Being thankful for an earful.
Brand new music by Marie Davidson, Niecy Blues (feat. Joy Guidry), CEL, Marisa Anderson and Luke Schneider, Stina Stjern, Carmen Villain, Murcof, A Lily, and Far Golden Pavilions, with music from the vaults by Tomaga, Ozzobia, Jan Jelinek.
Sushi photo by Lindsay.
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A loving tribute to experimental percussionist Matt Weston's collaborator Teri Morris (of Crystallized Moments and Tizzy), the two pieces that make up this 7" showcase his strengths as a one-man band, while crafting a pair of songs that are as independently captivating as they are touching.
The A side, "Coiling for the Kickback" quickly locks into a repeating, garage rock like groove, with Weston’s understated guitar playing and rock solid percussion keeping things focused, but occasionally drifting into tastefully sloppy, punk influenced material.
"Walking Through the Undertow" kicks things off more abstract, with cut-ups of cheesy organ, cheap drum machine rhythms and solid live drumming before eventually coming together in an ever so slightly jazz-dub-tinged overall sound.Both songs conclude with some of the raucous, and overall much upbeat material being underscored by an ever so slightly sad, mournful melody that adds an appropriate reverence to the otherwise celebratory work.
Capping off Robert Hampson's impressive return to activity with three recent solo releases on the Editions Mego, he has now officially resurrected the Main moniker, here in partnership with Stephan Mathieu. Ablation is consistent with the recent Hampson solo albums, but feels like a natural extension to the more abstract previous Main material, making for an appropriate new phase in the project's trajectory.
A defining feature of Main for me is how organic it sounded, even if the music contained within seemed completely alien.It was the sound of cells dividing, ice molecules separating, or galaxies expanding.This living, breathing touch was not necessarily missing from the solo material Hampson put out, but felt more obscured overall."I" embraces the natural, with Mathieu's contributions of organ and phonoharp keeping the sound more flesh and blood rather than clinical or detached.
Even more surprising on "I" is the presence of conga-like percussion and some entropy-laden dissonance, the latter resulting in a harsher, more abrasive sound than usual from a Main recording."II" alternates between rising tides of dissonance and cold, disconnected beauty.It results in a dense wall of sound, but one that constantly flows and changes into different forms throughout, logically progressing from one mood to the next.
The second half of the album puts less of an emphasis on the constantly changing and evolving layers of sound, and instead focuses on longer, sustained passages that slowly breathe and develop in a less overt manner."III" mixes things up the most, where cosmic, expansive passages of calm sound are upset by what could only be described as the sound of a runaway freight train cutting right through the mix, tearing the more delicate pieces asunder before they reassemble themselves once again, maintaining some semblance of consistency.
The conclusion stays pegged into the loud and forceful realm, building to a dynamic intensity that rivals the best harsh noise recordings in approach, but is far more nuanced overall."IV" scales things back, filtering more musical textures through crackling static and surging low end swells.With the high frequency beeps and shimmering feedback, it makes for a nice callback to the Firmament series of releases without sounding like an attempt to recreate them.
Robert Hampson has never ceased to amaze me with his work, and while bringing back the Main name was unexpected given his expanding body of work under his given name, the result removes any doubt anyone could have.The solo outings never quite felt totally like the classic Main albums, and I curious how new material would differ being issued so recently after Suspended Cadences and Signaux, but there is a distinctly different feel to Ablation.
Part of this might be his re-embracing of the electric guitar, or the contributions of Stephan Mathieu, a brilliant solo artist in his own right, working in similarly organic realms with different results.Ablation lives up nicely to its expectations, making for a worthy addition to the untouchable Main discography.While it seems less and less likely to happen,I would still love to hear some more of the bass/guitar/vocals skeletal rock material that ended with Neper.Maybe Hampson’s upcoming dates with Godflesh, reprising his role from Pure some two decades ago may spark a new project of this approach, but even if it does not, I am still satisfied with this.
