of extended techniques, although the musicians do explore more peripheral regions of the instruments when the time is right. Definitely it’s not something linked to reductionism, for the interplay mostly generates rather dense textural interconnections and clear phrases that, even when a rarefaction of events prevails, glow as luminous stars in a summer sky. Ultimately, what’s this record like?
The answer is “nothing that I can call to mind at this instant”. The trio is nimble and precise in the exposition, the playing revealing a degree of contrapuntal poetry – atonal romanticism, if you will - quite frequently, letting us catch glimpses of untainted ability that never figures as the motivation for germ-free exercises. The improvisations may appear nonchalant in their manifestation but consequential as far as technical grounding and plausibility of creative choices are concerned. A concession is made to a couple of stylish digressions, and there’s a swinging interlude in “Harold Lloyd” that sincerely was better left out. Fortunately, these are rare occurrences: for the large part, the quality of the instrumental interaction is so rewarding – just check the gorgeous “Ding An Sich” - that one’s immediately pushed to listen to it again, in order to comprehend the actual reasons behind a work that doesn’t strike that hard, yet digs deep enough to warrant a laudatory mention. A gracious treat to the ears, full of great tones and distinctive acoustic perspectives, in spite of the impermanence of a proper characterization in our memory.
Ugly Beauties is the first CD for the threesome of Lerner (piano), Brubeck (cello) and Fraser (drums). Difficult to place this music in a context without resorting to typical definitions. There is a lot of improvisation mixed with carefully trimmed material; there aren’t surpluses of extended techniques, although the musicians do explore more peripheral regions of the instruments when the time is right. Definitely it’s not something linked to reductionism, for the interplay mostly generates rather dense textural interconnections and clear phrases that, even when a rarefaction of events prevails, glow as luminous stars in a summer sky. Ultimately, what’s this record like?
The answer is “nothing that I can call to mind at this instant”. The trio is nimble and precise in the exposition, the playing revealing a degree of contrapuntal poetry – atonal romanticism, if you will - quite frequently, letting us catch glimpses of untainted ability that never figures as the motivation for germ-free exercises. The improvisations may appear nonchalant in their manifestation but consequential as far as technical grounding and plausibility of creative choices are concerned. A concession is made to a couple of stylish digressions, and there’s a swinging interlude in “Harold Lloyd” that sincerely was better left out. Fortunately, these are rare occurrences: for the large part, the quality of the instrumental interaction is so rewarding – just check the gorgeous “Ding An Sich” - that one’s immediately pushed to listen to it again, in order to comprehend the actual reasons behind a work that doesn’t strike that hard, yet digs deep enough to warrant a laudatory mention. A gracious treat to the ears, full of great tones and distinctive acoustic perspectives, in spite of the impermanence of a proper characterization in our memory.
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
DAWN OF MIDI – First
Accretions
This is the debut album by Dawn Of Midi which, despite the name, is an entirely acoustic transcontinental group consisting of Amino Belyamani (Morocco, piano), Aakaash Israni (India, contrabass) and Qasim Naqvi (Pakistan, percussion). Dissipating any doubt about the possible incidence of electronics - there isn't any - and mostly avoiding the typicality related to a supposed synthesis of local influences (apparently absent, yet still detectable in certain scales and moods) the musicians set themselves in a specific field, namely that of the freely expressing trio slightly influenced by jazz-tinged reminiscences.
Belyamani is a sincerely restrained improviser, presumably familiar with Bill Evans but also Claude Debussy (the press release got it right this time), his gestures on the piano keyboard eliciting an aura of redemptive reverberation or instigating mild minimalist obsessions when the moment comes (the conclusive “In Between”, for instance). Israni's work is elegantly discreet, characterizing the music with a substantial economy of movement concealing a remarkably immediate understanding of the ongoing contrapuntal processes. Naqvi looks like the most open-handed among the three, a rhythmic multiplicity at the basis of the only moments in which the interplay sounds constellated with welcome accidents.
In general, there's a sense of unplanned dilation of the spaces around the notes, whose relative scarcity does not subtend to easy contemporary posturing, being instead perceived as a necessity for the pieces to evolve and self-define. Even when the reciprocal instrumental responses cause the mix to become a little more populated, intelligibility ultimately prevails in this crystal-clear album.
This is the debut album by Dawn Of Midi which, despite the name, is an entirely acoustic transcontinental group consisting of Amino Belyamani (Morocco, piano), Aakaash Israni (India, contrabass) and Qasim Naqvi (Pakistan, percussion). Dissipating any doubt about the possible incidence of electronics - there isn't any - and mostly avoiding the typicality related to a supposed synthesis of local influences (apparently absent, yet still detectable in certain scales and moods) the musicians set themselves in a specific field, namely that of the freely expressing trio slightly influenced by jazz-tinged reminiscences.
Belyamani is a sincerely restrained improviser, presumably familiar with Bill Evans but also Claude Debussy (the press release got it right this time), his gestures on the piano keyboard eliciting an aura of redemptive reverberation or instigating mild minimalist obsessions when the moment comes (the conclusive “In Between”, for instance). Israni's work is elegantly discreet, characterizing the music with a substantial economy of movement concealing a remarkably immediate understanding of the ongoing contrapuntal processes. Naqvi looks like the most open-handed among the three, a rhythmic multiplicity at the basis of the only moments in which the interplay sounds constellated with welcome accidents.
In general, there's a sense of unplanned dilation of the spaces around the notes, whose relative scarcity does not subtend to easy contemporary posturing, being instead perceived as a necessity for the pieces to evolve and self-define. Even when the reciprocal instrumental responses cause the mix to become a little more populated, intelligibility ultimately prevails in this crystal-clear album.
Friday, 28 May 2010
RAYMOND MACDONALD / SAKOTO FUJII / NEIL DAVIDSON / NATSUKI TAMURA / TOM BANCROFT – Cities
Nu-Jazz
MacDonald (saxophone) and Davidson (guitar) met Fujii (piano) and Tamura (trumpet) at the Centre For The Contemporary Arts in Glasgow in 2005, drummer Bancroft acting as the percussive link between the pairs. The technical combinations are surprisingly diversified from a piece to another. The initial cyclical jumpiness of "Navigation" and the calm rarefaction of "Parallel Shapes" are but short introductions to a string of distinct images that, however, appear as entirely corresponding. Openings towards a roominess nearly approaching ECM-derived moods are not absent ("Overload" a fulgent example in that sense, Fujii and Tamura generating austere waves of acoustic entrancement). "A Strange Prediction" is somewhat inexplicable, played as it is around scattered piano chords and silently accurate choices of involvement from the other instruments, the trumpet intermittently caught in autistic replication of a fragment.
"Two Blocks East" features an odd concurrence of instrumental nonattendance and call-and-response desirousness in what's perhaps the only concession to literal EAI, before summoning forth the regular timbres in all connotations, shifting the focus on increasingly angrier free jazz until a quiet ending. "Into The Diversion" makes good use of power-driven appliances à la Rowe on Davidson's axe then grows in intensity, MacDonald adopting a confrontational stance through his arresting voice. After the tonelessly brief, quirky "Oxygenitis", "How Did I Get Here" meshes Schweizer-esque instances and guitar-based deliberateness in total coolness, Bancroft suggesting hypothetical pulses in the background prior to the sax remaining alone again. "Euphoria" concludes the program with a pinch of sadness, once more placing Fujii and Tamura's fragility at the basis of the improvisation.
Throughout this brilliant album the participants can be seen reinforcing their personalities under the dim yet inextinguishable light of collective artistic integrity. Please rescue Cities from an unmerited anonymity.
MacDonald (saxophone) and Davidson (guitar) met Fujii (piano) and Tamura (trumpet) at the Centre For The Contemporary Arts in Glasgow in 2005, drummer Bancroft acting as the percussive link between the pairs. The technical combinations are surprisingly diversified from a piece to another. The initial cyclical jumpiness of "Navigation" and the calm rarefaction of "Parallel Shapes" are but short introductions to a string of distinct images that, however, appear as entirely corresponding. Openings towards a roominess nearly approaching ECM-derived moods are not absent ("Overload" a fulgent example in that sense, Fujii and Tamura generating austere waves of acoustic entrancement). "A Strange Prediction" is somewhat inexplicable, played as it is around scattered piano chords and silently accurate choices of involvement from the other instruments, the trumpet intermittently caught in autistic replication of a fragment.
