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The news of this intriguing collaboration delighted me, as Klara Lewis has carved out quite a wonderfully idiosyncratic and incredibly constrained niche over the last few years by largely avoiding any recognizable instrumentation. Consequently, I had no idea at all what would happen when her surreal collages collided with Simon Fisher Turner's formidable talents as a composer. As it turns out, a pure collaboration resulted, as Care does not particularly resemble either artist's previous work. Instead, it feels like several divergent albums have been deconstructed, warped, and obliterated to leave only some lingering shards in a shifting and hallucinatory fantasia of drones, textures, and field recordings. That fundamental disjointedness can admittedly be a bit challenging at times, but Care ultimately comes together beautifully with the lushly rapturous closer, "Mend."
From the first moments of the opening epic "8," it was abundantly clear to me that Care was going to be quite a bizarre and disorienting experience that would sidestep just about every expectation that I had.That statement is not meant as unambiguously rapturous praise, as my mind was not instantly blown or anything–the album simply takes a very different path than I imagined.For example, I have always found Lewis's collages to be tightly and meticulously crafted, yet "8" is an extended dive into a fog of amorphous, drifting, and abstract phantasmagoria.It does not have anything remotely resembling a conventional structure or even anything resembling an unconventional structure, as nothing is constant at all.Instead, it feels like I am floating weightlessly through an ether of ghostly drones, vaporously indistinct voices, and submerged song-fragments that is unpredictably and jarringly disrupted by stuttering and jackhammering deconstructions of sultry dance anthems.I doubt I would even describe it as having "dream logic," yet it is still a strangely compelling piece solely because the duo manage to make seemingly benign snippets of pop music feel lysergic and haunted.While I have personally never died, "8" feels like an eerily uncanny evocation of what the final mental spasms of death might be like: near-silence mingled with occasional intrusions of real ambient sounds like voices and birds, as well as colorfully vivid and ephemeral blasts of disjointed memories.
The following "Drone" is considerably less of an uncategorizable mindfuck, initially resembling a brooding and throbbing dip into Fisher Turner's soundtrack work.At some point, a strange harmonica- or hurdy-gurdy-like motif emerges and it seems like something more significant might cohere.That proves to be an illusion, however, as the piece instead dissolves again into a mysterious coda of crackling noise.Elsewhere, "Tank" takes a somewhat similar trajectory, blurring together moody cinematic atmosphere with eruptions of noise and dreamlike snatches of field recordings from far-away places.Of the two pieces, "Tank" fares a bit better at achieving a kind of "hallucinatory travelogue" feel, but I still cannot escape a nagging desire for the duo's fragmented entropy to cohere into something more structured in a lasting way.Instead, Lewis and Fisher Turner just conjure up the occasional fleeting glimpse of a surreal and vivid vista that quickly dissipates back into abstraction.The album's sole exception to that tendency is the swooningly lovely closer "Mend."Like the rest of the album, "Mend" is composed of just a few simple pieces precariously held together, but differs from them in that the woozily squirming central theme is quite a strong one and it remains constant.In fact, it even steadily builds as the piece unfolds, gradually transforming from an undulating, liquid drone into a vivid crescendo of swirling and howling tendrils.There are also some crackling and enigmatic radio transmissions in the background to deepen the experience, but the real magic is the main theme itself, which constantly heaves, shudders, and sways like a massive, slow-moving snake.
I am always a bit confounded when an album features one piece that this on a completely different plane than all of the others, as I tend to wonder if an artist just decided to release an album to showcase that one piece or if the other pieces were also intended to be great in a way that somehow eludes me.Given the caliber of the participants here, I have to assume it is the latter, especially since "8" displays an extreme attention to detail and sound design.The uncharitable interpretation would be that Lewis and Fisher Turner had some excellent but divergent ideas and the only way they could seamlessly bring them together was by completely obliterating them into kaleidoscopic fragments.The alternate possibility is that the duo set about making a boldly experimental headphone album that feels more like a memory virus than a series of structured compositions: intriguing, sharply realized forms erratically appear only to disintegrate, dissolve, or get pulled apart until they are just another part of an enigmatic and living fog of real and imagined sounds.If so, that was a great idea, though I remain perplexed by the execution.For now, I merely like that unapologetically abstract side of the album, while I absolutely love the more conventionally structured "Mend," but I am open to the possibility that the rest of the album will someday grow on me if I immerse myself in it long enough.
