One of the many apologies I’m sending out in this period (the reason being the same for everybody: delayed reviews) is definitely owed to Rent Romus, whose Edgetone label is among those imprints that don’t know what “predictable” means. In their catalogue we find a lot of interesting stuff – and, honestly, also a couple of question mark-raising outings which I won’t mention, this time – but everything is as non-commercial as you can hope for, which is always a good thing. Here’s a condensed report of what was sent on my desk from El Cerrito, California in the last eight (ten?) months or so.
EDDIE THE RAT – Out Behind The 8-Ball
Eddie The Rat comprises Peter Martin (pianist with his hands, percussionist with his feet), Molly Tascone, Ronnie Camaro and Dan Ake. All of these musicians are multi-instrumentalists specialized in exotic percussions also lending their voices to achieve the aim of a half-ritualistic, half-punkish potion largely influenced by Balinese gamelan but - in this occasion - with a sinister Stravinskian mood creeping around. What’s really strange is that these structures - taken singularly - sound pretty simple, even basic at times, including certain repetitive flute figurations that add a “melodically wooden” nuance to the magic potion. When the sum of the parts is heard, the music can reach levels of freakish difficulty, and one wonders how in the world these guys are able to perform this stuff live without the addition of other participants. This is not your typical serene voyage to the East full of postcard quotes, good only for those shops run by converted yuppies where incense suffocates and rainsticks gather dust in a corner. Eddie The Rat are snarling and acrid, kicking serious ass when they want to. An uneasy yet stimulating release, despite a few pauses; in any case much better than the previous Insomnia Sound Bible, which I hadn’t liked at all.
C.O.M.A. – Big Words
The California Outside Music Association – whose personnel is in constant change – is represented this time by John Vaughn (sax, voice, electronics), Dax Compise (percussion) and Zach Silver (electric violin, Theremin). Improvisations that could be described as halfway through idiomatic and completely scheme-free, sometimes pleasant, in any case not exactly memorable. Often quite abstract, at times very nervous (“Veridical”) but never transcending into perniciousness, these sounds seem to exist only for the moment in which they were created, apparently exclusive of any disguised or intentional meanings. Silver’s violin might recall Don Sugarcane Harris, and the Theremin can’t sound much different from the usual correlations with Ed Wood or cheap sci-fi. Loops and delays are deployed, without excessively exciting results, in “Rectrix”. What can I say? Two listens didn’t manage to let me think about greatness for this disc, even if it’s not really bad. It’s…normal, which is strange for this label.
SAY BOK GWAI – Chink In The Armor
Punk and doom metal, hardcore and splatter. The whole sung in English and Cantonese, to create a new genre: CantoCore. The duo of Alex Yeung (guitar, bass, vocals) and Andre Custodio (drums, vocals, electronics), Say Bok Gwai present 31 mostly short tracks in which they show a remarkable technical command – the overdriven mess hides nice chops. A lot of positive energy, screaming lyrics, power chords and “terrifying scales 101” a go-go, powerful drumming. Everything very funny and in some case exciting, the only exception being that several of the pieces sounds too similar, causing a little bit of humdrum to kick in after about half an hour, which would have been the perfect length for an album like this instead of its over 50 minutes. Otherwise, amusing stuff.
JESS ROWLAND – The Problem With The Soda Machine
I’m admittedly partial towards Rowland, a rare specimen of ironically intelligent artist, her eyes, ears and mind perennially open to observe human cheapness, which is one of the main themes that this scribbler has deepened throughout his own existence since the school years, hence the affinity with this music. Where else could you find a song cycle whose lyrics are made of company emails dealing with the problems related to a vending machine placed in the office’s break room? Absurdly lyrical, these beautiful tunes are arranged in a mixture of nightmarish Beatles and Pink Floyd circa Atom Heart Mother, and rendered with uncertain vocals that add a morbid appeal to the plot. But don’t expect stoned jams or else: there’s a considerable degree of finesse in here, and the record remains extremely and completely pleasant also after repeated spins. The songs are interspersed with “free-jazz explorations of unwrapping consumer items and popping bags of processed chips”. Delicious (the CD, not the chips).
YEHUDIT – In The Zone
Yehudit is a cultured violinist (both electric and acoustic) flanked by a group of deft musicians - Sheldon Brown (saxes, clarinet), Steve Erquiaga (guitars), Dan Feiszli (basses), Curt Moore (drums) and Gerry Grosz (vibes) - producing appetizing morsels of timeless music that shows many influences – from gipsy jazz to south American rhythms – played with flawless technique and chamber-esque stylishness. This is that kind of album which, whatever the moment in which you spin it, provides pleasant company while orientating the barometer of our temper towards “mildly good” even during hard times. Cute tunes whose thematic memory is affirmed with tasteful grace, the archetypal exposition of the basic concepts followed by never-invasive soloing. Great interplay throughout, a sense of lightness pervading the air. Useful for dancing, too. One of those instances in which we prefer a hint of splendidly rendered normality to (presumed) avant-garde by people who can’t play a lick.