"Two Blocks East" features an odd concurrence of instrumental nonattendance and call-and-response desirousness in what's perhaps the only concession to literal EAI, before summoning forth the regular timbres in all connotations, shifting the focus on increasingly angrier free jazz until a quiet ending. "Into The Diversion" makes good use of power-driven appliances à la Rowe on Davidson's axe then grows in intensity, MacDonald adopting a confrontational stance through his arresting voice. After the tonelessly brief, quirky "Oxygenitis", "How Did I Get Here" meshes Schweizer-esque instances and guitar-based deliberateness in total coolness, Bancroft suggesting hypothetical pulses in the background prior to the sax remaining alone again. "Euphoria" concludes the program with a pinch of sadness, once more placing Fujii and Tamura's fragility at the basis of the improvisation.
Throughout this brilliant album the participants can be seen reinforcing their personalities under the dim yet inextinguishable light of collective artistic integrity. Please rescue Cities from an unmerited anonymity.
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
WALTER & SABRINA – Two Tales
Danny Dark
Just in case you weren’t attentive, Walter Cardew and Stephen “Sabrina” Moore parted ways last year. The email exchanges subsequent to the decision – apparently due to Cardew’s will – constitute an essential part of the libretto that comes with this edition, comprising the Two Tales CD and a book called Amalgam, Gotta Get A Shag. We are also introduced to the script to an unrealized short movie, Cor Blimey, You’ll Never Get Rid Of That. Add to this the thorniest music you’re likely to hear in half a decade and realize why the duo was first dignified, then abruptly thrown amidst the pariahs by the erstwhile “specialized” avant-garde press. As Cardew wrote in the accompanying letter, “there’s plenty here to get your teeth into, I hope”. Provided that one doesn’t break them, of course.
The poetry of human dissipation that has characterized the story of WandS is exalted at the maximum degree. The graphic description of sleazy sexual acts and the overall aura of grimy desperation surrounding the wretched lives of the persons involved in the “plots” is set in a typically perplexing literary style that lets the listener confused in between warped glimpses and nightmarish flashes, similarly to the by-products of the mind of a drunkard fallen asleep in front of a C-level hard-core flick. Everything is fragments, snippets, indistinct details, lewd memories, obliteration of eroticism, sanctification of the most absolute immorality. And yet we’re listening and reading assiduously while thinking what’s wrong with us, still interested in analyzing the reasons of a stimulus that, in its purest form, should cause a levitation towards the highest levels of communion and instead is very often the origin of trouble and, at worst, of psychic degeneration that occasionally leads to excessive gestures. Fascinating issues that Cardew and Moore are, as usual, unafraid to toss in our face without ointments.
The sonic substance is typified by a choice of conspicuous aspects, beginning with a severe fragmentariness. The obstinate permanence of the voices in the extreme registers of soprano (both female and male performers are utilized in that sense) defines the whole program. Some of them are processed with distortion, if in selected tiny parts; a complicatedness which is exhausting only to imagine during the realization process. One can envision poor Celia Lu’s strained vocal cords after many hours of session to execute what sounds like Schoenberg’s Sprechstimme squeezed with a sponge imbued with acid. The non-superficial ear realizes that solemn counterpoints are applied to these Pindaric flights through depravation. The arrangement of “Tale Two” is splendidly enriched by Chris Edwards’ oboe and Kati Lawrence’s bassoon – not to mention Androniki Lioukura’s exceptional performance on piano. Written pieces and improvisations are practically indistinguishable; when the engine gets going, radically remarkable stuff arises. A comparison to Crass – yes, the punk group – found on another write-up had me smiling in resignation. Do these individuals really listen to the records they’re sent? There are more intricacies in these scores than in the entire careers of certain geniuses. Have a taste of the absurdly jumbled “Untitled” – the album’s lone instrumental – to drown alone in cerebral disintegration.
A sheer summary cannot say that much, and it’s too late anyway. The couple is broken up, the final chapter of their life containing the kind of art that equals rare commodity these days. Music that gives the finger to the shallow-minded unfortunates who can’t read between the lines, that is excessively complex for the average critic to assimilate, and that causes people who didn’t understand it, but are afraid to appear dumb, to review it with discouraging superficiality. Heaven knows if Walter & Sabrina were truly aware that this couldn’t go far, artistically speaking, in today’s world. What I’m sure of is that their attempt won my utmost respect, besides causing the re-evaluation of all those horrific pseudo-erotic movies watched lots of years ago, forgotten masterpieces of supreme mediocrity that nevertheless possess the great merit of showing the reality of things. The type of ascension that starts from the slimy waters of filth. The holiness of squalor – now that’s a title.
Just in case you weren’t attentive, Walter Cardew and Stephen “Sabrina” Moore parted ways last year. The email exchanges subsequent to the decision – apparently due to Cardew’s will – constitute an essential part of the libretto that comes with this edition, comprising the Two Tales CD and a book called Amalgam, Gotta Get A Shag. We are also introduced to the script to an unrealized short movie, Cor Blimey, You’ll Never Get Rid Of That. Add to this the thorniest music you’re likely to hear in half a decade and realize why the duo was first dignified, then abruptly thrown amidst the pariahs by the erstwhile “specialized” avant-garde press. As Cardew wrote in the accompanying letter, “there’s plenty here to get your teeth into, I hope”. Provided that one doesn’t break them, of course.
The poetry of human dissipation that has characterized the story of WandS is exalted at the maximum degree. The graphic description of sleazy sexual acts and the overall aura of grimy desperation surrounding the wretched lives of the persons involved in the “plots” is set in a typically perplexing literary style that lets the listener confused in between warped glimpses and nightmarish flashes, similarly to the by-products of the mind of a drunkard fallen asleep in front of a C-level hard-core flick. Everything is fragments, snippets, indistinct details, lewd memories, obliteration of eroticism, sanctification of the most absolute immorality. And yet we’re listening and reading assiduously while thinking what’s wrong with us, still interested in analyzing the reasons of a stimulus that, in its purest form, should cause a levitation towards the highest levels of communion and instead is very often the origin of trouble and, at worst, of psychic degeneration that occasionally leads to excessive gestures. Fascinating issues that Cardew and Moore are, as usual, unafraid to toss in our face without ointments.
The sonic substance is typified by a choice of conspicuous aspects, beginning with a severe fragmentariness. The obstinate permanence of the voices in the extreme registers of soprano (both female and male performers are utilized in that sense) defines the whole program. Some of them are processed with distortion, if in selected tiny parts; a complicatedness which is exhausting only to imagine during the realization process. One can envision poor Celia Lu’s strained vocal cords after many hours of session to execute what sounds like Schoenberg’s Sprechstimme squeezed with a sponge imbued with acid. The non-superficial ear realizes that solemn counterpoints are applied to these Pindaric flights through depravation. The arrangement of “Tale Two” is splendidly enriched by Chris Edwards’ oboe and Kati Lawrence’s bassoon – not to mention Androniki Lioukura’s exceptional performance on piano. Written pieces and improvisations are practically indistinguishable; when the engine gets going, radically remarkable stuff arises. A comparison to Crass – yes, the punk group – found on another write-up had me smiling in resignation. Do these individuals really listen to the records they’re sent? There are more intricacies in these scores than in the entire careers of certain geniuses. Have a taste of the absurdly jumbled “Untitled” – the album’s lone instrumental – to drown alone in cerebral disintegration.
A sheer summary cannot say that much, and it’s too late anyway. The couple is broken up, the final chapter of their life containing the kind of art that equals rare commodity these days. Music that gives the finger to the shallow-minded unfortunates who can’t read between the lines, that is excessively complex for the average critic to assimilate, and that causes people who didn’t understand it, but are afraid to appear dumb, to review it with discouraging superficiality. Heaven knows if Walter & Sabrina were truly aware that this couldn’t go far, artistically speaking, in today’s world. What I’m sure of is that their attempt won my utmost respect, besides causing the re-evaluation of all those horrific pseudo-erotic movies watched lots of years ago, forgotten masterpieces of supreme mediocrity that nevertheless possess the great merit of showing the reality of things. The type of ascension that starts from the slimy waters of filth. The holiness of squalor – now that’s a title.
Monday, 24 May 2010
LIZ ALLBEE – Theseus Vs.
Resipiscent
The woman has dabbled with people of the calibre of Anthony Braxton, Fred Frith, Gino Robair and Rova, usually expressing herself through voice, trumpet and electronics. She’s also known as Luz Alibi (the card inside the silkscreened box says “Luz Alibi – Theseus Vs. The Ship Of Fools”). Oh, well. The work lasts circa 35 minutes subdivided in twelve tracks, some of them extremely concise at less than a minute. A slightly twisted absurdist mood constantly affects the songs – because these are songs, apart from a handful of anarchic digressions – so that the overall feeling is one of undeniable originality, something that is indeed difficult to compare to theoretically related stuff that I’ve heard (a whiff of Residents, perhaps?).