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Having been active for over a decade and a half, Stephen Petrus' Murderous Vision alter ego has been a pillar in the US death industrial scene, creating a body of work that captures the essence of the likes of Brighter Death Now or Anenzephalia, but sounding completely original. Perhaps it is the fact that the material is not coming from the central European region but home grown out of Ohio, which is in itself a distinct industrial wasteland.
"Echoes of Hollow Agony" captures that Cold Meat Industries sensibility perfectly, coming together as a dark and dissonant, but not overly menacing composition, slowly building in intensity as far off sounds make for a disorienting, bleak mass of cavernous noise."Finding Death at the Crossroads of Life" follows, covering layers of synth in reverb and delays, with monstrous like noises appearing here and there to keep tensions high.At times its understated nature lets it fall into the background somewhat, but just as it happens, some creeping, unidentifiable noise pushes it back into focus.
"A Whisper Becomes a Shiver" goes industrial in the more literal sense, with what sounds like machinery clanking away amid blasts of textural static offsetting the piece.There may be vocals lurking somewhere in the mix, but so heavily processed and treated that it sounds like any other reshaped sound, while depressive melodies slowly play from the blackness."The Soul Confined" comes off like a throwback to another titan of the genre, with its filtered rhythmic throb conjuring memories of Maurizio Bianchi’s earliest (and best) work.
The final two pieces are where things get mixed up, in a very good way."You" opens sparse and hushed, keeping far off vocals at bay in the mix.Heavy synthetic rhythms come to the forefront however; giving a different overall push to the song that lets intensity build slowly around it.Finally, "The Horned Beast of Golgotha" (previously released as half of a split cassette) goes completely manic, loading in samples, an oddly upbeat bass and drum rhythm, and waves of noise that push it into full on harsh noise walls type sounds, even while the odd rhythms continue to pound away.
Petrus has been consistently honing his sound throughout his career, with the earlier work not quite standing out as distinctly as it could have amid the heavy reverb and dark ambient sensibilities, but recent work has seen him find his own voice.By integrating his influences into the overall sound, but putting his own unique, personalized approach to the sound in his art.Awash in gothic imagery, but free of the associated pretense, this album is a highpoint in a consistently impressive career.
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These two compilations highlight some of the lesser-known composers who have worked at the Groupe de Recherches Musicale (GRM) in Paris. The first volume charts some of the obscurities of the 1960s while the second volume concentrates on works from the 1970s. Taken together, the Traces collections are a fascinating parallel to the reissues of major GRM albums that Recollection GRM have been doing, showing that equally maverick work was been done by names less familiar than Pierre Schaeffer or Luc Ferrari.
Traces One begins in fine style with Beatriz Ferreyra’s "L’Orvietan," a deeply atmospheric piece from 1970 that moves between two approaches during its course. The first half is given over entirely to electronic music which sounds unnervingly like the noises that open "The Avatars" from Coil’s 1999 masterpiece Astral Disaster. However, Ferreyra pushes the listener further and further from their comfort zones as her music gets more intense as it progresses. The switch from electronic to concrète makes things stranger still, the vaguely humanoid sounds becoming a presence in the room which cannot be ignored.
Ferreyra’s oddly organic work is contrasted by Philippe Carson’s 1961 piece "Turmac" which takes the sounds of a cigarette manufacturing plant as its base. The mechanical, rhythmic work attempts to take the obviously machine-derived recordings and subject them to various stages of manipulation in order to detach the music from its source. It is still as alien sounding as Ferreyra’s piece but in a completely different way. Here, the idea of musique concrète is given full focus as Carson utterly breaks down the boundaries between factory noise and music.
Atmosphere continues to be an important concept on side B as Francis Régnier’s "Chemins d’avant la Mort" can testify to. A meditation on dying, it builds from almost silence with Régnier increasing the intensity to a level that would satisfy Merzbow before dropping off to a death-like silence, with only the barest, tinnitus-like ringing left. It is the shortest piece here but undeniably the one with the most impact. It leads quite perfectly into Mireille Chamass-Kyrou’s "Étude I" from 1960. This comes across as more of a technical exercise compared to the other pieces on Traces One but it is interesting beyond the techniques. Again, the power of the music stretches beyond the sounds heard and into the feelings generated in the room it is being played; Chamass-Kyrou acting as a psychologically minded composer rather than a musically minded one. It is a pity that no other pieces by her seem to exist (this piece was included on an INA GRM box set about ten years ago and that’s it) as "Étude I" is so tantalising in its possibilities.