MINISTRY OF RITES – Grid
An unexpected duo project between two apparently opposite artistic entities: Rent Romus and Tobias Fischer, aka Feu Follet, working with an array of instruments which includes PC electronics, loops, field recordings, piano, analogue electronics, alto & soprano saxes, voices, radio and flute. The prevailing component is one of oneiric – lysergic, perhaps - abstractness: reiterative successions, constant alteration of the morphology of timbre and (more rarely) thoughtful melodies played by Romus on the sax place the concoction in the land of transgendered studio construction. In parts, this sounds very good with several engrossing juxtapositions; elsewhere, the ingredients don’t mix that well, resulting as a hotchpotch of abnormal deformities constantly moving on a cyclic basis. Certain bizarre outbursts of semi-farting synthesis upon placidly hallucinating landscapes featuring chanting, chattering and assorted weird items are amusing, though. A difficult-to-cubbyhole patchwork that you might like or not, but whose essential honesty is tangible.
CONURE – Stream
Conure is Mark Wilson, a laptop artist whose previous CD The Generations Of Our Grandfathers was respectable. Noise is the name of the game in his music: avalanches of distorted sources coming at you from everywhere, muddy voices barely recognizable amidst a jumble of saturated frequencies, subsonic poundings that - via headphone - seem to push the auricular membranes down the throat. The record’s content, it says here, was created by processing field recordings and “other mic’ed sounds” with a battery of effect pedals. Supposedly, there are also underlying “themes” in there, but I didn’t manage to understand what and where they are: to these ears, it’s an amassment of angry dissatisfaction with what happens around, camouflaged in a kind of racket that sounds good enough to sustain the weight of more than a few listens. A massive perpetuation of what most people (NOT including yours truly) don’t want to hear in a recording. Still, if Merzbow has reached a cult status, why not Conure?
JIM RYAN – Subjects Of Desire
My admiration for Jim Ryan is notorious (sort of), therefore fresh fruits from the tree of his creativity are at all times expected here. Subjects Of Desire is a strange record at first, but it does grow with each listen. Now, I never loved words – which might sound illogical, given my role – and much less spoken word-based music, although putting in the best effort to understand what an artist tries to convey is always a correct starting point. However, the juxtaposition of trippy-ish stories (recited by Ryan together with Aurora Josephson) dealing with “individual freedom and its disturbed relationships with desire of all kinds” and refined improvisation (the quintet also includes Bob Marsh, Scott R. Looney and Marshall Trammell) results, at least in this case, well planned and cleverly realized. Of course the album is not advisable to non-speakers of the English idiom, and even this reviewer had a hard time trying to follow the plot in certain sections. However, when the intertwining of bewildering sounds (instruments include flute, cello, keyboards, electronics and percussion) and voices reaches the boiling stage, we finally realize that one thing is unrepentant liberty informed by skilful eagerness, another is hypocrite mediocrity dispatched as substance. For specialists and aficionados only, but a high-quality CD nevertheless.
STEVEN BAKER – Lunar Etudes / Time Differentials
Debut release for Baker, who is a sound installation and instrument builder active in the same sonic regions of people such as Hal Rammel, Alan Bloor (aka Pholde) and the late Harry Bertoia, just to quote vague references. The machines used in this disc include things called Chalice, Microtonal Drone and Leaf Springs on Daf, through which the performers feed a Boss DD-20 digital delay. Except for “Plumb Deed”, whose tolling qualities give a little movement to the aural picture, the essence of this material is made of continuously lulling, metal-derived drones which remain more or less unvaried for long minutes. If on the one hand this causes a tad of dullness at times, on the other the soothing temperament of this music is helpful when we decide to use it as nerve-rubbing background. My definitive opinion? Neither unforgettable, nor bad; overall, a pleasant listen.