My problem is that this semi-perverted amusement runs parallel to a lack of really momentous intensity; maybe this is the artist’s actual intention. Mostly revolving about trouble-free rhythmic scansions, electronically misshapen small noises and not excessively challenging instrumental configurations - repeatedly subjected to additional transformations via pitch-shifting devices and other cheaper kinds of effect - this music belongs to the colourful list of materials that sound aurally enjoyable for a change, without remaining engraved in the memory. When the hyper-processing deforming mask comes down, what’s visible is enough for pronouncing the word “oddity”, but that’s all. The talent is definitely there, though, and we would love to see it utilized for more substantial projects.
The woman has dabbled with people of the calibre of Anthony Braxton, Fred Frith, Gino Robair and Rova, usually expressing herself through voice, trumpet and electronics. She’s also known as Luz Alibi (the card inside the silkscreened box says “Luz Alibi – Theseus Vs. The Ship Of Fools”). Oh, well. The work lasts circa 35 minutes subdivided in twelve tracks, some of them extremely concise at less than a minute. A slightly twisted absurdist mood constantly affects the songs – because these are songs, apart from a handful of anarchic digressions – so that the overall feeling is one of undeniable originality, something that is indeed difficult to compare to theoretically related stuff that I’ve heard (a whiff of Residents, perhaps?).
My problem is that this semi-perverted amusement runs parallel to a lack of really momentous intensity; maybe this is the artist’s actual intention. Mostly revolving about trouble-free rhythmic scansions, electronically misshapen small noises and not excessively challenging instrumental configurations - repeatedly subjected to additional transformations via pitch-shifting devices and other cheaper kinds of effect - this music belongs to the colourful list of materials that sound aurally enjoyable for a change, without remaining engraved in the memory. When the hyper-processing deforming mask comes down, what’s visible is enough for pronouncing the word “oddity”, but that’s all. The talent is definitely there, though, and we would love to see it utilized for more substantial projects.
Sunday, 23 May 2010
PÅL ASLE PETTERSEN – Komposisjoner 2005-2008
Zang
Pettersen, born in 1975, is a Norwegian electroacoustic assembler and a renowned activist of the local avant scene. He achieves most of his stimulating sounds via regular objects and homemade stuff, apparently randomized in unpredictable fashion. Yet, if one’s attentive enough, the man also provides a structural intelligibility that facilitates the act of listening from beginning to end. There are no actual titles to these pieces, since they’re distinguished only with numbers; this tells a lot about the composer’s will of presenting the audience with factual concreteness as opposed to ineffectual drifting.
Pettersen, born in 1975, is a Norwegian electroacoustic assembler and a renowned activist of the local avant scene. He achieves most of his stimulating sounds via regular objects and homemade stuff, apparently randomized in unpredictable fashion. Yet, if one’s attentive enough, the man also provides a structural intelligibility that facilitates the act of listening from beginning to end. There are no actual titles to these pieces, since they’re distinguished only with numbers; this tells a lot about the composer’s will of presenting the audience with factual concreteness as opposed to ineffectual drifting.
If something must be said a propos of these materials is that they sound extremely good: carefully assembled and masterfully mixed, each plot putting both the fine details and the general development under an ideal light, the single elements logically connected for brains attempting to take an overall aural impression in. In terms of timbre, we’re often spanning through a distinctive sort of granular disintegration of particles that never degenerates into stupid chaos and the presence of secretive extra-low hums from the underground (a wonderful one is heard at the start of “Komposisjon 20”) and faintly vacillating static essences (“Komposisjon 16”), probably derived from something more normal than we think, opportunely processed in the studio. Seemingly, some work on pre-recorded tapes was done, too. A cold-blooded potion of altered regularity and unhinged meticulousness characterizing this excellent release in its entirety, a unique musicality living in misleadingly unmusical matters.
ACTIVITY CENTER – Lohn & Brot
Absinth
Michael Renkel and Burkhard Beins run Activity Center since 1989, working over the years with a bunch of instruments, gadgets, devices and disparate treatments - usually placed on tables - so we’re not terribly wrong when we define their fields of exploration as heavily influenced by the preparations they love to use. For this recording, which follows 1999’s Möwen And Moos, the “orchestration” is mainly characterized by Renkel’s nylon string guitar played with hundreds of atypical techniques and Beins’ usual array of astutely utilized percussion, stringed stuff such as an “eBowed and propelled zither” and electronics (also manipulated by his companion).
Lohn & Brot is a long-lasting record at 70 minutes, yet the adjective that keeps remaining in the mind for this music is “fresh”. This derives from several factors. The first is that both the whole program and the single pieces do not remain stuck on the same ideas until corrosion but – either via surprising discoveries or plain aborted experiments – the scenario is changed after a few instants. In that sense, the continuous dynamic shift of the opening track “Arbeit : Material” epitomizes the duo’s researching spirit and open-to-instant-suggestion ears. Small bumps on wood weigh similarly to a series of glittering rasgueados on the zither, microscopic clattering and carillon fragments preceded or accompanied by unyielding harmonics whose duration is manually prolonged through the electric gadgetry. A mixture of luminousness, grubbiness and pulse that results extremely sympathetic, its acknowledgement unproblematic.
“Passage” and “Transit” are two short links between extensive improvisations. They’re infused with a sounds-from-a-forest quality that makes them welcome even as autonomous statements. “Zone : Produkt” – the longest chapter at almost half a hour - starts with deeply resonating, sparely percussive touches then mutates to become a determined analysis of molecular improbability, lengthy acute frequencies and swift stops maintaining our attention busy throughout. The auditory channels are constantly stimulated: initially quite gently, then more vivaciously, the junction of motionless stability and noisy intoxication basically faultless. Time flies and still no tiredness, especially in virtue of the artist’s irrefutable talent in placing the sonic incidents, further enriched by a peculiar combination of sincerity and incongruity, the best example being the succession of minimal shimmer and synthetic farts found around the 20th minute, flowing into a splendidly organic blend of drone and acoustic mayhem in what’s perhaps the disc’s finest moment.
Michael Renkel and Burkhard Beins run Activity Center since 1989, working over the years with a bunch of instruments, gadgets, devices and disparate treatments - usually placed on tables - so we’re not terribly wrong when we define their fields of exploration as heavily influenced by the preparations they love to use. For this recording, which follows 1999’s Möwen And Moos, the “orchestration” is mainly characterized by Renkel’s nylon string guitar played with hundreds of atypical techniques and Beins’ usual array of astutely utilized percussion, stringed stuff such as an “eBowed and propelled zither” and electronics (also manipulated by his companion).
Lohn & Brot is a long-lasting record at 70 minutes, yet the adjective that keeps remaining in the mind for this music is “fresh”. This derives from several factors. The first is that both the whole program and the single pieces do not remain stuck on the same ideas until corrosion but – either via surprising discoveries or plain aborted experiments – the scenario is changed after a few instants. In that sense, the continuous dynamic shift of the opening track “Arbeit : Material” epitomizes the duo’s researching spirit and open-to-instant-suggestion ears. Small bumps on wood weigh similarly to a series of glittering rasgueados on the zither, microscopic clattering and carillon fragments preceded or accompanied by unyielding harmonics whose duration is manually prolonged through the electric gadgetry. A mixture of luminousness, grubbiness and pulse that results extremely sympathetic, its acknowledgement unproblematic.
“Passage” and “Transit” are two short links between extensive improvisations. They’re infused with a sounds-from-a-forest quality that makes them welcome even as autonomous statements. “Zone : Produkt” – the longest chapter at almost half a hour - starts with deeply resonating, sparely percussive touches then mutates to become a determined analysis of molecular improbability, lengthy acute frequencies and swift stops maintaining our attention busy throughout. The auditory channels are constantly stimulated: initially quite gently, then more vivaciously, the junction of motionless stability and noisy intoxication basically faultless. Time flies and still no tiredness, especially in virtue of the artist’s irrefutable talent in placing the sonic incidents, further enriched by a peculiar combination of sincerity and incongruity, the best example being the succession of minimal shimmer and synthetic farts found around the 20th minute, flowing into a splendidly organic blend of drone and acoustic mayhem in what’s perhaps the disc’s finest moment.
The conclusive “Station : Prozess” is a cross-pollination of toneless emissions, speckled overtones and hallucinated serenity caused by obliquely sliding strings and glissando insanities of the third kind, mixing – at the very point in which I’m writing - with the faraway echoes of a ceremony taking place on the opposite hill, marching band and firecrackers included. A bizarre, entirely human concoction that ultimately leaves us ready for another spin, like if what was just heard had never occurred.