Traces Two shifts the time frame forward by ten years and the difference is immediately noticeable in Dominique Guiot’s "L’Oiseau de Paradis" from 1974 which is as colourful as its title suggests. Guiot attempts to musically reproduce the fast edits and sudden scene changes of film with great success, the dramatic turns that run through the piece make it almost impossible to break my attention away to do anything else (such as writing this review!). Aside from its form, it is obvious that a new era had begun in the GRM as the instrumentation sounds so much more modern and controlled here compared to the pieces on Traces One and Guiot uses these tools to his advantage, creating exciting textures that truly do sound like the future even today.
While taking a more traditional musique concrète approach, Pierre Boeswillwald’s "Nuisances" from 1971 also takes a less than traditional approach to composition by focussing on the mistakes and the sounds that are the opposite of what he would select if he was to do this based on what sounded best. On paper, it sounds like he invented glitch music in the early '70s but "Nuisances" sounds very different to what we would consider glitch or even noise now. It actually sounds rather great and to my ears, is totally in keeping with what Bernard Parmegiani has been doing with the GRM over the course of his career. Out of the four pieces included on Traces Two, it stands out as being the most conservative (though obviously that term is used very loosely even in this context!).
Rodolfo Caesar’s "Les Deux Saisons" could have been made in the last ten years. A seemingly simple layering of tones, it is actually a complex work of recording and manipulating idiosyncratic instruments over a course of two years. Combining sounds generated from the Baschet brothers’ cristal baschet (an "organ" composed of rotating glass rods tuned chromatically and played with moistened fingers that was popular amongst composers in the GRM) and a frequency modulator, Caesar achieves a most unusual and haunting sound that sits somewhere between pure electronic music and natural acoustics.
Traces Two concludes with "Pentes by Denis Smalley. Recorded at around the time Smalley was finishing up one of the very first diplomas in electroacoustic music, the piece sounds sophisticated in its use of complex manipulations of recorded sound along with relatively untreated bagpipes to create a harmonically rich environment which feels at home both in the future and the past. The appearance of the pipes towards the end is like a phantom slowly appearing from within a deep fog, leading the listener home.
While I am impressed with the Recollections GRM label in general, these two compilations are clear winners in my mind in their scope and the fact that this is mostly unknown music to most listeners aside from seasoned electroacoustic collectors. Even then, some of these pieces are previously unissued or buried in dense compilation sets and given little or no space to be explored. Presented here in these relatively uncluttered albums, it is possible to get a deeper understanding of the range of work being undertaken at the GRM and being able to hear beyond the more famous works by its brightest stars.
 
It may be that hearing metal means something different than hearing music. Like the Constantin Brâncuși sculpture to which its subtitle refers, Michael Pisaro's Hearing Metal 2 subsists more in the grain and shape of its materials and less in the will of its author. It is composed and performed, and has a beginning and an ending, but it doesn't move from left to right like a song. It feels and sounds more like a space that I can walk through, my position and my frame of mind determining how—and what—I hear.
Inspired by Greg Stuart's close recordings of the 60" tam-tam used in Karlheinz Stockhausen's Mikrophonie I, Michael Pisaro's Hearing Metal series began as project dedicated to hearing the inner life of apparently uniform sounds. The association with Brâncuși sculptures came when he realized that the physical material of his chosen instruments expressed particular qualities or affects on their own—as if a sense of the material were coming through the music. As he explains on his blog, "Any sound, even the simplest, is already (ontologically) multiple. But the multiplicity requires a succession of events to be heard: by extending, repeating, adding and subtracting, one begins to experience the sound more like a verb than like a noun."