WARISTERROR TERRORISWAR – TheBrutalRealityOfModernBrutality
Eleven stray-cat songs against all wars recorded by Thollem “Sickofwar” McDonas, Megan Baer, Matteo Bennici, Andrea Caprara and Jacopo Andreini during a pause in one of McDonas’ many Tuscan tours. The customary digital riddles characterizing the genius of this master pianist are all but forgotten here, for this sounds more as a semi-acoustic punk album. Beaten-up instruments, muttered vocals, rhythms and keys often disrespected; the exclusive wish is crying out loud that “we can’t do this to ourselves anymore”, as per one of the tracks titles. At first I found the record funny, after a while it looked like an unremarkable thing, good only for a bit of sincere idealism. Then, when we compare the fusion of these sensations to a sort of feverish pagan ritual and listen to this set with the same attitude of, say, looking at a shaman dressed like a young Joe Strummer, the honesty of intentions begins to clash (pun definitely intended) with our previous ideas pretty hard. Bizarrely frank stuff.
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
EVOLutional Stillness?
Computer-based infernos where the rate of event recurrence exceeds the ability of our brain to follow their succession after a tentative – and useless – struggle are unquestionably fascinating. There is another side of the coin, though: a measure of change – or relief, if you prefer - should ideally be applied, otherwise what comes out as unpredictable at first tends to flirt with standardization at the end.
This is exactly what happened to yours truly with EVOL’s Punani Rubberist, a record that was obviously assembled with the highest degree of creative meticulousness. The title track, which opens the program, promises (and mostly delivers) great things, its fiendish concoction of clarinet-derived finesse and perpetual intermingling of disparate kinds of sonic constituents rivaling certain overhyped acousmatic productions whose budget is largely superior to this.
Impertinent humiliations of whatever sense of continuity one might wish constitute the tourist’s menu throughout the set. Zapping cataclysms, utter drubbings of potential anticipation and opulent deployment of electroacoustic paraphernalia seem to divide the listening room into small cubicles, each episode a frantically lyophilized commentary on human inadequateness when rational aptitude is called out to respond to unusual sounds.
Yet, once the halfway point has passed and no sign of meaningful divergence from the general canon is noticed in the formation of the tracks – call it sameness in variation – we somehow start to smell a slightly musty aroma, as if the explosive energy and vitality of the music had suddenly turned into a battery of wet-powdered guns.
In conclusion, following the initial shock the work proceeds rather inconsequentially, deprived as it is of a veritably unique trait. Quite preposterous, given the zillions of clashing facets that it presents. The ultimate verdict is: very well constructed, but somehow uninvolving.
Entr’acte
This is exactly what happened to yours truly with EVOL’s Punani Rubberist, a record that was obviously assembled with the highest degree of creative meticulousness. The title track, which opens the program, promises (and mostly delivers) great things, its fiendish concoction of clarinet-derived finesse and perpetual intermingling of disparate kinds of sonic constituents rivaling certain overhyped acousmatic productions whose budget is largely superior to this.
Impertinent humiliations of whatever sense of continuity one might wish constitute the tourist’s menu throughout the set. Zapping cataclysms, utter drubbings of potential anticipation and opulent deployment of electroacoustic paraphernalia seem to divide the listening room into small cubicles, each episode a frantically lyophilized commentary on human inadequateness when rational aptitude is called out to respond to unusual sounds.
Yet, once the halfway point has passed and no sign of meaningful divergence from the general canon is noticed in the formation of the tracks – call it sameness in variation – we somehow start to smell a slightly musty aroma, as if the explosive energy and vitality of the music had suddenly turned into a battery of wet-powdered guns.
In conclusion, following the initial shock the work proceeds rather inconsequentially, deprived as it is of a veritably unique trait. Quite preposterous, given the zillions of clashing facets that it presents. The ultimate verdict is: very well constructed, but somehow uninvolving.
Entr’acte
Wednesday, 22 April 2009
Exceed The 150-Word Limit And You’re A Dead Man – Briefs, Shorts, Capsules, Nutshells, Etc.
CARRIER BAND – Voice Coil
Deep Listening
Pauline Oliveros, Peer Bode and Andrew Deutsch, recorded at Kingston’s Deep Listening Space in Kingston, 2003. Three dissimilar approaches for a loosely psychedelic kind of electronic inventiveness in which misshapen identities, weird samples and spoken word are fit together with synthetic secretions and vocoders. Oliveros’ accordion fuels her computerized Expanded Instrument System to produce capricious tonalities, the nature of the pieces changing according to the spur of the moment: not only timbral disorder but also sections with a relative propensity to unclearly divine dimensions are enjoyed. This mainly occurs in the final “Video Voice”, in which sounds from earlier Oliveros’ compositions get interlocked with elements from Stephen Vitiello’s Light Meter recordings in an ode to innocent amazement. Elsewhere it’s just skilled noise, not always on a level of excellence.
