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VIDNA OBMANA, "ANTHOLOGY 1984-2004"
Projekt
I find it odd that this collection is named Anthology,even though it consists of previously unreleased tracks. The onlytracks on this disc that were previously released surfaced onlong-deleted cassettes issued on obscure European labels. To me, theterm "anthology" denotes a representative collection documenting anartist's career, drawn from works previously available. I am perplexedat the claim that this collection of outtakes, live tracks and othermarginalia might constitute a proper documentation of the artist'scareer. Not nearly as perplexed, though, as when I attempt to ponderwho could possibly be interested enough in Vidna Obmana's music to havekept this artist afloat for the past two decades. Mr. Obmana ascribesto that common viewpoint that the term "ambient" must be synonymouswith "boring," creating album after unremarkable album filled to thebrim with dull New Age keyboards, drones and loops, with the occasionalforay into insulting ethnic plagiarism. This collection was recentlyreleased on the eternally lame Projekt, whose only standards fordeciding what their label will release appears to be directly dependanton how utterly, excruciatingly dull the music is. The tracks on thisanthology run the gamut from a mildly uninteresting retread ofThrobbing Gristle ("Ecstasy") to a violently uninteresting rip-off ofCoil ("Soul Dislocation"). In between is lots of fodder for NPR's Hearts of Space,Vidna Obmana thoughtfully providing crossfaded transitions from eachtrack to the next, so that the whole 72 minutes feels like one long,homogenized puddle of rancid fairy spooge. This music might work quitewell as a soundtrack for your local coven's next drawing down of themoon ceremony, or it might be perfect muzak for the waiting room ofyour local aura-reading and colonics center, but it fails in everyother sense. It blunts and smooths the edges off any sound that mightjar the listener out of sleepy complacence, leaving only anundifferentiated, quivering mass of odorless, flavorless gelatin in itswake. Suspended inside the unappetizing Jell-O mold are inedible chunksof musical ideas that might have been interesting had they not beentrapped inside this mess.
I find it odd that this collection is named Anthology,even though it consists of previously unreleased tracks. The onlytracks on this disc that were previously released surfaced onlong-deleted cassettes issued on obscure European labels. To me, theterm "anthology" denotes a representative collection documenting anartist's career, drawn from works previously available. I am perplexedat the claim that this collection of outtakes, live tracks and othermarginalia might constitute a proper documentation of the artist'scareer. Not nearly as perplexed, though, as when I attempt to ponderwho could possibly be interested enough in Vidna Obmana's music to havekept this artist afloat for the past two decades. Mr. Obmana ascribesto that common viewpoint that the term "ambient" must be synonymouswith "boring," creating album after unremarkable album filled to thebrim with dull New Age keyboards, drones and loops, with the occasionalforay into insulting ethnic plagiarism. This collection was recentlyreleased on the eternally lame Projekt, whose only standards fordeciding what their label will release appears to be directly dependanton how utterly, excruciatingly dull the music is. The tracks on thisanthology run the gamut from a mildly uninteresting retread ofThrobbing Gristle ("Ecstasy") to a violently uninteresting rip-off ofCoil ("Soul Dislocation"). In between is lots of fodder for NPR's Hearts of Space,Vidna Obmana thoughtfully providing crossfaded transitions from eachtrack to the next, so that the whole 72 minutes feels like one long,homogenized puddle of rancid fairy spooge. This music might work quitewell as a soundtrack for your local coven's next drawing down of themoon ceremony, or it might be perfect muzak for the waiting room ofyour local aura-reading and colonics center, but it fails in everyother sense. It blunts and smooths the edges off any sound that mightjar the listener out of sleepy complacence, leaving only anundifferentiated, quivering mass of odorless, flavorless gelatin in itswake. Suspended inside the unappetizing Jell-O mold are inedible chunksof musical ideas that might have been interesting had they not beentrapped inside this mess.
