Soleilmoon
The voice of Blixa Bargeld of Einsturzende Neubauten is the rawmaterial from which Andrew McKenzie constructed the sounds on the twodiscs comprising Normally.Disc one begins with silence. Silence is merely sound that lingers justbeyond the threshold of audibility. Silence is unpotentiated space.Sound is the dissipation and usurpation of silence. When sound beginsto gradually seep into the silence of Normally, the experience is akin to the onset of a hallucination. For Normally,McKenzie is not interested in language; any whispers or screamscontributed by Mr. Bargeld are rendered indecipherable, and henceforthaffect the listener on a purely subconscious, subliminal level. This istellingly similar to the practice of talismanic magic, where theconscious desire is sublimated through a series of transformations intoirretrievably esoteric codes and diagrams, bizarre correspondences andperverted anagrams. Magic and ritual are McKenzie's primary motivationson Normally. Like the hallucinatory state, where the mind issometimes freed to make sympathetic connections between thought andmanifestation, so too the sounds on Normally contribute to anunraveled head-state in which synchronicities are the rule rather thanthe exception. At various times during my first listen to disc one, aslayers upon layers of meditational aumgns are gradually compounded, Iheard the unmistakable sounds of descending piano scales, mewlingkittens, distant muffled screams, even the sound of my front doorviolently being forced open. These were phantasms, no doubt, catalyzedby the abstract drones and ghostly monasterial choirs that McKenziesculpts. By the 28-minute mark, the piece has taken on the majesticintensity of Gyorgi Ligeti's haunting choral works, sounding like theinfinite vibratory intonations cascading from the void of space. Disctwo, or "Sphotavado," deals primarily with the breath. Just as AleisterCrowley noted after a lifetime of study devoted to the tantricmeditation, there is no better purgative than pranayama (breathcontrol), and no better way to enervate the aspirant than therepetition of mantra. Using Bargeld's mantric recitations and breathyintonations, McKenzie provides a series of distinct, dynamic passagesover the 65-minutes of the disc. Each passage fades in and out likebreathing, and each takes the listener to a more remote, rarefiedstrata of magical conception. From the gentle, reedy abstractions ofthe opening passage all the way to the serpentine, metallic Kundalinibrain-swipes of the final breath. At high volumes, many of theseprocessed sounds vibrate portions of the ear canal in an unexpectedway. I found that by moving my head back and forth, or changing myposition in the room, I could radically change the experience oflistening to "Sphotavado." McKenzie, therefore, has created a raresound sculpture which can be actively engaged and changed by thelistener. The enigmatic packaging and accompanying foldout bookletcreate a remarkable series of "blinds" that distract and mislead evenas they lay bare the central theme of Normally; words createvibrations; vibration is the result of sound; sound is the articulationof existence; existence is created by a single word, vibrated.
The voice of Blixa Bargeld of Einsturzende Neubauten is the rawmaterial from which Andrew McKenzie constructed the sounds on the twodiscs comprising Normally.Disc one begins with silence. Silence is merely sound that lingers justbeyond the threshold of audibility. Silence is unpotentiated space.Sound is the dissipation and usurpation of silence. When sound beginsto gradually seep into the silence of Normally, the experience is akin to the onset of a hallucination. For Normally,McKenzie is not interested in language; any whispers or screamscontributed by Mr. Bargeld are rendered indecipherable, and henceforthaffect the listener on a purely subconscious, subliminal level. This istellingly similar to the practice of talismanic magic, where theconscious desire is sublimated through a series of transformations intoirretrievably esoteric codes and diagrams, bizarre correspondences andperverted anagrams. Magic and ritual are McKenzie's primary motivationson Normally. Like the hallucinatory state, where the mind issometimes freed to make sympathetic connections between thought andmanifestation, so too the sounds on Normally contribute to anunraveled head-state in which synchronicities are the rule rather thanthe exception. At various times during my first listen to disc one, aslayers upon layers of meditational aumgns are gradually compounded, Iheard the unmistakable sounds of descending piano scales, mewlingkittens, distant muffled screams, even the sound of my front doorviolently being forced open. These were phantasms, no doubt, catalyzedby the abstract drones and ghostly monasterial choirs that McKenziesculpts. By the 28-minute mark, the piece has taken on the majesticintensity of Gyorgi Ligeti's haunting choral works, sounding like theinfinite vibratory intonations cascading from the void of space. Disctwo, or "Sphotavado," deals primarily with the breath. Just as AleisterCrowley noted after a lifetime of study devoted to the tantricmeditation, there is no better purgative than pranayama (breathcontrol), and no better way to enervate the aspirant than therepetition of mantra. Using Bargeld's mantric recitations and breathyintonations, McKenzie provides a series of distinct, dynamic passagesover the 65-minutes of the disc. Each passage fades in and out likebreathing, and each takes the listener to a more remote, rarefiedstrata of magical conception. From the gentle, reedy abstractions ofthe opening passage all the way to the serpentine, metallic Kundalinibrain-swipes of the final breath. At high volumes, many of theseprocessed sounds vibrate portions of the ear canal in an unexpectedway. I found that by moving my head back and forth, or changing myposition in the room, I could radically change the experience oflistening to "Sphotavado." McKenzie, therefore, has created a raresound sculpture which can be actively engaged and changed by thelistener. The enigmatic packaging and accompanying foldout bookletcreate a remarkable series of "blinds" that distract and mislead evenas they lay bare the central theme of Normally; words createvibrations; vibration is the result of sound; sound is the articulationof existence; existence is created by a single word, vibrated.