ZILVERHILL - + Eötvös +
Adeptsound
Never heard of Zilverhill until receiving this artefact – issued July 2008 - which is mainly constructed upon loop-based soundscapes, mostly with a penchant to post-industrial moods that might sound great or low-cost, depending on your transitory individual disposition. Despite the label’s recommendation of listening via headphones – lots of amassed constituents in there, but realizing what they are somehow diminishes the pleasure – the music works better as a classic “aural enrichment of a surrounding milieu”, possibly while you’re hazy-minded - or even doing something else. The distressing quality of some of these pieces will then mutate into a parade of stridently tolerable sounds. I still feel that 70 minutes for this kind of stuff are unwarranted, though; there’s not a proper compositional endeavour behind the general tones and - regrettably - this is always clearly perceivable, thus attributing a “barely sufficient” judgement to the work.
JUAN JOSÈ CALARCO / ADRIÁN JUÁREZ – Termosistor
Koyuki
Fifteen minutes of processed urban field recordings (Buenos Aires, La Plata), subway stations and electric devices. The composers specify that these metropolitan landscapes were captured at late night and in the evenings, and it shows: the music is indeed shrouded by a veil of foggy dampness, in spite of the noticeable details. A very well made grouping of sources, a substantial choice of succeeding events that testifies to Calarco and Juárez’s keen ears and sensibility; yet I can’t help but thinking that there’s absolutely nothing that strikes a nerve, or that is conspicuous enough to separate this work from the thousands that are being released today in this sonic area. This doesn’t cancel the fact that that Termosistor is an entirely pleasant, brief trip haloed by dim lights.
TOMAS PHILLIPS – Six Notes
Koyuki
Another 3-inch from this nice Italian label. Tomas Phillips gifts us with the perfect ambient soundscape for a tranquil evening, showing the way in which this type of record should be thought, projected and realized to the masses of aspirants. A few sparse elements, not transcendentally new (rarefied piano, soft-spoken electronics, gorgeous cloudy washes amidst extreme quietness, looped cicadas, water-based sonorities) yet assembled with sobriety, class and architectural sense, making for the deepest melancholic reflections heard this side of the finest Eno. Gentle touches of grace, all the more welcome in times of excessive preoccupation and constant haste, mixed with morphing growths of frequency auras that stimulate the mechanisms of reminiscence buried inside. One of the rare instances in which I didn’t smell a fraudulent use of commonplace in this kind of production: no routines here, only refined allure. A very good work, definitely recommended.
Deep Listening
Pauline Oliveros, Peer Bode and Andrew Deutsch, recorded at Kingston’s Deep Listening Space in Kingston, 2003. Three dissimilar approaches for a loosely psychedelic kind of electronic inventiveness in which misshapen identities, weird samples and spoken word are fit together with synthetic secretions and vocoders. Oliveros’ accordion fuels her computerized Expanded Instrument System to produce capricious tonalities, the nature of the pieces changing according to the spur of the moment: not only timbral disorder but also sections with a relative propensity to unclearly divine dimensions are enjoyed. This mainly occurs in the final “Video Voice”, in which sounds from earlier Oliveros’ compositions get interlocked with elements from Stephen Vitiello’s Light Meter recordings in an ode to innocent amazement. Elsewhere it’s just skilled noise, not always on a level of excellence.
ZILVERHILL - + Eötvös +
Adeptsound
Never heard of Zilverhill until receiving this artefact – issued July 2008 - which is mainly constructed upon loop-based soundscapes, mostly with a penchant to post-industrial moods that might sound great or low-cost, depending on your transitory individual disposition. Despite the label’s recommendation of listening via headphones – lots of amassed constituents in there, but realizing what they are somehow diminishes the pleasure – the music works better as a classic “aural enrichment of a surrounding milieu”, possibly while you’re hazy-minded - or even doing something else. The distressing quality of some of these pieces will then mutate into a parade of stridently tolerable sounds. I still feel that 70 minutes for this kind of stuff are unwarranted, though; there’s not a proper compositional endeavour behind the general tones and - regrettably - this is always clearly perceivable, thus attributing a “barely sufficient” judgement to the work.
JUAN JOSÈ CALARCO / ADRIÁN JUÁREZ – Termosistor
Koyuki
Fifteen minutes of processed urban field recordings (Buenos Aires, La Plata), subway stations and electric devices. The composers specify that these metropolitan landscapes were captured at late night and in the evenings, and it shows: the music is indeed shrouded by a veil of foggy dampness, in spite of the noticeable details. A very well made grouping of sources, a substantial choice of succeeding events that testifies to Calarco and Juárez’s keen ears and sensibility; yet I can’t help but thinking that there’s absolutely nothing that strikes a nerve, or that is conspicuous enough to separate this work from the thousands that are being released today in this sonic area. This doesn’t cancel the fact that that Termosistor is an entirely pleasant, brief trip haloed by dim lights.