Saturday, 15 May 2010
JASON KAHN – Timelines Los Angeles
Creative Sources
Subsequent to an invitation by Mark Trayle – one of the four musicians active in this recording, specifically on laptop-driven guitar – Jason Kahn composed Timelines Los Angeles as a graphic score destined to the 2008 edition of the Cal Arts Center for Experiments in Art, Information and Technology Festival. Having both the possibility of choosing the participants to the performance and the intention of designing the parts exactly for those executors and their respective personalities, the composer decided to employ Olivia Block on prepared piano and Ulrich Krieger on saxophone and electronics, whereas he is featured on percussion and analog synthesizer. Still, if a record exists that doesn’t ask for excessive deliberation about the timbral individualities this must be it, although we do identify and separate the sources (well, sort of) as the whole flows.
The best method to describe this full hour is partitioning it in sections corresponding to a general dynamic appearance. The beginning is dominated by Block, which generates a reiterated scraping first, a rumbling substratum of thick string resonance later, upon which a rarefaction of synthetic emissions and diminutive reed noises are heard. Gradually, the interferences become a series of more consistent blotches – it is actually complicated to differentiate what comes from Trayle and what from Kahn in certain instances – then, all of a sudden, an extensively violent surge (especially enhanced by Krieger’s next-to-collapse drones on the sax) keeps us on the seat of our pants for long minutes. Imagine an extract from a Phill Niblock piece, deprived of the precious components: just harshness and unfriendly frequencies, stimulating nevertheless. Everything stops suddenly, leaving the listener alone with some variety of infected steam hissing around, finely complemented by repetitive hits on a cymbal, in classic Kahn fashion, until conclusion.
It takes time to agree to this music. It’s definitely uneasy on the ears - despite the whispered attributes defining its large part - and the structure is so evidently subdivided that a lightweight mind might find hard to follow the fluctuation of events in its entirety. Once the initial coat of unfriendliness is melted, though, there’s no stopping in enjoying it completely; that’s why I’d classify this CD as “wisely unwelcoming”. Then, as usual, it depends on what you expect from the act of listening. If a background is needed, look somewhere else. If attentiveness and breakdown are your forte, a lot of meat is here to chomp on.
Subsequent to an invitation by Mark Trayle – one of the four musicians active in this recording, specifically on laptop-driven guitar – Jason Kahn composed Timelines Los Angeles as a graphic score destined to the 2008 edition of the Cal Arts Center for Experiments in Art, Information and Technology Festival. Having both the possibility of choosing the participants to the performance and the intention of designing the parts exactly for those executors and their respective personalities, the composer decided to employ Olivia Block on prepared piano and Ulrich Krieger on saxophone and electronics, whereas he is featured on percussion and analog synthesizer. Still, if a record exists that doesn’t ask for excessive deliberation about the timbral individualities this must be it, although we do identify and separate the sources (well, sort of) as the whole flows.
The best method to describe this full hour is partitioning it in sections corresponding to a general dynamic appearance. The beginning is dominated by Block, which generates a reiterated scraping first, a rumbling substratum of thick string resonance later, upon which a rarefaction of synthetic emissions and diminutive reed noises are heard. Gradually, the interferences become a series of more consistent blotches – it is actually complicated to differentiate what comes from Trayle and what from Kahn in certain instances – then, all of a sudden, an extensively violent surge (especially enhanced by Krieger’s next-to-collapse drones on the sax) keeps us on the seat of our pants for long minutes. Imagine an extract from a Phill Niblock piece, deprived of the precious components: just harshness and unfriendly frequencies, stimulating nevertheless. Everything stops suddenly, leaving the listener alone with some variety of infected steam hissing around, finely complemented by repetitive hits on a cymbal, in classic Kahn fashion, until conclusion.
It takes time to agree to this music. It’s definitely uneasy on the ears - despite the whispered attributes defining its large part - and the structure is so evidently subdivided that a lightweight mind might find hard to follow the fluctuation of events in its entirety. Once the initial coat of unfriendliness is melted, though, there’s no stopping in enjoying it completely; that’s why I’d classify this CD as “wisely unwelcoming”. Then, as usual, it depends on what you expect from the act of listening. If a background is needed, look somewhere else. If attentiveness and breakdown are your forte, a lot of meat is here to chomp on.
Thursday, 13 May 2010
ALBERTO PINTON / JONAS KULLHAMMAR / TORBJÖRN ZETTERBERG / KJELL NORDESON – Chant
Clean Feed
Unlike your reviewer, smart Italians know that the sooner they’ll leave the native country, the better their lives will turn for, in a direct proportion to the chances inevitably gained. In the case of baritone saxophonist and composer Alberto Pinton, Sweden has been the land in which his musical conceptions started to get the proper diffusion. This quartet – recorded in Coimbra, Portugal, during the month of July in 2008 – comprises musicians who collaborate together recurrently in a multitude of different combinations, gathered in this particular configuration upon incitement of Clean Feed’s honcho Pedro Costa.
The sense of enthusiasm, divertissement and satisfaction manifested by the players throughout the extensive program is literally touchable. The group performs superb contrapuntal themes neatly, obeying to the rules of respect when necessary, at all times ready to self-fragment and become four separate lady-killing units. Eloquence devoid of affected postures, the artists intent in establishing the truth transiting in the mind at that very moment. The double sax attack brought by Pinton, who also plays clarinet, and Kullhammar – on baritone, besides a mean tenor - is extravagant at best, elegantly moderate (so to speak) at worst. They’re aware of where they are at every minute, displaying methods for audience gratification through brilliant samples of erudite instrumental irresponsibility. Bassist Zetterberg and drummer Nordeson (featured on vibes, too, in “Let Ring”) form a proactive rhythm section that contributes to add fuel to the fire in more than one occasion; just check “Chantpagne” to realize how agitation and lucidity can sometimes coexist without damage.
Obstinate, efficient and often amusing, this music is destined to keep you heart-warming company for a good while. An excellent attempt of tearing down the walls that divide free jazz from predetermined composition, minus the excesses of diligence that would transform the whole in a sterile exercise. On the contrary, these pieces approach a combustible status quite frequently, but never deflagrate into cheapness.
Unlike your reviewer, smart Italians know that the sooner they’ll leave the native country, the better their lives will turn for, in a direct proportion to the chances inevitably gained. In the case of baritone saxophonist and composer Alberto Pinton, Sweden has been the land in which his musical conceptions started to get the proper diffusion. This quartet – recorded in Coimbra, Portugal, during the month of July in 2008 – comprises musicians who collaborate together recurrently in a multitude of different combinations, gathered in this particular configuration upon incitement of Clean Feed’s honcho Pedro Costa.
The sense of enthusiasm, divertissement and satisfaction manifested by the players throughout the extensive program is literally touchable. The group performs superb contrapuntal themes neatly, obeying to the rules of respect when necessary, at all times ready to self-fragment and become four separate lady-killing units. Eloquence devoid of affected postures, the artists intent in establishing the truth transiting in the mind at that very moment. The double sax attack brought by Pinton, who also plays clarinet, and Kullhammar – on baritone, besides a mean tenor - is extravagant at best, elegantly moderate (so to speak) at worst. They’re aware of where they are at every minute, displaying methods for audience gratification through brilliant samples of erudite instrumental irresponsibility. Bassist Zetterberg and drummer Nordeson (featured on vibes, too, in “Let Ring”) form a proactive rhythm section that contributes to add fuel to the fire in more than one occasion; just check “Chantpagne” to realize how agitation and lucidity can sometimes coexist without damage.
Obstinate, efficient and often amusing, this music is destined to keep you heart-warming company for a good while. An excellent attempt of tearing down the walls that divide free jazz from predetermined composition, minus the excesses of diligence that would transform the whole in a sterile exercise. On the contrary, these pieces approach a combustible status quite frequently, but never deflagrate into cheapness.
Wednesday, 12 May 2010
SYLVAIN CHAUVEAU – Touching Down Lightly
Creative Sources
A well-mannered, gently resonating, partially Feldmanesque (or “post-Grubbs”, as one sneering friend of mine put it) offer for solo piano that doesn't necessitate a huge lot of absorption, though the latter surely helps in discovering a bit of deeper feelings in the interstices between notes and silence. Appreciable for its delicate thoughtfulness and accuracy of rendition, this is another of those releases – several were sighted on these shores in recent times - that fit in numerous kinds of categorization without the urge of going astray with words. Minimalism, improvisation, soundtrack, nearly ambient (ahem) in occasional instances - almost anything will do (“New Age” would indeed be a little excessive/offensive).