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Ghostly International Signs Justin K. Broadrick's (aka Jesu/Godflesh/Techno Animal) New Project Pale Sketcher; Album Due August 24th
ARTIST: Pale Sketcher
ALBUM TITLE: Jesu: Pale Sketches Demixed
CATALOG NUMBER: GI-118
LABEL: Ghostly International
FORMAT: CD/Limited LP/Digital
RELEASE DATE: August 24, 2010
01. Don’t Dream It (Mirage Mix)
02. Can I Go Now (Gone Version)
03. Wash It All Away (Cleansed Dub)
04. The Playgrounds Are Empty (Slumber Mix)
05. Tiny Universe (Interstellar)
06. Supple Hope (2009 Mix)
07. Dummy (Bahnhoff Version)
08. Plans That Fade (Faded Dub)
For fans of heavy music, Justin K. Broadrick is a household name. After stints in seminal UK grindcore band Napalm Death, industrial/metal outfit Godflesh, and dark dub duo Techno Animal (with Kevin Martin of The Bug / King Midas Sound), Broadrick re-emerged in 2002 as the leader of Jesu, a shoegaze-like metal project. Broadrick’s newest–and, to many purists, most controversial—venture is Pale Sketcher , in which the artist replaces guitars with synthesizers and drums with machines, but maintains his penchant for bleakly beautiful sounds.
Ghostly International is proud to release Jesu: Pale Sketches Demixed, the debut full-length by Justin K. Broadrick's Pale Sketcher alias, on August 24th, 2010.
Pale Sketcher didn’t begin to manifest until the 2007 Jesu release Pale Sketches, which compiled an album’s-worth of tracks that didn’t quite fit the Jesu mold—skeletal, synthesizer-laced compositions that relied more on subtlety and atmosphere than guitar-based sturm und drang. Broadrick continued to tinker with these songs, “de-mixing” them until they barely resembled their originals, forging a sound that was unlike anything in the Broadrick universe.
Interestingly, as Broadrick has moved from more traditional signifiers of heaviness (aggression, guitars, volume) towards their opposites (melancholy, computers, texture) his music has only gotten deeper and more affecting. In that way, Pale Sketcher may be Broadrick’s heaviest work to date.
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Freedom of Speech bursts with tons more energy than the group's debut. Whereas the first Phantom Band album seemed to meander with more style than substance, here the group have a target to use the sharp edge of their music on. Although not a perfect record, this is head and shoulders above their debut as they finally manage to fully integrate their new world music influences into their tight, groove-based music.
Immediately a thundering, military rattle on the drums heralds in "Freedom of Speech" which features some mind-boiling electronic murmurings in addition to an instantly untrustworthy monologue which promises that "your government will not interfere." Cold War paranoia and Orwellian fears permeate the music, giving it the gravity it needed badly. "Brain Police" throws an idea of Frank Zappa's into a completely different perspective in the context of the time and place in which this album was performed. Just across the border, the Stasi were acting out the nightmare hiding in Zappa’s words.
Unfortunately, Freedom of Speech is not without its faults with my chief concern being Sheldon Ancel’s vocals which sometimes seem passionless compared to the music being put out by the rest of the band. On "Relax" he attempts to (hopefully) lampoon those creepy self-help cassettes that thankfully have seemed to have disappeared. However, all he manages to do is ruin a fantastic piece of music; the drifting guitar and synths cascading over of Liebezeit’s heartbeat-like drumming. On "Trapped Again," Ancel sounds like a bad actor, again detracting from what would be a better instrumental piece. Yet, despite my misgivings with these pieces, Sheldon does a great job otherwise. His delivery on "No Question" brings to mind Ian Curtis’ early demo recordings with Joy Division, full of vigor and vitriol and on top of the post-20 Jazz Funk Greats pop of "Dream Machine," it is hard to imagine another singer doing a better job.
Much like Phantom Band’s first album, Freedom of Speech sounds of its time. However, although I can place it in a timeline based on how it sounds, it rarely comes across as dated. The group tapped into a mood which echoes on today: an oppressive curtaining of Europe which cut friends and family from each other, a wall both physical and political. The music resonates in the same way as the first wave of krautrock captured the revolutionary feeling of the late '60s and early '70s. The actions are long consigned to history but they reverberate on in the art of the day.