TOMAS PHILLIPS – Six Notes
Koyuki
Another 3-inch from this nice Italian label. Tomas Phillips gifts us with the perfect ambient soundscape for a tranquil evening, showing the way in which this type of record should be thought, projected and realized to the masses of aspirants. A few sparse elements, not transcendentally new (rarefied piano, soft-spoken electronics, gorgeous cloudy washes amidst extreme quietness, looped cicadas, water-based sonorities) yet assembled with sobriety, class and architectural sense, making for the deepest melancholic reflections heard this side of the finest Eno. Gentle touches of grace, all the more welcome in times of excessive preoccupation and constant haste, mixed with morphing growths of frequency auras that stimulate the mechanisms of reminiscence buried inside. One of the rare instances in which I didn’t smell a fraudulent use of commonplace in this kind of production: no routines here, only refined allure. A very good work, definitely recommended.
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
Chris Dadge / Bug Incision
Canadian percussionist (the term is particularly reductive) Chris Dadge runs a smart label – Bug Incision - that releases micro-editions of honest, unpretentious improvisation which sounds positively energetic and frisky, but in a sort of “concentrated” manner. He sent a packet of nice things – needless to say, a good while ago - that only now I managed to enjoy. This notwithstanding, I warmly recommend you to take a look to what these people have to offer as they’re quite unique in their unassuming poverty of means, and the music is often excellent. Here’s what we’ve been able to listen to this week.
CHRIS DADGE – I’d Drive Your Ass Across The World, If I Had To
Wonderful title indeed. A 30-minute set of “solo drumset improvisations with subtle and occasional amplification", which at a first glance I compared to the studio-generated, Edgard Varese-influenced tiny percussive outbursts found in many and one records by Frank Zappa. Those accelerated rolls and minuscule, apparently disheveled structures are played by Dadge in real time without any external contribution, making us appreciate his unsparing attitude towards the instrument. He’s also intelligent enough to leave space for consideration, avoiding deplorable free-for-alls and pseudo-intrepid attempts ending in utter tediousness typical of the large part of percussion-only improvisational efforts. Half a hour is a correct length for my ears in this case, and the almost perfect balance between skin, wood and metal-derived timbres is definitely cherished.
BENT SPOON TRIO – Lost In A Chinese Attic
Chris Dadge (violin, percussion, amplification), David Laing (alto sax, “Laingdon”, percussion), Danny Meichel (tenor & soprano sax, bass clarinet), Scott Munro (trombone, viola, electronics, vocals). That’s right – it’s a quartet, not a trio, but OK just the same. Recording of a spontaneous concert played in a tunnel in Calgary at midnight, an event that apparently occurs every summer in this particular place. Quick-tempered if smilingly fragile playing from all parties, chemical-free elucubrations that appear as diverging as your little brother surprised dressed with mum’s clothes in front of a mirror, dancing and singing. Degraded timbres enriched by the environmental reverberation, devil-may-care dialogues that nevertheless show articulated coherence and lucidity throughout, a pinch of calm rumination every once in a while, beautiful minimal juxtapositions that leave room for relief. Very nice.
CHRIS DADGE & RACHAEL WADHAM – 100 Silk Buttons From The Room Upstairs
You’ve got to love girls who are interested in “broken instruments, rusted objects and old songs”. Pianist and junk player Wadham and percussionist-cum-violin Dadge recorded these ten tracks in Vancouver in 2006 after a fruitful series of live collaborations. Disobedient analysis of the space in and around the instruments with some vague similarities (Greg Goodman, anyone?) and a gallimaufry of dynamic alterations that don’t concede more than ten seconds of respite before abruptly channeling the intensity and the energies somewhere else, often even further than expected. Discerning scrutiny of percussive colors without a hint of exaggeration – everything strictly in check, not an ounce of noodling to be found – and a few instants of anecdotal portrayals. A pictorial representation of egomaniacal modesty, 42 highly enjoyable minutes of never-exasperating questions designed to remain unanswered. Great stuff.
THE MUSK CUP – Tinned Mind, Tinned Breath
The Musk Cup are Chris Dadge, Danny Meichel and Scott Munro. The sense of camaraderie heard since the beginning of this acerbically jangling trio set – “the first-ever session from this long-in-the-pipeline Calgary improve supergroup”, as per the press release’s presentation – delineates a comprehensive translation of the multiform possibilities of instrumental employment. And the timbres to choose from are indeed many: the little orchestra comprises in fact drums, saxes, clarinets, flutes, trombone, basses, voices, noises, objects “and a bunch of other stuff”. The general sound is somehow associable to several projects related to Bryan Day’s Public Eyesore imprint: erratic turns and hasty reports from the galaxy of dirty overtones often making room for quite a few moments of deadpan expurgation of noise, a never-overfastidious rationalization of an otherwise extremely unmanageable creative flux. Lively, attractive but at the same time even-handed music, suitable for different utilizations. A lovely disc.