A well-mannered, gently resonating, partially Feldmanesque (or “post-Grubbs”, as one sneering friend of mine put it) offer for solo piano that doesn't necessitate a huge lot of absorption, though the latter surely helps in discovering a bit of deeper feelings in the interstices between notes and silence. Appreciable for its delicate thoughtfulness and accuracy of rendition, this is another of those releases – several were sighted on these shores in recent times - that fit in numerous kinds of categorization without the urge of going astray with words. Minimalism, improvisation, soundtrack, nearly ambient (ahem) in occasional instances - almost anything will do (“New Age” would indeed be a little excessive/offensive).
At various degrees of listening volume the CD works fine, warranting long moments of tranquillity. Quite honestly, it’s preferable when it slips along, and even behind, your evening activities, leaving a chance of enjoying the clear resonances generated by Chauveau's fragments of chords, skeletally repetitive melodies and single tones. Now, I like to think that something extremely insightful is implicit in the consecutiveness of these simple gestures; still, the sonic outcome does not encourage disproportionate analyses. Not many comparisons are available, too, if not the vague references quoted at the beginning. Let’s leave it at this: definitely a pleasurable listen, but not an extraordinary artistic announcement. When in need of giving yourselves some relief after a hard day, Touching Down Lightly performs the job admirably. If you're looking for a solipsist masterpiece, the search isn’t over.
Sunday, 9 May 2010
CHRISTOPH GALLIO / OLAF RUPP – Fasane Hula Punk
Rapid Moment
Fasane Hula Punk (don't ask) combines a saxophonist (Gallio, on soprano throughout) with a guitarist (Rupp), players of whom I've been deepening my knowledge quite sparingly, but also regularly – with a declared preference for the former's output, to be honest. Nonetheless, this meeting is really one of a kind - and a complete success - for a series of reasons. The first is the totally unadulterated quality of the music produced in the thirteen (unnamed) tracks. No hint to pre-constructed itemization, or to any sort of genre characterization; yet the lucidity with which these dissertations occur is beyond belief, the artists’ timbral unambiguousness and clearness of intents manifest in every single minute of the CD. Secondarily, there's the extreme democracy shown by both participants, who let their instruments do the talking without sounding despotic, always respecting the reciprocal needs of space while limiting conceptual annihilation intelligently, a bright zaniness defining the more squawking utterances. In a word, a strong sense of integration exists between the spontaneously emitted parts, be them notes or noise; this is something from which the listener benefits enormously. Lastly, the absolute clarity of the instantaneous statements, mainly expressed through sparkling string timbres (Rupp is unquestionably capable of muddying up the whole in a second, though) and show-stopping articulations of reed phraseologies, revealing Gallio's utmost command of an untainted instrumental virtuosity. The cover – among the most absurd artworks seen in a long time – is the ideal container of an entirely satisfying, ear-restorative release.
Fasane Hula Punk (don't ask) combines a saxophonist (Gallio, on soprano throughout) with a guitarist (Rupp), players of whom I've been deepening my knowledge quite sparingly, but also regularly – with a declared preference for the former's output, to be honest. Nonetheless, this meeting is really one of a kind - and a complete success - for a series of reasons. The first is the totally unadulterated quality of the music produced in the thirteen (unnamed) tracks. No hint to pre-constructed itemization, or to any sort of genre characterization; yet the lucidity with which these dissertations occur is beyond belief, the artists’ timbral unambiguousness and clearness of intents manifest in every single minute of the CD. Secondarily, there's the extreme democracy shown by both participants, who let their instruments do the talking without sounding despotic, always respecting the reciprocal needs of space while limiting conceptual annihilation intelligently, a bright zaniness defining the more squawking utterances. In a word, a strong sense of integration exists between the spontaneously emitted parts, be them notes or noise; this is something from which the listener benefits enormously. Lastly, the absolute clarity of the instantaneous statements, mainly expressed through sparkling string timbres (Rupp is unquestionably capable of muddying up the whole in a second, though) and show-stopping articulations of reed phraseologies, revealing Gallio's utmost command of an untainted instrumental virtuosity. The cover – among the most absurd artworks seen in a long time – is the ideal container of an entirely satisfying, ear-restorative release.
COLIN POTTER / PHIL MOULDYCLIFF – Grey Skies On Ashpalt
Beta-Lactam Ring
The title, first. Is that “Ashpalt” or “Asphalt”? I wasn’t persuaded, and googling around didn’t help that much. The spelling, on both the cover and the disc of this limited edition (100 copies) – and, especially, on the label’s website - corresponds to the former. That will remain. (STOP PRESS May 11, 2010: Colin Potter just informed me that it's a case of dragged-along typo - it was supposed to be "Asphalt"...)
Let's stick to what's ascertainable – that is, the sonic content. This is a delightfully soothing release, constructed with recordings that principally derive from echoes of urban and rural zones which were entirely gathered by Phil Mouldycliff, who calls them “audio debris field”. The choice of sources might be well known, but something digs deeper in this collection of talking people, bell towers, blackbirds, cars and related – and never toxic – emissions. I can't put my finger on the rationale behind the following affirmation, however a number of artists active in this area seem to gift the most obvious human manifestation captured on tape with a spiritual essence, a familiar character, a sensitiveness that elsewhere is totally unknown. Mouldycliff is definitely a member of this restricted group, all his materials heard in this place having always met total approval. No bombast, no protrusions, just regular sounds carefully chosen and deployed. Quite often, that's enough.
This notwithstanding, after Potter's processing and mixing measures kick in, daily reality turns into a striking form of semi-abstract acoustic art. A slight deformation of the overtones here, a few gentle touches of echoing shimmer there, more mildly warped gurgling treatments over there, and even the unfriendly materializations (not many, indeed...) become reasons for merriness. We couldn't really compare the totality of these elements to analogous memories: a little bit of everything - at least partially connected to the genres touched by these men through the years - is visible, synthesized in a completely personal statement. One that gives pleasure in abundant doses without making us feeling guilty of appreciating an easier-to-swallow record for a change.
The title, first. Is that “Ashpalt” or “Asphalt”? I wasn’t persuaded, and googling around didn’t help that much. The spelling, on both the cover and the disc of this limited edition (100 copies) – and, especially, on the label’s website - corresponds to the former. That will remain. (STOP PRESS May 11, 2010: Colin Potter just informed me that it's a case of dragged-along typo - it was supposed to be "Asphalt"...)
Let's stick to what's ascertainable – that is, the sonic content. This is a delightfully soothing release, constructed with recordings that principally derive from echoes of urban and rural zones which were entirely gathered by Phil Mouldycliff, who calls them “audio debris field”. The choice of sources might be well known, but something digs deeper in this collection of talking people, bell towers, blackbirds, cars and related – and never toxic – emissions. I can't put my finger on the rationale behind the following affirmation, however a number of artists active in this area seem to gift the most obvious human manifestation captured on tape with a spiritual essence, a familiar character, a sensitiveness that elsewhere is totally unknown. Mouldycliff is definitely a member of this restricted group, all his materials heard in this place having always met total approval. No bombast, no protrusions, just regular sounds carefully chosen and deployed. Quite often, that's enough.
This notwithstanding, after Potter's processing and mixing measures kick in, daily reality turns into a striking form of semi-abstract acoustic art. A slight deformation of the overtones here, a few gentle touches of echoing shimmer there, more mildly warped gurgling treatments over there, and even the unfriendly materializations (not many, indeed...) become reasons for merriness. We couldn't really compare the totality of these elements to analogous memories: a little bit of everything - at least partially connected to the genres touched by these men through the years - is visible, synthesized in a completely personal statement. One that gives pleasure in abundant doses without making us feeling guilty of appreciating an easier-to-swallow record for a change.
Friday, 7 May 2010
SUM – Invenio Ergo
Matchless
Sum is the trio of Eddie Prévost on drums plus North Ireland’s guitarist Ross Lambert and alto saxophonist Seymour Wright, the latter’s Seymour Wright Of Derby among the most interesting solo saxophone recordings heard in the last years. This double CD comprises a live set recorded at London’s Café Oto on February 8th, 2009. Considering my decent level of knowledge of the work of at least two of the involved musicians (Lambert representing the less notorious quantity in this circumstance), I approached this outing with a degree of certitude regarding the presumable quality of the resulting product. A delusion was waiting around the corner.
Although the trio’s technical and cultural grounding is out of question, the bulk of this music is somewhat negligible and uninspiring. There’s no background analysis or historical/intellectual reference that could alter this belief, maintained even after following someone’s advice of giving the record additional chances (done, to no avail), as if three thorough listens weren’t enough. One can circumnavigate the bitter reality at will, either by disserting on the thematic quotes scattered all over the program and the dismemberment of renowned tunes, or summoning forth improbable similarities. James Blood Ulmer - whose style was defined harmelodic (sic) in another review of this very item on a famed magazine - is a particularly amusing case in point. But the noticeable separation in the stereo field – Wright on the right, Lambert on the left, Prévost central – is the same that is perceived in terms of lack of synthesis and overall character.