When a band displays all the ferocity that could rip my muscles off mybody sinew by sinew it gets my pulse going, and that's exactly whatGuapo have on this, their fifth full-length. Recent work with CerberusShoal and the addition of a third member Daniel O'Sullivan have bothtaken Guapo down a new and risky path where they seem to let their hairdown more, worrying less about the artifice and more about the art.These songs are almost painfully direct with less noodling and inherentdistraction than previous work and the band is all the stronger for it.The one weakness is that Five Sunswears a bit thin in a few areas as a result of almost incessantrepitition — particularly on the title track, represented as one longpiece with five track separations. As a result the album cannot beendured in one sitting, but the pure aggression and brave reaching istantalizing all over. When taken in portions it is a delicious andfulfilling meal. The title track starts the record, and the firstsection features non-structured jamming with quiet keyboards and loudcymbals and gongs. Eventually the quieter moments are broken by louderdrumming and guitar noise, then a full-out sonic assault is unleashed,with distortion and deafening percussion climaxing in a loud squeal. Iwas beside myself as the song moved to its next section, a morestructured collaboration with driving bass and percussion and a playfulkeyboard. The piece itself put me in full-out sway mode, but here theinternal repeating of the same parts grates a bit, then it all seems tostart over but with more squealing. The third section redeems it, alljazz drumming and piano solos with touches of shred guitar. It islengthy, but it never wanes once, with a steady pace and varied tempos.I let the sound embrace me, and the remaining suns made me secure,paranoid, and warm as the tracks progressed, ultimately devouring me ina wall of sound like a tidal wave. A brief intermission, and then"Mictlan" and "Topan," two tracks that share the same aesthetic butbecome far more melodic and structured. These were scenes in ahunter/hunted movie, with a relentless killer and a hapless victim inan elaborate game of cat and mouse. I felt closer to them than "FiveSuns" and all its glory. There is a beauty in their simplicity that Ienjoyed, and that I will reach for again and again even though theywere a bit darker in tone. Overall, however, Guapo has created a soundfor this record drenched in solidarity, and when they keep it simplethey just soar. 
If ever there was a band to be filed under "unfinished business" it
would be American Music Club. In late 1994, leader Mark Eitzel pulled
the plug on the band amidst a cloud of mounting debt, commercial
failure and acrimony and set sail on a solo career that rivaled AMC in
its highs and lows. In recent years it seemed Eitzel went wherever the
wind would take him — recording a covers album in Chicago and
re-recording AMC classics in Greece — but now he's back home in San
Francisco with American Music Club. Original members Vudi (guitar), Dan
Pearson (bass) and Tim Mooney (drums) are back and Marc Capelle
(keys/trumpet) has taken the place of Bruce Kaphan (pedal steel). Late
last year they began work on a new album and played sporadic shows in
California, now they're doing select dates across the US and UK,
beginning with these two appearances at Austin's annual clusterfuck,
the South By Southwest festival.
Perhaps "Home" is Eitzel's confession on where he stood before the
reunion when he emotively bellows "I got lost! I started to hate my own
skin!" Eitzel seems considerably reigned in with the band, less
self-deprecating and spontaneously combustible, but still lovably
disagreeable at times. Danny and Mark quibbled over what song to play
next as often as they playfully slam danced. Tim was a tornado on drums
and intently watched Eitzel for cues. Marc head banged and bounced in
his seat while playing keys. And Vudi was as calm and collected and
eccentric as ever sporting big hats, scarves, cowboy boots and what
looked to be a guitar made of metal. After band members and fans alike
convinced Mark back on stage at the final show, he announced "this is
the last time we're ever playing this fucking song" and they launched
into an explosive rendition of "Bad Liquor" that left the South Texas
evening air sizzling.