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Freedom of Speech bursts with tons more energy than the group's debut. Whereas the first Phantom Band album seemed to meander with more style than substance, here the group have a target to use the sharp edge of their music on. Although not a perfect record, this is head and shoulders above their debut as they finally manage to fully integrate their new world music influences into their tight, groove-based music.
Freedom of Speech bursts with tons more energy than the groups self-titled debut. Whereas the first Phantom Band album seemed to meander with more style than substance, here the group have a target to use the sharp edge of their music on. Although not a perfect record, this is head and shoulders above their debut as they finally manage to fully integrate their new world music influences into their tight, groove- based music.
Immediately a thundering, military rattle on the drums heralds in "Freedom of Speech" which features some mind- boiling electronic murmurings in addition to an instantly untrustworthy monologue which promises that "your government will not interfere." Cold War paranoia and Orwellian fears permeate the music, giving it the gravity it needed badly. "Brain Police" takes an idea by Frank Zappa but throws it into a completely different perspective in the context of the time and place in which this album was performed. Just across the border, the Stasi were acting out the nightmare hiding in the lyrics sung here.
Unfortunately, Freedom of Speech is not without its faults with my chief concern being Sheldon Ancel's vocals which sometimes seem passionless compared to the music being put out by the rest of the band. On "Relax" he attempts to (hopefully) lampoon those creepy self-help cassettes that thankfully have seemed to have disappeared. However, all he manages to do is ruin a fantastic piece of music; the drifting guitar and synths cascading over of Liebezeit's heartbeat-like drumming. On "Trapped Again," Ancel sounds like a bad actor, again detracting from what would be a better instrumental piece. Yet, despite my misgivings with these pieces, Ancel does a great job otherwise. His delivery on "No Question" brings to mind Ian Curtis' early demo recordings with Joy Division, full of vigour and vitriol and on top of the post-20 Jazz Funk Greats pop of "Dream Machine," it is hard to imagine another singer doing a better job.
Much like Phantom Band's first album, Freedom of Speech sounds of its time. However, although I can place it in a timeline based on how it sounds, it rarely comes across as dated. Thegroup tapped into a mood which echoes on today, an oppressive curtaining of Europe which cut friends and family from each other, a wall both physical and political. The music resonates in the same way as the first wave of krautrock captured the revolutionary feeling of the late 60s and early 70s. The actions are long consigned to history but they reverberate on in the art of the day.
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I will admit that I have always been a bigger fan of Masami Akita's collaborative efforts than the unscalable mountain that is his solo material. As the de facto figurehead in the Japanoise scene (and arguably, noise as a genre, including the artistic controversy, irreverence, and the platitudes of misanthropy so seemingly representative of the scene), Merzbow has, for me, always remained a reliable proof-of-concept but not something I would consistently find myself listening to. However, there has always been interesting results to come from his working with just about anyone who would dare test his aesthetics, and this latest product is no exception. Scott Miller and Lee Camfield (ex-Sutekh Hexen) provide a backdrop of (relatively) human instrumentation and occasional sense, which is then deliciously cannibalized by Akita's digital processing.
The first half of No Closure begins about as uncapriciously as anything that Merzbow has ever laid hands on. A stagnant cycle of guitar pedal drone and bassy thunder—part one of the equation throughout surely reads: "Miller and Camfield make something organic and safe"—ebbs menacingly, an austere and solemn growl. Vaguely baroque and antique, these first initial dissonances are quickly attacked by a clattering of noise; clicking, screeching, glass endlessly shattering, windows shuttering and fires burning. This is part two: "Masami tears everything apart." There is no doubt he is quite good at doing so, but it always makes for a nice and interesting experience to really engage with one or two of his pieces wholly, as taken separate from the absurd depths another solo release will be unceremoniously thrown into.
The second half of the record, "II," finds Merzbow's electronic buzzing in something of a role reversal. Now that I am accustomed to the palette of caustic hiss and scraping, the most surprising elements of change come from Scott and Lee's end. Confronted with the sociopathic totality of pure noise, they backpedal into black metal theatrics, pounding away at a low-end motif of guitar distortion—a distant behemoth, answering Merzbow's skittering insect inquisitiveness with encroaching assured annihilation. The performers play off one another spectacularly in the middle sections of "I" and "II" where the anticipation and the impatience reach their first peak, where everything congeals into pure, vindictive chaos.