The only events that raise a modicum of curiosity are Wright’s sporadic attempts to explore the extreme registers of his instrument by alternating undersized spurts, kernels of notes and well-placed single squeaks to fairly traditional phraseology. In general, though, everybody remains confined within the borders of an abortive, jazz-tinged tearoom improvisation that, on the whole, fails to engage. Even when the artists go for a visit to the regions of rarefaction, the shortage of meaningful interaction is astounding. More than evoking uncontaminated types of bare-boned interplay, the acoustic imagery at large appears instead pretty ordinary, when not plain run-of-the-mill. And this happens over the course of two discs, for good measure.
Significantly, Brian Morton’s liners recite “None of these players would claim to be making a historic document, and one senses in them different kinds of diffidence to the act of making a record in the first place” and, at the very end, “They create, therefore we are”. You’d want to accept as truth that the affirmation is ironic, as Invenio Ergo might represent, in the opposite case, a manifesto for the aspiration to doing nothing. Given this hypothetical hesitancy about the idea of such a release, I’m not mincing words: this concert was best left in the attendees’ short-term memory, its artistic impact definitely not on a par with Matchless’ customary standards. And the “Invenio Ergo Sum” pun sounds forced, too.
Sum is the trio of Eddie Prévost on drums plus North Ireland’s guitarist Ross Lambert and alto saxophonist Seymour Wright, the latter’s Seymour Wright Of Derby among the most interesting solo saxophone recordings heard in the last years. This double CD comprises a live set recorded at London’s Café Oto on February 8th, 2009. Considering my decent level of knowledge of the work of at least two of the involved musicians (Lambert representing the less notorious quantity in this circumstance), I approached this outing with a degree of certitude regarding the presumable quality of the resulting product. A delusion was waiting around the corner.
Although the trio’s technical and cultural grounding is out of question, the bulk of this music is somewhat negligible and uninspiring. There’s no background analysis or historical/intellectual reference that could alter this belief, maintained even after following someone’s advice of giving the record additional chances (done, to no avail), as if three thorough listens weren’t enough. One can circumnavigate the bitter reality at will, either by disserting on the thematic quotes scattered all over the program and the dismemberment of renowned tunes, or summoning forth improbable similarities. James Blood Ulmer - whose style was defined harmelodic (sic) in another review of this very item on a famed magazine - is a particularly amusing case in point. But the noticeable separation in the stereo field – Wright on the right, Lambert on the left, Prévost central – is the same that is perceived in terms of lack of synthesis and overall character.
The only events that raise a modicum of curiosity are Wright’s sporadic attempts to explore the extreme registers of his instrument by alternating undersized spurts, kernels of notes and well-placed single squeaks to fairly traditional phraseology. In general, though, everybody remains confined within the borders of an abortive, jazz-tinged tearoom improvisation that, on the whole, fails to engage. Even when the artists go for a visit to the regions of rarefaction, the shortage of meaningful interaction is astounding. More than evoking uncontaminated types of bare-boned interplay, the acoustic imagery at large appears instead pretty ordinary, when not plain run-of-the-mill. And this happens over the course of two discs, for good measure.
Significantly, Brian Morton’s liners recite “None of these players would claim to be making a historic document, and one senses in them different kinds of diffidence to the act of making a record in the first place” and, at the very end, “They create, therefore we are”. You’d want to accept as truth that the affirmation is ironic, as Invenio Ergo might represent, in the opposite case, a manifesto for the aspiration to doing nothing. Given this hypothetical hesitancy about the idea of such a release, I’m not mincing words: this concert was best left in the attendees’ short-term memory, its artistic impact definitely not on a par with Matchless’ customary standards. And the “Invenio Ergo Sum” pun sounds forced, too.
Wednesday, 28 April 2010
AGUSTÍ FERNÁNDEZ – Un Llamp Que No S’Acaba Mai
Psi
Instantly manufactured during a December 2007 concert in Sigüenza, Spain, this album (whose title translates as “a lightning that never ends”) sounds quite distant from a conjectural sonic translation of that phenomenon. The recording introduces us to a volatile temperament that tends to shed some light over the unknown corners of certain registers, or inquire about assorted aspects of dynamic correlation, ultimately rendering the experience akin to walking across a country area before a storm: the moment in which the sky begins to look threateningly grey, the first crackles are heard and whirlwinds of fallen leaves and pieces of broken branches cause that typical whoosh-and-rustle manifestation that pushes ordinary people to hurry the pace to get home early. On the contrary, it’s right there that this particular set becomes more fascinating. And, in due course, the tempest does arrive (though not unending).
Fernández is not scared of exploiting the uncomfortable traits of the piano. He gives a free rein to bewildering outbreaks that, under an apparently uncongenial structure, hide instead a clarity of vision that’s immediately measurable by proficient ears, which in turn complete elaborate geometries often merely hinted, but fully visualized in advance by their engenderer. The reciprocal behaviour amidst the companions is impeccable, a veritable seminar on how a trio recital should be carried on when the intention is that of making serious music - and a sizeable bit of invigorating noise, too. A fabulous Mark Sanders maintains total control on now bubbling, now mottled percussive textures in an olla podrida of neatly deployed fickle figurations, deliverable only by truly sensitive drummers. John Edwards figures as a catalyzing presence, joining the conversational flow with impious rewordings of the commonly known literature associated to the double bass yet, at the same time, using extended notes and droning clusters to dictate the coordinates of the calmer places where the protagonists occasionally land, intelligently releasing the listener from the grip of unwarranted pressure.
Instantly manufactured during a December 2007 concert in Sigüenza, Spain, this album (whose title translates as “a lightning that never ends”) sounds quite distant from a conjectural sonic translation of that phenomenon. The recording introduces us to a volatile temperament that tends to shed some light over the unknown corners of certain registers, or inquire about assorted aspects of dynamic correlation, ultimately rendering the experience akin to walking across a country area before a storm: the moment in which the sky begins to look threateningly grey, the first crackles are heard and whirlwinds of fallen leaves and pieces of broken branches cause that typical whoosh-and-rustle manifestation that pushes ordinary people to hurry the pace to get home early. On the contrary, it’s right there that this particular set becomes more fascinating. And, in due course, the tempest does arrive (though not unending).
Fernández is not scared of exploiting the uncomfortable traits of the piano. He gives a free rein to bewildering outbreaks that, under an apparently uncongenial structure, hide instead a clarity of vision that’s immediately measurable by proficient ears, which in turn complete elaborate geometries often merely hinted, but fully visualized in advance by their engenderer. The reciprocal behaviour amidst the companions is impeccable, a veritable seminar on how a trio recital should be carried on when the intention is that of making serious music - and a sizeable bit of invigorating noise, too. A fabulous Mark Sanders maintains total control on now bubbling, now mottled percussive textures in an olla podrida of neatly deployed fickle figurations, deliverable only by truly sensitive drummers. John Edwards figures as a catalyzing presence, joining the conversational flow with impious rewordings of the commonly known literature associated to the double bass yet, at the same time, using extended notes and droning clusters to dictate the coordinates of the calmer places where the protagonists occasionally land, intelligently releasing the listener from the grip of unwarranted pressure.
Sunday, 18 April 2010
MANU HOLTERBACH & JULIA ECKHARDT – Do-Undo (In G Maze)
The Helen Scarsdale Agency
Over several years violist Julia Eckhardt - an artistic director at Brussels’ Q-O2 Werkplaats sound laboratory - has been amassing an extensive number of long-form pieces for solo viola, all of them rigorously in G. These are part of an archive which is available to artists willing to exploit the droning character of that music in heterogeneous settings, differently established each time. After a meeting during a residency, French artist Manu Holterbach decided to use Eckhardt’s drones as the basic constituent for his work, mostly originating from field (and “tubular”…) recordings that include, in this particular occasion, trees, wires, crickets, wind and different kinds of electric manifestation besides instruments like gong, eBowed banjo, other musicians’ rehearsals and Tonton Macoute’s “drone experience for cheap organ”.
The press release mentions Phill Niblock and Andrew Chalk as influences to consider when thinking about who should be the ultimate recipient of this beautiful CD. There’s an inherent static component, of course, but also a factor that partially distances Do-Undo from those names: consonance. This work’s vastness derives in fact from the almost perfect correspondence of the natural sources with the instrumental nuances around the fundamental pitch, devoid of post-processing or transposing. The mixture resonates very naturally: a life-enhancing current, a rehabilitation against the excess of nervous tension. The events succeed without a solution of their continuity, the ears neither capable of deciding what to highlight, nor anxious to focus on a determinate direction of the layered pulses. This goes on for the whole extent of the album, with nary a moment of weariness – which, in this genre, is quite an achievement.
