 |
|
Greg Davis "Mort aux Vaches"
Staalplaat
Greg Davis' music is difficult to not like. If abstract computer musicis at all your thing (and it occasionally is mine), Davis' is nothingif not pleasant. It exudes a serene positiveness—an easy and smilingwarmth. The music of this disc, culled from a live radio session onVPRO in Amsterdam and featuring songs that appeared on his previouslyreleased albums and singles, appears to be grounded in folk and popsongs with the structures gently splayed into digital dots. StephanMathieu and Christian Fennesz tread along paths such as this one, butDavis' music is remarkable in that, despite the random bleeping noises,there are no sharp edges to it at all. It's inoffensive, innocuous,fading into the background just as readily as it intruiges (to thosewho wish to engage it in this manner) with the richness of itscomponent sounds. When Davis finally sings and plays acoustic guitar inthe Beach Boys cover that closes this album, I imagine him sitting withhis laptop at the bedside of a child, tucking her in and lulling her tosleep. Or else he's sitting on a swing in some lush garden on a sunnyafternoon, soaking in the sun and running some loose melodies through aMax patch. This could easily veer off into Nobukazu Takemura-likequasi-New Age drool, but somehow it remains tasteful. Only a real cyniccould not smile along with him.
Greg Davis' music is difficult to not like. If abstract computer musicis at all your thing (and it occasionally is mine), Davis' is nothingif not pleasant. It exudes a serene positiveness—an easy and smilingwarmth. The music of this disc, culled from a live radio session onVPRO in Amsterdam and featuring songs that appeared on his previouslyreleased albums and singles, appears to be grounded in folk and popsongs with the structures gently splayed into digital dots. StephanMathieu and Christian Fennesz tread along paths such as this one, butDavis' music is remarkable in that, despite the random bleeping noises,there are no sharp edges to it at all. It's inoffensive, innocuous,fading into the background just as readily as it intruiges (to thosewho wish to engage it in this manner) with the richness of itscomponent sounds. When Davis finally sings and plays acoustic guitar inthe Beach Boys cover that closes this album, I imagine him sitting withhis laptop at the bedside of a child, tucking her in and lulling her tosleep. Or else he's sitting on a swing in some lush garden on a sunnyafternoon, soaking in the sun and running some loose melodies through aMax patch. This could easily veer off into Nobukazu Takemura-likequasi-New Age drool, but somehow it remains tasteful. Only a real cyniccould not smile along with him.