Merzbow breathes absurd fluctuating sonic textures into everything he touches and that is an assumed feature of working with him. What makes his collaborative efforts so great is the spatial discomfort he can cause with a lifetime of apt sound sculpting, and the way it affects sounds and forms that had hitherto existed in their own private space. Given a malleable source, he thrives on imbalance and anxiety, proffering a substitute to tension with his brand of real, finite anguish. The intrigue of this collaboration is the imagined or inferred threat, and the real, provoked injury, held in consideration simultaneously. In other words, the promise and the payoff are happening at once. Miller and Camfield are more than adept at navigating this new weird duality, and serve as one of the better non-melodic foils to Akita in recent memory.
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Were it nothing but the title song alone, Landing's Wave Lair would have still made a pretty strong impression on me. Prodding curiously at the fabric of pop songwriting, Landing finds an experimentalism in a new style fit to augment its hazy sentimentality. With drummer Daron Gardner on bass, the band turns to drum machines for rhythm and finds direction in heady drone and blurry passages of sedate dream pop. It also happens that the rest of the material on this album is solid as well, finding a few glimpses of brilliance in familiar forms.
It seems disingenuous to see Wave Lair's first three songs as a build up to the titular 19 minute opus, as each of them makes small revelatory steps in oft-tread musical ground. "Patterns" plays up a bubbly circular arpeggio over post-punk drum loops and breathy vocals singing of nonessential terrestrial topics. A simplistic set of chord changes treats "Pattern" to a vaguely existential resolve, like being confined to a beach for an afternoon to think things through. "Resonance" bounces back in a deliberate counterpoint, its slow aggregate of momentum suddenly offset by an anticlimactic, bitcrushed whirr. "Cover Bare Arms" is the weakest moment in the album, but still finds its place as an oddly stringent bit of placid, sullen pop.
I cannot express how much I adore "Wave Lair," however. I am someone with a giddy affinity for well-executed, exceptionally long pieces of music, and "Wave Lair" hits its mark with a brittle and hypnotic aplomb. A claustrophobic drum loop, amiably thumping along like the accidental rhythms of cross country train travel sets an early precedent of propulsion. Waves of bass widen the scope slowly, reaching an implacable midrange drone. Slow synth strings oscillate in and out, panned far to one channel or the other, on a slow climb towards a point that never seems to arrive. Finally, after 9 minutes of instrumentation only, Adrienne Snow's voice enters in a pillow-talk cadence: "Our heads/twisting and turning...their heavy heads/they are stretched towards the sun." It is a simple arrangement of beautiful things, which Landing refuses to dispose of or change, and it is to their credit to be so stalwart and cocksure. "Wave Lair" isn't an "epic" in the sense of its construction; it stays sublunary and accessible, but magnificently exemplifies what the nebulous title of "drone pop" might really mean. It outshines the rest of the record and I would say it is one of the strongest things Landing has ever done, and it will eagerly find itself on repeat. It absolutely earns its run time.
The bonus track, "Cove," seems mostly an afterthought, but touches on some pleasant ideas of space and echo. I am still captivated by "Wave Lair" when I am listening through the entire album, though, and it is not likely to lose my attention soon. The style explored on this EP is a welcome change, as Landing is making some of the best music of their career. It makes for a fantastic autumn soundtrack, too.
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On this second full length release, Geneviève Beaulieu (Menace Ruine) and James Hamilton (Nebris). continue their partnership in this uniquely medieval tinged modernized folk ensemble. Working with a rather Spartan selection of instruments, From The Wells is six songs that at first sound deceptively simple, but are much more layered and nuanced than that first impression gives.
From the first moments of "Edges Nowhere," the minimalist approach is rather clear.Infrequent passages of clean electric guitar set the stage, allowing a significant amount of silence between the melodic passages.It slowly builds, bringing in a tasteful amount of echo and piano before Beaulieu's singular vocals kick in.It takes its time getting there, but it eventually results in a dramatic, but still understated climax before the conclusion.
On both "Gleaming Escape" and the title song, the instant presence of vocals and guitar belies the amount of change and variation that lies just beneath the surface.Both keep their calm, folk tinged sound, but other instruments fill in the gaps, the latter especially showcasing a low frequency harmonium that makes for a strong, but still restrained dissonant counterpoint to the otherwise plaintive guitar and vocals.
Like "Edges Nowhere," "Plenty of my Own" puts the instrumental emphasis on Hamilton's guitar, and here the effect is quite strong, with the otherwise pure and pristine guitar sound having a distorted, dissonant counterpoint that gives a distinctive sound, even with the multitracked vocal performance grabbing a lot of attention.