In actuality, the defenselessness characterizing the pseudo-stationary structures of “Julia’s Ecstatic Spring Phenomenon” – which nonetheless remain stable throughout – and the sensitiveness shown in the overall sonic flow’s groundwork had me recalling, at one point, Richard Skelton’s pastorally plangent ebbs and flows. Except that there is no ebb and flow here. The association with maverick minimalists such as the aforementioned Niblock and La Monte Young comes easier in the record’s second half, “Two Stasis Made Of Electricity” (a Young title is even quoted in a sub-chapter). Still, Holterbach and Eckhardt’s gatherings show enough personality for carving a niche of uniqueness in your spirit as they actually did in this writer’s, ever since the first of a series of listens that’s meant to go on.
Over several years violist Julia Eckhardt - an artistic director at Brussels’ Q-O2 Werkplaats sound laboratory - has been amassing an extensive number of long-form pieces for solo viola, all of them rigorously in G. These are part of an archive which is available to artists willing to exploit the droning character of that music in heterogeneous settings, differently established each time. After a meeting during a residency, French artist Manu Holterbach decided to use Eckhardt’s drones as the basic constituent for his work, mostly originating from field (and “tubular”…) recordings that include, in this particular occasion, trees, wires, crickets, wind and different kinds of electric manifestation besides instruments like gong, eBowed banjo, other musicians’ rehearsals and Tonton Macoute’s “drone experience for cheap organ”.
The press release mentions Phill Niblock and Andrew Chalk as influences to consider when thinking about who should be the ultimate recipient of this beautiful CD. There’s an inherent static component, of course, but also a factor that partially distances Do-Undo from those names: consonance. This work’s vastness derives in fact from the almost perfect correspondence of the natural sources with the instrumental nuances around the fundamental pitch, devoid of post-processing or transposing. The mixture resonates very naturally: a life-enhancing current, a rehabilitation against the excess of nervous tension. The events succeed without a solution of their continuity, the ears neither capable of deciding what to highlight, nor anxious to focus on a determinate direction of the layered pulses. This goes on for the whole extent of the album, with nary a moment of weariness – which, in this genre, is quite an achievement.
In actuality, the defenselessness characterizing the pseudo-stationary structures of “Julia’s Ecstatic Spring Phenomenon” – which nonetheless remain stable throughout – and the sensitiveness shown in the overall sonic flow’s groundwork had me recalling, at one point, Richard Skelton’s pastorally plangent ebbs and flows. Except that there is no ebb and flow here. The association with maverick minimalists such as the aforementioned Niblock and La Monte Young comes easier in the record’s second half, “Two Stasis Made Of Electricity” (a Young title is even quoted in a sub-chapter). Still, Holterbach and Eckhardt’s gatherings show enough personality for carving a niche of uniqueness in your spirit as they actually did in this writer’s, ever since the first of a series of listens that’s meant to go on.
Thursday, 15 April 2010
MIKE SHIFLET & DANIEL MENCHE – Stalemate
Sonoris
Despite his role as a mastermind behind the Gameboy label, the considerable quantity of releases and the abundance of collaborations entertained (including artists respected from yours truly, such as Brendan Murray and Francisco Meirino aka Phroq), this is the first time, if the memory is not failing, that I hear sounds produced by Mike Shiflet. Bad for me, especially in view of the brilliance of this collaboration with Daniel Menche, my impartiality towards the latter well known (sorry, gimme a second as I go lighting up another candle under the Portlander’s icon, heh heh). The sources used were Hammond organs and electronics; the material was recorded between 2007 and 2008. OK, all ready for an amassment of crabby drones? Hold your horses.
The opening movement is constructed upon acute frequencies (initially similar to radio waves, then fusing in a single painful flux), irregular crackling/purring and a low rumble underneath – picture the sound of heavy wind hitting a microphone’s capsule. Factors that appear independent yet mesh with no trouble, providing a tense expectancy tinted with insubstantial colours. No ornamentations, no conjectures, as directly affecting as you can get. The increasing hostility of the subsequent chapter is characterized by the anticipated massive droning – of the flanging / metallic / industrial kind, very threatening indeed – and by an implicit pulse giving an idea of unavoidable virulence. The organ timbre - here as everywhere else - is often hard to distinguish, but one couldn’t really care less: this is sunless music, utterly absorbing and entrancing. Myriads of micro-rhythms and illusory patterns are detected, a magnificent underworld of inappropriate presences gradually turning into the verses of a post-metropolitan poem. The final third comprises bottomless booming, mangled fragments of – again – radio-like emissions, a sense of boiling grimy liquids, additional crackle-and-pop activity. We envision mechanical seagulls fighting for food at one point, then Father Drone comes back with a vengeance and it’s guerilla warfare: vicious ferociousness until the record’s conclusion, signaled by a humongous throb generated in the keyboard’s low-register area.
An outstanding work, heterogeneous and smartly crafted, mixing violence and brainpower in equal doses. Mental purification dressed in timbral infectivity.
Despite his role as a mastermind behind the Gameboy label, the considerable quantity of releases and the abundance of collaborations entertained (including artists respected from yours truly, such as Brendan Murray and Francisco Meirino aka Phroq), this is the first time, if the memory is not failing, that I hear sounds produced by Mike Shiflet. Bad for me, especially in view of the brilliance of this collaboration with Daniel Menche, my impartiality towards the latter well known (sorry, gimme a second as I go lighting up another candle under the Portlander’s icon, heh heh). The sources used were Hammond organs and electronics; the material was recorded between 2007 and 2008. OK, all ready for an amassment of crabby drones? Hold your horses.
The opening movement is constructed upon acute frequencies (initially similar to radio waves, then fusing in a single painful flux), irregular crackling/purring and a low rumble underneath – picture the sound of heavy wind hitting a microphone’s capsule. Factors that appear independent yet mesh with no trouble, providing a tense expectancy tinted with insubstantial colours. No ornamentations, no conjectures, as directly affecting as you can get. The increasing hostility of the subsequent chapter is characterized by the anticipated massive droning – of the flanging / metallic / industrial kind, very threatening indeed – and by an implicit pulse giving an idea of unavoidable virulence. The organ timbre - here as everywhere else - is often hard to distinguish, but one couldn’t really care less: this is sunless music, utterly absorbing and entrancing. Myriads of micro-rhythms and illusory patterns are detected, a magnificent underworld of inappropriate presences gradually turning into the verses of a post-metropolitan poem. The final third comprises bottomless booming, mangled fragments of – again – radio-like emissions, a sense of boiling grimy liquids, additional crackle-and-pop activity. We envision mechanical seagulls fighting for food at one point, then Father Drone comes back with a vengeance and it’s guerilla warfare: vicious ferociousness until the record’s conclusion, signaled by a humongous throb generated in the keyboard’s low-register area.
An outstanding work, heterogeneous and smartly crafted, mixing violence and brainpower in equal doses. Mental purification dressed in timbral infectivity.
MARSFIELD – The Towering Sky
Faraway Press
This record - a project involving Andrew Chalk, Vikki Jackman, Brendan Walls and Robin Barnes – features music recorded in 2005, slightly different from what a superficial listener could expect from this label which traditionally releases works trademarked by temperate nebulosity. Still, if one’s ears are open as required, lots of familiar factors that establish the belonging of The Towering Sky in the same area of sonic investigation are unearthed.
The album is divided in two tracks, a total of circa 37 minutes. The first – “Marsfield Cathedral” – is a wonderful improvisation whose reverberant qualities possess an innate influence that furnishes a suitable environment with a soul of its own. The predominant timbres seem to derive from bowed metals – glass, too? - and resonating bowls, yet I wouldn’t be surprised if processed strings (guitar and piano’s lowest regions, perhaps) had been put in the recipe somewhere. The immediate reaction deceivingly sets us in “expected comparison” mode: one immediately thinks Organum and Mirror, since the room’s corners help those incredibly booming frequencies to morph, ricochet and affirm as it happens with those marvelous entities. There’s a section in which you may be tempted to bet some money on the existence of voices: ghostly undulations, almost disquieting if you will, that make their presence heard for a while and then just disappear. It might be a trick of the mind, though. Better remaining with an attractive doubt, sometimes.