CHRIS DADGE – I’d Drive Your Ass Across The World, If I Had To
Wonderful title indeed. A 30-minute set of “solo drumset improvisations with subtle and occasional amplification", which at a first glance I compared to the studio-generated, Edgard Varese-influenced tiny percussive outbursts found in many and one records by Frank Zappa. Those accelerated rolls and minuscule, apparently disheveled structures are played by Dadge in real time without any external contribution, making us appreciate his unsparing attitude towards the instrument. He’s also intelligent enough to leave space for consideration, avoiding deplorable free-for-alls and pseudo-intrepid attempts ending in utter tediousness typical of the large part of percussion-only improvisational efforts. Half a hour is a correct length for my ears in this case, and the almost perfect balance between skin, wood and metal-derived timbres is definitely cherished.
BENT SPOON TRIO – Lost In A Chinese Attic
Chris Dadge (violin, percussion, amplification), David Laing (alto sax, “Laingdon”, percussion), Danny Meichel (tenor & soprano sax, bass clarinet), Scott Munro (trombone, viola, electronics, vocals). That’s right – it’s a quartet, not a trio, but OK just the same. Recording of a spontaneous concert played in a tunnel in Calgary at midnight, an event that apparently occurs every summer in this particular place. Quick-tempered if smilingly fragile playing from all parties, chemical-free elucubrations that appear as diverging as your little brother surprised dressed with mum’s clothes in front of a mirror, dancing and singing. Degraded timbres enriched by the environmental reverberation, devil-may-care dialogues that nevertheless show articulated coherence and lucidity throughout, a pinch of calm rumination every once in a while, beautiful minimal juxtapositions that leave room for relief. Very nice.
CHRIS DADGE & RACHAEL WADHAM – 100 Silk Buttons From The Room Upstairs
You’ve got to love girls who are interested in “broken instruments, rusted objects and old songs”. Pianist and junk player Wadham and percussionist-cum-violin Dadge recorded these ten tracks in Vancouver in 2006 after a fruitful series of live collaborations. Disobedient analysis of the space in and around the instruments with some vague similarities (Greg Goodman, anyone?) and a gallimaufry of dynamic alterations that don’t concede more than ten seconds of respite before abruptly channeling the intensity and the energies somewhere else, often even further than expected. Discerning scrutiny of percussive colors without a hint of exaggeration – everything strictly in check, not an ounce of noodling to be found – and a few instants of anecdotal portrayals. A pictorial representation of egomaniacal modesty, 42 highly enjoyable minutes of never-exasperating questions designed to remain unanswered. Great stuff.
THE MUSK CUP – Tinned Mind, Tinned Breath
The Musk Cup are Chris Dadge, Danny Meichel and Scott Munro. The sense of camaraderie heard since the beginning of this acerbically jangling trio set – “the first-ever session from this long-in-the-pipeline Calgary improve supergroup”, as per the press release’s presentation – delineates a comprehensive translation of the multiform possibilities of instrumental employment. And the timbres to choose from are indeed many: the little orchestra comprises in fact drums, saxes, clarinets, flutes, trombone, basses, voices, noises, objects “and a bunch of other stuff”. The general sound is somehow associable to several projects related to Bryan Day’s Public Eyesore imprint: erratic turns and hasty reports from the galaxy of dirty overtones often making room for quite a few moments of deadpan expurgation of noise, a never-overfastidious rationalization of an otherwise extremely unmanageable creative flux. Lively, attractive but at the same time even-handed music, suitable for different utilizations. A lovely disc.
Monday, 13 April 2009
Post-Easter Forget-Me-Not: Nils Bultmann
Nils Bultmann plays a mean viola, handles keyboards well enough and improvises with vocals and breath for good measure. He has collaborated with people of the calibre of Evan Parker, Frank Gratkowski, Myra Melford and – also present in four track of this CD – Roscoe Mitchell, and is a component of the Transatlantic Art Ensemble. Despite the eminent past partnerships, Terminally Unique represents my first run into this artist’s music, a satisfying one. Besides Mitchell, helpers on this release include Parry Karp (cello) and Paddy Cassidy (djembe).