That sense of building and expanding as compositions also appears rather prevalently on the long closer "Broken Sea".Voices, guitar and harmonium all co-exist together in a subtle performance that builds in strength and intensity, and then retreats, sometimes to complete silence, before picking up again where it left off.Just like the opener, it does make it to a satisfying conclusion, but takes a more hypnotically repetitive path on its way there.
Compared to Pillar of Winds, the only shortcoming of From the Wells is its intentionally stripped down instrumentation.While the duo manage brilliant things with such a basic set of sounds, it is the song to song similarity that keeps the pieces from sounding too distinctly different from one another.It is because of that fact that the songs do not necessarily stand out as distinct from one another as they could, but on the whole the album is a strong one that is riddled with nuance waiting to be examined.
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Of Justin Broadrick's multitude of ongoing projects, Jesu has perhaps been the one in the most constant state of flux. Initially capturing the more introspective side of Godflesh its demise, it soon shifted on electronic pop and then finally back to a shoegaze metal sound. Here, some ten years after its inception, Broadrick has finally unified all of those sounds into a single work.
Much ado has been made about Broadrick recently becoming a father, as well as the reunion of Godflesh as being the impetus for this album, and while to some extent I can see it, it also does not make for a drastic departure from what he has been doing since the very first EP.Perhaps the most significant impact could be that simultaneously writing new Godflesh material has siphoned off some of the metallic aggression that was more prominent on Opiate Sun and the recently completed Dethroned EPs.However, even that guitar sound shows up at one point here.
I will admit that the last album, Ascension, was probably my least favorite Jesu.I would not classify it as bad by any means, but it also just did not really have any stand out moments that stayed with me once the disc ended.Thankfully, Everyday… does not have that problem.The first song, "Homesick," is Jesu by the numbers, and it is all the better for that reason.Stiff, programmed drums, chugging low end rhythm guitar and undistorted guitar melodies atop is the same formula that made "Silver" and "Conqueror" so brilliant, and the result is no different here.Again, Broadrick is one of the few artists who is able to present melancholy so well, without sounding overly mopey or tritely depressing.The vocals on "Homesick" have his emotionally defeated, but still hopeful sound that no one else can do so well.
The title song and "Grey is the Color" are comparatively more basic, but feature the same interplay of instruments, and both emphasize synth string passages that add just the right amount of texture.The tasteful use of keyboards was something I felt that was lacking in the otherwise excellent recent guitar-centric EPs, so I am glad to hear them again.
"The Great Leveller," at 17 minutes, feels like a throwback to the very first Jesu EP Heart Ache or the Sundown/Sunrise record due to both its duration and structure.Also in league with those releases, it is more of a suite of different pieces linked together rather than a single, long-form work.Perhaps the most out of character moment is here is the fact that the song features piano and actual strings.The classical approach does not last, and is quickly supplanted by the heaviest riffing on the album.
The weakest link here is "Comforter," which simply feels like a collage of textures and sounds that never really gels into a fully realized song.There are strong moments and passages to be heard, but it just does not come together as it should.Additionally, there is excessive use of a wobbly, detuning effect on the guitars and synths that Broadrick employs more than preferred throughout the album, but here it is particularly noticeable and problematic.
As far as full length albums go, Everyday… is clearly in the upper echelon of the Jesu discography.I am not sure if I would rank it higher than Conqueror, but the shorter running time and fewer number of songs has presented the amount of filler that plagued other releases.While it is by no means a perfect record, it does perhaps show the greatest amount of variation of any Jesu release to date without feeling unfocused or directionless.I was concerned when the reformation of Godflesh was announced that it would mean the end of this project, so I am very relieved that this clearly is not the case.
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Most of Chartier's recent work and collaborations, both under his own name and his Pinkcourtesyphone alter ego, have focused mostly on presenting tones, both natural and synthetic, in a myriad of understated, minimalist contexts. It is perhaps for this reason that Interior Field has such a different character and mood in comparison, as it of a completely different approach. Made up of field recordings, a technique he has not used since 2010's Fields for Mixing, there is a more hollow, bleaker darkness to be explored here that is quite different for him.
Presented in two long-form pieces, Interior Field continues Chartier's penchant for creating intensely hushed, understated sound art that at times teeters into silence.My first listening to the album was via headphones in a moderately busy café, and I could tell I was missing something.Listening again at home in almost pure silence, a multitude of sound was lurking beneath the surface.Unlike the work of Bernhard Günter, Chartier's work can be appreciated without the requirement of full silence and concentration, it is just not completely realized unless it stands on its own.