As dramatic as the previous episode is, the group's unique personality is established by “Marsfield Common”, which is centered around a tentative exploration of a large ambience through the use of regular instruments; we guess a harmonium or an accordion (both?) are in there, and maybe a plucked cello, or a viola. What gives the piece strength is not the affirmation of those sparse pitches and stabs amidst a blur of indeterminate details, but that very intangible background going on continuously. Possibly they are tapes reproducing remixed snippets of priorly emitted sounds, or treated field recordings. Whatever it is, this creates a bed for the stream to flow, so to speak. And flow the river does with occasional surges, repeated bumps and, in general, a certain degree of irregularity that, curiously, push the sound towards lands that are usually inhabited by Chalk’s former partner in Ora, Darren Tate. Fairly inexplicable and engrossing, including the splendid conclusion: decreasing intensity and progressive instrumental rarefaction, accompanied by thunder and rain. And, once again, we feel deeply grateful at the end of the experience, not the least for the stunning poetry of the cover artwork: the photo of an ancient bucolic setting with children and sheep that literally defies description.
This record - a project involving Andrew Chalk, Vikki Jackman, Brendan Walls and Robin Barnes – features music recorded in 2005, slightly different from what a superficial listener could expect from this label which traditionally releases works trademarked by temperate nebulosity. Still, if one’s ears are open as required, lots of familiar factors that establish the belonging of The Towering Sky in the same area of sonic investigation are unearthed.
The album is divided in two tracks, a total of circa 37 minutes. The first – “Marsfield Cathedral” – is a wonderful improvisation whose reverberant qualities possess an innate influence that furnishes a suitable environment with a soul of its own. The predominant timbres seem to derive from bowed metals – glass, too? - and resonating bowls, yet I wouldn’t be surprised if processed strings (guitar and piano’s lowest regions, perhaps) had been put in the recipe somewhere. The immediate reaction deceivingly sets us in “expected comparison” mode: one immediately thinks Organum and Mirror, since the room’s corners help those incredibly booming frequencies to morph, ricochet and affirm as it happens with those marvelous entities. There’s a section in which you may be tempted to bet some money on the existence of voices: ghostly undulations, almost disquieting if you will, that make their presence heard for a while and then just disappear. It might be a trick of the mind, though. Better remaining with an attractive doubt, sometimes.
As dramatic as the previous episode is, the group's unique personality is established by “Marsfield Common”, which is centered around a tentative exploration of a large ambience through the use of regular instruments; we guess a harmonium or an accordion (both?) are in there, and maybe a plucked cello, or a viola. What gives the piece strength is not the affirmation of those sparse pitches and stabs amidst a blur of indeterminate details, but that very intangible background going on continuously. Possibly they are tapes reproducing remixed snippets of priorly emitted sounds, or treated field recordings. Whatever it is, this creates a bed for the stream to flow, so to speak. And flow the river does with occasional surges, repeated bumps and, in general, a certain degree of irregularity that, curiously, push the sound towards lands that are usually inhabited by Chalk’s former partner in Ora, Darren Tate. Fairly inexplicable and engrossing, including the splendid conclusion: decreasing intensity and progressive instrumental rarefaction, accompanied by thunder and rain. And, once again, we feel deeply grateful at the end of the experience, not the least for the stunning poetry of the cover artwork: the photo of an ancient bucolic setting with children and sheep that literally defies description.
Monday, 12 April 2010
THE NAKED FUTURE – Gigantomachia
One of the first thoughts during the initial spin was “McDonas at his most Cecil Taylor-esque”, therefore I was happy to read about the same reference at the very beginning of David Keenan’s liners. It’s called “solidarity among writers”. The pianist provides mercurial harmonic shifts, autistic ostinatos and characteristically uncomfortable digital activity as per the norm: still, he occasionally stops (the others do so, too…) and contemplates the past or – ironically - quotes popular styles despite the fact that there is havoc around. The sound of Skloff’s valve-augmented groans puts its box’s timbre in an alley situated halfway through William Parker Drive and Jack Bruce Street, the unquestioning enthusiasm and raging cantankerousness of Niekrasz furnishing the music with a supplementary dose of fickleness that, on the other hand, makes the sonic mass appear even more unyielding. When the boys decide to go pedal-to-the-metal, they reveal themselves to be punker than me (…than Sid Vicious for sure). Great record: play loud, put up the shutters, get wall-knocked by the neighbours, crash your car against a barrier if you are stupid enough to listen to this while driving. Keep living.
Sunday, 11 April 2010
TERESA RAMPAZZI – Musica Endoscopica (Vinyl Edition)
Die Schachtel
This is the first release ever to diffuse the work of Teresa Rampazzi (1914-2001), a pioneer of electronic and computer music who was among the founders of the Centro Di Sonologia Computazionale in Padua, an important association of experimental composers active in Italy. The vinyl copy in my possession differs from the digital version. The alternative track is also the most recent material on offer: 1981’s “Metamorfosi” is an intriguingly ringing sonic cloud, born from the wish of “expressing the continuous mutability of all parameters”. What's missing instead from the CD is "Atmen Noch". Most sincerely, this kind of collector-enticing tactic is absurd, also because the quality of the vinyl is not exceptional - pops and bumps a go go.
In truth, the notes and the excerpts from Rampazzi’s writings and interviews constitute the really interesting ingredient of this edition. We become aware of the composer’s artistic path: primarily an avant-garde pianist and choir member, she remained totally fascinated by a small frequency generator shown to her by Herbert Eimert during a course at Darmstadt. From there, this firm-minded lady went on to analyze and exploit the possibilities of similar instruments, early synthesizers and primordial computers that certainly weren’t designed for interfacing with musicians. A passionate quest for new methods of audio-making, whose fruits and testimonies were donated to the Department Of Visual Arts And Music at Padua’s University two years prior of her death.
Do not be too hopeful for unfathomable sonorities, despite the unconventionality of this woman’s spirit. The record should be played loud, in order to better enjoy at least the essential consistency of unstructured masses of frequencies and noises that don’t sound like compositions, more a series of casual occurrences without a significant impact. Some of these flashes are pretty beautiful and vaguely fascinating, others are merely subsidiary presences, lacking any kind of mystery and interest. The whole first half is dedicated to “Musica Endoscopica”, originally a soundtrack for a documentary on – that’s right – endoscopy. The other side comprises the spacey “Environ” and the fairly unformulated “With The Light Pen” – rather forgettable episodes, if you ask me. The above mentioned “Metamorfosi” is not enough to transform what’s just a somewhat weird document into a must-have. Deep respect goes to Mrs. Rampazzi’s vision and stubborn inquisitiveness, but for sure we’re not talking about a female embodiment of Roland Kayn.
This is the first release ever to diffuse the work of Teresa Rampazzi (1914-2001), a pioneer of electronic and computer music who was among the founders of the Centro Di Sonologia Computazionale in Padua, an important association of experimental composers active in Italy. The vinyl copy in my possession differs from the digital version. The alternative track is also the most recent material on offer: 1981’s “Metamorfosi” is an intriguingly ringing sonic cloud, born from the wish of “expressing the continuous mutability of all parameters”. What's missing instead from the CD is "Atmen Noch". Most sincerely, this kind of collector-enticing tactic is absurd, also because the quality of the vinyl is not exceptional - pops and bumps a go go.
In truth, the notes and the excerpts from Rampazzi’s writings and interviews constitute the really interesting ingredient of this edition. We become aware of the composer’s artistic path: primarily an avant-garde pianist and choir member, she remained totally fascinated by a small frequency generator shown to her by Herbert Eimert during a course at Darmstadt. From there, this firm-minded lady went on to analyze and exploit the possibilities of similar instruments, early synthesizers and primordial computers that certainly weren’t designed for interfacing with musicians. A passionate quest for new methods of audio-making, whose fruits and testimonies were donated to the Department Of Visual Arts And Music at Padua’s University two years prior of her death.
Do not be too hopeful for unfathomable sonorities, despite the unconventionality of this woman’s spirit. The record should be played loud, in order to better enjoy at least the essential consistency of unstructured masses of frequencies and noises that don’t sound like compositions, more a series of casual occurrences without a significant impact. Some of these flashes are pretty beautiful and vaguely fascinating, others are merely subsidiary presences, lacking any kind of mystery and interest. The whole first half is dedicated to “Musica Endoscopica”, originally a soundtrack for a documentary on – that’s right – endoscopy. The other side comprises the spacey “Environ” and the fairly unformulated “With The Light Pen” – rather forgettable episodes, if you ask me. The above mentioned “Metamorfosi” is not enough to transform what’s just a somewhat weird document into a must-have. Deep respect goes to Mrs. Rampazzi’s vision and stubborn inquisitiveness, but for sure we’re not talking about a female embodiment of Roland Kayn.
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