The album was shaped, with the aid of Pro Tools, by editing the most significant parts of a massive series of studio takes collected and gathered over the years, which comprise (in their creator’s words) “improvisations, compositional sketches and field recordings”. There are two or three distinct flavours that instantly materialize while listening to the results. The impressive technical ability of Bultmann on the main instrument is reinforced by the marvellously evocative Eastern quality of his phrasing, sliding lines and introspective melodic intuitions corroborated by an almost tragic atmosphere of contemplative ineluctability, often turning into veritable anguish (listen to the bloodcurdling screaming accompanying the notes in the initial section of “Brutally Adored”). As he decides to let the environment join the vibe, the viola becomes just another colour in a landscape that doesn’t promise a future of beatification, regardless of the apparent peacefulness (“Ocean”).
In general, what transpires is the aspiration of avoiding definite labels, the articulate structure of the playing notwithstanding. Every piece clearly shows its distinctive nature, characterized by accents of interior research that sound nearly memorable at times, of the more ordinary kind elsewhere, where the harmonic edifice is built somewhat unsurprisingly (certain Wurlitzer-based two-chord progressions come to mind). Classiness tends to prevail even in those circumstances, though. A pleasant record enriched by a couple of outstanding duets, and which transmits an explicit feel of coordinated autonomy.
Mutable
The album was shaped, with the aid of Pro Tools, by editing the most significant parts of a massive series of studio takes collected and gathered over the years, which comprise (in their creator’s words) “improvisations, compositional sketches and field recordings”. There are two or three distinct flavours that instantly materialize while listening to the results. The impressive technical ability of Bultmann on the main instrument is reinforced by the marvellously evocative Eastern quality of his phrasing, sliding lines and introspective melodic intuitions corroborated by an almost tragic atmosphere of contemplative ineluctability, often turning into veritable anguish (listen to the bloodcurdling screaming accompanying the notes in the initial section of “Brutally Adored”). As he decides to let the environment join the vibe, the viola becomes just another colour in a landscape that doesn’t promise a future of beatification, regardless of the apparent peacefulness (“Ocean”).
In general, what transpires is the aspiration of avoiding definite labels, the articulate structure of the playing notwithstanding. Every piece clearly shows its distinctive nature, characterized by accents of interior research that sound nearly memorable at times, of the more ordinary kind elsewhere, where the harmonic edifice is built somewhat unsurprisingly (certain Wurlitzer-based two-chord progressions come to mind). Classiness tends to prevail even in those circumstances, though. A pleasant record enriched by a couple of outstanding duets, and which transmits an explicit feel of coordinated autonomy.
Mutable
Wednesday, 8 April 2009
Greece – Commuters 3-0
The caring readers know that this reviewer is also a rail user, travelling via train Monday to Friday. As such, over the years I’ve developed several strategies allowing my auricular apparatuses not to get in touch with the depressing arguments heard on board (and the cell phones, but that’s probably a lost cause), the easiest of which is bringing along a Discman (sorry, no iPod) and playing something made of thick substance to shut the idiots out while reinforcing the defences of the brain. EAI won’t do, of course; try, say, Radu Malfatti as five or six retards talk soccer with increasing degrees of excitement, then tell me that you “listened” to that CD and are able to review it. (EAI won’t do even in a standard urban condominium but that’s another story, which inevitably ends with animal intellect winning upon human).
Enter Yiorgis Sakellariou, aka Mecha/Orga (a human, not an animal). A laptop-armed noise artist who loves to keep things simple: the computer is typically the only source of pain for unsuspecting, uneducated ears. Titles? What titles? The total duration is the name of the disc, the piece length baptizes the tracks. Two of them were gladly appreciated on these shores recently. 61:50 was issued by Triple Bath and it’s possibly the more “industrial” of the pair, four distinct segments whose duration ranges from 4:44 to 31:43, whereas 50:01 (Echomusic) features three connected parts seamed in a continuum of sorts, as in a single composition.
In a way it is completely useless separating the merits of these records, and I’m not going to. Mecha/Orga’s material is not real racket: there’s a structure in there, and we can easily realize that Sakellariou organizes the development of the music carefully, giving it a life-like evolution that usually starts from something barely rippling silence – an interference, a hypnotic circle of energetic malaise – and gradually pumps up both the volume and the width of the sonic accumulation, building veritable walls of unfriendly emissions that literally exclude anyone and anything else from your world if “enjoyed” by headphones. Those nasty slabs of repudiated drones soon become a true force of nature (albeit of a poisoned kind), rendering the skull a potential beehive from which stinging insects carrying thoughts of annihilation incessantly fly. Still have to fine-tune the insistent imagery according to which some of the persons on the train are imagined bursting in flames while chatting about the previous evening’s TV show, but this could be a digestion-related matter (just kidding…got to give additional chances to shrinks anxious to test their patched skills on psychologically impeded beings). Guess what: these records work properly also at a lower volume. Right now (6:30 AM) I’m attempting to use it as a “distressing ambient”, yet it manages to seize the attention with its hallucinating metallic harmonics (the segment in question is the above mentioned “31:43”). The humming throb accompanying the harshness is taking control of the room, the feedback is slashing away at quietness.