The first piece opens with a desolation that feels far more empty and isolated than any of his other works, almost as if there is not the slightest bit of humanity around.Because of this, the recordings take on a disconnected, other worldly quality that makes them much harder to visualize as being anything either in nature or caused by humankind.In other places, there is sound like distant, reverberated fireworks or popping bubble wrap that, with the environmental characteristics they take on a far more sinister character than they should.
At times throughout the lengthy composition, processed recordings of various tones sneak through, a consistency with his work on other recent albums, but the bleak mood never goes away.Shrill, high frequency segments arrive and, even with their low volume levels are undeniable and commanding, as is the occasionally dissonant glitch swipe here or there. Some other moments are mundane (one portion instantly sounded like an amplified recording of a hard drive spinning), and others exotic:the ambience later on has a mechanical, factory type feel to it to truly be describable as "industrial".
Speaking of industry, most of the second piece is based upon binaural recordings at the McMillan Sand Filtration Site in Washington DC, which is marked for demolition some 100-plus years since its construction.Perhaps it is because of this specific location’s limitations, but the second piece is more constant, and does not go through as many changes and evolutions as the first did.Recorded during a significant rainstorm, the constant sound of water becomes a textural element that, even when tones and other noises appear, makes for the more significant facet of this composition.
It is that differing approach to these two pieces that makes the album as a whole so engaging.With the first portion sounding constantly in motion, shifting from place to place and time to time, it allows for a lot of experimentation and evolution to appear.The second, however, is strengthened by its static nature, allowing each part to build and expand and truly setting a mood to be absorbed, albeit a cold and isolated one.Chartier is a rather prolific artist, and he should be commended for his inability to stick to one single approach to sound art.The material that bears his name certainly has commonalities and a consistently high level of quality, but each stands on their own, and this dark, haunting disc is no different.
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Invention happens when an artist uses the tools at hand to create something novel, whatever those tools may be. This thought is particularly relevant in considering how to use a 300 year old church organ for a new piece of music. Whatever inspired its first listeners, whatever tastes they possessed, have long since expired. On Fantasma di Perarolo, Burial Hex employs that sense of dusty, half forgotten ambiance as a catalyst, using the instrument’s antiquity as a concrete element in the recording.
Burial Hex is the extended keyboard and noise meditations of Clay Ruby. Since beginning the project a few years ago, Ruby has maintained a furious release schedule. As is common, Ruby uses limited edition tapes and CDRs to develop material and play with ideas in an inexpensive, flexible, and low-profile manner.What’s unique about Fantasma di Perarolo is Ruby’s supple use of atmosphere and dynamics. A lesser artist would be proud to see this widely released.
The tape consists of one long improvised piece performed at a church in Perarolo di Cadore, a tiny village high in the Italian Alps.The church organ, built between 1765 and 1768, needed to be hand pumped by two men. The back story would be superfluous were it not for the uncanny atmosphere created by Ruby and his collaborators, adding electronic tones, environmental noises, and the occasional clanging bell. The accompaniment is sparse, as if it were emanations from the building itself.
Ruby uses the wide range of dynamic options built into the organ. Hand pumping will naturally produce a subtle wavering effect in an instrument’s tone, and Ruby uses this to bring diversity to the drones that he plays.He does not, however, limit himself to simply holding down chords, but employs everything from simple minor key melodies to dense, atonal note clusters. Given the impromptu nature of the performance, lulls and sour spots inevitably occur. Fortunately, Ruby knows when to move on and when to let a particular theme or sound configuration sink in. Fantasma di Perarolo has an aged immensity to it, as if each surging chord from the organ were the encrusted layers of history falling from the walls of the church. The piece is Gothic, in the sense that it sounds medieval, like some plague-time field recording of the 14th century.
Ruby isn’t first artist to repurpose a church organ. Recent examples include Soriah and Nils Henrick Asheim. Let there be more of that. As musicians continue to explore sound based composition, the unique properties of antique and rare instruments should not be overlooked. Every church organ is different, built to suit the acoustics of its home and the tastes of the congregation. This approach meshes well with current trends of tone fetishism, cultural atavism, and environmentally determined composition. It is a difficult, at times grating album, but also one that often exudes a dark grandeur.
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