Somewhat discontinuous with Quecksilber's output thus far, which hastended to focus on works either more singular in process (ScottHorscroft's 8 Guitars) or more challenging in construction (Ambarchi & Ng's Vigil), Wirkus' third release is, nonetheless, a lovely and substantial slice of autumnal electronica. The one real surprise of Inteletto d'Amoreis that the music was created live without computer, via only threemini disc recorders, run through tremolo effects and mixed down. Ratherthan producing the kind of rough-hewn, shifting sound field that fellowlive-from-disc operator Philip Jeck diligently occupies, Wirkus'approach is much more minimal, a largely additive process where warm,melodic fragments pile up with lace-like delicacy, tracing comfortablewall-patterns. The artist's mini discs sample string quartets, pianopieces, and droning amplifier hiss, all extremely welcoming sounds,placed with enough economy and tasteful repetition to create stablepieces, thick with the hazy lull that people like Jeck and Fenneszconcoct regularly. What they lack in uniqueness, Wirkus' songs make upwith a quality of intimacy that often feels lacking in similarproductions, where the music's melancholic or nostalgic focus threatensto push it towards a remote, bookish level of engagement. Each trackseems cut from the same slow, thoughtful mold, an easy incline into atender plateau where melodious fragments graze the inside of grainystring loops or gentle static envelopes. Wirkus' pacing is entirelyappropriate given the warmth and level luster of the sounds used, andnothing here suffers from thinning structure or a lukewarm melodicsensibility. Inteletto d'Amore's only odd moment comes in thesecond track, "Blask," where the artist adds a vocal over the disc'sonly overtly rhythmic loop (of common amp hum and golden feedback).Sounding eerily like Alan Vega, Wirkus utters a breathy chant thatdoesn't really connect with the comforts of the record overall, and heseems to know this, calling up a hesitant, last-minute delivery withthe same minimal variation as his hypnotic backgrounds. One misstepaside, the disc, while unremarkable, will still demand return listensfrom most fans of experimental electronica or anyone looking for someabsorbing sonic wallpaper.
The glam rock era was the first time that popular music openly acknowledged its own superficial tendencies. The first time that the extravagance, glitter and condescension attendant to the rock n' roll lifestyle became an aesthetic badge of honor. Glam, through its emphasis on the primacy of make-up, wardrobe and snarling supercilious attitude, was pop music's first postmodern movement, containing both the substance of rock n' roll, and the commentary on the same. As such, it created a fleeting moment in history where anyone with the right combination of style, poise and bearing could become an overnight sensation, and often just as quickly fade into obsolescence.
Stern and Northam are far from an incompatible pair. Both artists havebeen actively confusing environmental (or "natural") sound andelectronic composition for many years, becoming prominent practitionersof an incredibly tactile, dimension-bending style of electroacousticmusic. The success of their output is as much a product of newtechnology as it is the result of the artists' willingness to plumb thedepths of the world's rubbish bins, forest floors, and highwayshoulders in search of "new" sound devices. Northam, in particular, hasassembled a dense body of work based largely on the rejection ofinstruments with any kind of outside referent, including keen effortsto avoid sound which gives evidence of even the most primitive forms ofmusicianship (i.e. strumming, beating). The artist gathers sound from atable of indiscriminant objects, where man-made refuse, natural forms,and all combinations in between enter the microphone field and feed thegloss of cracks, scrapes, and sandy shivers that become the basis forhis alienating contributions. Northam's music reveals itself as organicbut untraceable; by simulating and warping "natural" sounds, hedemonstrates an interest in examining the process by whichenvironmental sound is internalized, filed away for easy, oftenunreliable reference. Northam's sophisticated process of manipulationallows for something like a "telescoping" of sound events to occur, inwhich certain details are blown up within the already intricateassemblage. Microscopic wrinkles and chirps turn, with surprisingfluidity, to craggy landscapes and squealing waveforms, creating subtledislocations of distance that compound the initial disorientationbrought on by traceless noises. The effect is like passing a magnifyingglass over a mossy creekbed and watching as small green worlds leapinto unexpected life. Wormwood'ssituation is made more complex by the chorus of high-pitched drones andgentle, processed feedback that rise from each piece, giving the disc'ssharper points a soothing undertone and, at times, lifting the surfacenoise toward snarling crescendos. Based on my knowledge of the artists'previous work, I'm guessing these extended tones are Stern's, thoughit's possible that he's equally responsible for the disc's grittiertextures. Whatever the case, the synthetic quality of the backing soundprovides a nice contrast to the mad scramble that remains the music'sprimary focus, working to create many fine moments of expertlyexploited detail and interesting contrast. And while Wormwood hardly rivals some of Northam's grandiose solo works like :coyot:and From Within the Solar Cave, the disc also feels unique and is no easier to pin down.