The third of this perfect pair is Marinos Koutsomichalis, who released a CDR – again on Echomusic – called cHro(m)A; don’t know if this is also a nom d’art. The substance is easily illustrated: an unremitting motionless purr, much similar to amplified electricity but with a higher percentage of harmonic substratum and well-perceivable pulsations. The originator himself describes his work as “static music, sustained sounds, immobility and non causality”. He doesn’t edit what is recorded, preferring to create an obscure aura of low frequencies in which the listener gets lost at will. Here, too, a double efficacy is experienced: in the daily trip this stuff isolates and stimulates to the point of having my head reeling, from the speakers the result is one of the most entrancing listens of the last weeks. This sort of thing is often harshly criticized by yours truly – no compositional endeavour in sight - yet this nerve-massaging mumble is extremely efficient.
The war against the railway nonsense is going to be resumed before long, and this one-man army has new lethal answers for the mass-destruction weapons of the provincials who infect the air with their discouraging babbling.
STOP PRESS: right now, the earth – who a couple of nights ago quaked so heavily to cause a catastrophe in the neighbouring region – is again giving signs of rage. Does it mean that a few wicked creatures partying down there are happy to hear this?
Enter Yiorgis Sakellariou, aka Mecha/Orga (a human, not an animal). A laptop-armed noise artist who loves to keep things simple: the computer is typically the only source of pain for unsuspecting, uneducated ears. Titles? What titles? The total duration is the name of the disc, the piece length baptizes the tracks. Two of them were gladly appreciated on these shores recently. 61:50 was issued by Triple Bath and it’s possibly the more “industrial” of the pair, four distinct segments whose duration ranges from 4:44 to 31:43, whereas 50:01 (Echomusic) features three connected parts seamed in a continuum of sorts, as in a single composition.
In a way it is completely useless separating the merits of these records, and I’m not going to. Mecha/Orga’s material is not real racket: there’s a structure in there, and we can easily realize that Sakellariou organizes the development of the music carefully, giving it a life-like evolution that usually starts from something barely rippling silence – an interference, a hypnotic circle of energetic malaise – and gradually pumps up both the volume and the width of the sonic accumulation, building veritable walls of unfriendly emissions that literally exclude anyone and anything else from your world if “enjoyed” by headphones. Those nasty slabs of repudiated drones soon become a true force of nature (albeit of a poisoned kind), rendering the skull a potential beehive from which stinging insects carrying thoughts of annihilation incessantly fly. Still have to fine-tune the insistent imagery according to which some of the persons on the train are imagined bursting in flames while chatting about the previous evening’s TV show, but this could be a digestion-related matter (just kidding…got to give additional chances to shrinks anxious to test their patched skills on psychologically impeded beings). Guess what: these records work properly also at a lower volume. Right now (6:30 AM) I’m attempting to use it as a “distressing ambient”, yet it manages to seize the attention with its hallucinating metallic harmonics (the segment in question is the above mentioned “31:43”). The humming throb accompanying the harshness is taking control of the room, the feedback is slashing away at quietness.
The third of this perfect pair is Marinos Koutsomichalis, who released a CDR – again on Echomusic – called cHro(m)A; don’t know if this is also a nom d’art. The substance is easily illustrated: an unremitting motionless purr, much similar to amplified electricity but with a higher percentage of harmonic substratum and well-perceivable pulsations. The originator himself describes his work as “static music, sustained sounds, immobility and non causality”. He doesn’t edit what is recorded, preferring to create an obscure aura of low frequencies in which the listener gets lost at will. Here, too, a double efficacy is experienced: in the daily trip this stuff isolates and stimulates to the point of having my head reeling, from the speakers the result is one of the most entrancing listens of the last weeks. This sort of thing is often harshly criticized by yours truly – no compositional endeavour in sight - yet this nerve-massaging mumble is extremely efficient.
The war against the railway nonsense is going to be resumed before long, and this one-man army has new lethal answers for the mass-destruction weapons of the provincials who infect the air with their discouraging babbling.
STOP PRESS: right now, the earth – who a couple of nights ago quaked so heavily to cause a catastrophe in the neighbouring region – is again giving signs of rage. Does it mean that a few wicked creatures partying down there are happy to hear this?
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