I think of that last claim every time I listen to Hearing Metal 2. On the one hand, Pisaro and Stuart's assortment of cymbals, gongs, brake drums, and various metal objects resound together like a single instrument. Listening is like watching a metal sculpture rotate in place. If I sit in one spot and watch it spin, different aspects of its form slide into view and fall away like a slideshow. But if I get up and investigate, peer at it closely, or fix my attention on one of its sides, new qualities pop out. They were always there, but finding them depends on interacting with the piece and not just letting it slide by the way songs typically do. Thanks to the way Pisaro has arranged his sounds, this sculptural feeling is sustained throughout the piece's long, central metallic passage. There are no crescendos or obvious dynamic markers—just the varying qualities of different textures playing against the hum of a central, pitched core. There are quieter and noisier moments, but they don't add up to something bigger and tip the composer's hand.
On the other hand, Hearing Metal 2 unfolds in time and needs time to make sense. The music doesn't resound all at once, and I can't actually walk around it the way I would a sculpture, so I have to listen to what it does. That's when the metal instrumentation begins to express something like an inner life: little networks of rhythm spill out of the otherwise chaotic jumble of junkyard sounds and apparently fixed tones wobble back and forth like they're walking on a tightrope; odd sounds are cast to the periphery and others are pushed to the center as the metal rolls and twists in circles, something Pisaro's stereo mix captures extremely well. But all this happens of its own accord, seemingly without Michael or Greg's influence. The music stops progressing from beginning to end and starts acting, stretching out in different directions, and evolving. The illusion Pisaro and Stuart create is that they had nothing to do with it. The sound was there the whole time, all they did was capture it.
Framing the 40-plus minute core of Hearing Metal 2 are two blocks of field recordings and other seemingly non-metallic sounds. The longer, first section captures oceans and rivers tossing and bubbling in undisclosed locations. Strange, almost psychedelic test tones beam in from outer space. A church organ hums. Sine waves peak out of the silence and succumb to the movement of a stream down a muddy bank. The humming metal doesn't start until over 16 mintes in, and by then it feels as if we've been guided down a waterway just to see this huge edifice Pisaro's built. When it ends, we're brought back to the sounds of running water and chirping birds. It's a reminder that hidden sounds are all around us, and that how we listen is as important as what we hear.
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It has been quite a while since Swanson's last major statement (2011's Man With Potential) and that situation that has not been changed by the release of this 4-song EP (which is only slightly longer than last year's excellent Pro Style 12" single).  Punk Authority shows some very promising evolution though, ingeniously tweaking Pete's love of thumping four-on-the-floor beats while significantly cranking up the punishing brutality.  In theory, that should make for yet another great Pete Swanson release (and it arguably does), but the content is not always on the same level as the leap forward in style, making this EP sometimes feel comparatively bloated and light on hooks.
Punk Authority begins in absolutely brilliant fashion with the title piece, as Swanson unleashes a lopsided, lurching beat amidst an avalanche of distorted sub bass, insistently repeating bleeps, and metallic-sounding groans.  Characteristically, the kick drum is bludgeoning and ribcage-rattling, but the overall feel is light years away from the dancefloor.  Rather, "Punk Authority" sounds more like a hyper-dense take on early industrial, as its crunching, odd-time beat amidst the surrounding chaos strongly evokes a factory full of massive machinery gradually malfunctioning and falling apart.  Which, of course, is awesome.  In fact, it might be the single best thing that Swanson has ever recorded.  Unfortunately, Punk Authority's momentum begins to rapidly flag with the second song.  While I love how gleefully ravaged and blown-out everything in "C.O.P." sounds, suffocating ugliness alone is not quite enough to sustain a piece for  7+ minutes.  By the halfway point, it is clear that Pete has said everything he is going to say and it all starts to feel very plodding and repetitive.
Thankfully, the remaining two pieces are a bit better, even if they fail to make an impact as great as the opener.  "Grounds for Arrest" departs from the EP's template by featuring a recognizable house beat, but Swanson uses it artfully rather than bluntly, stopping and starting it to again mimic an increasingly unstable piece of massive machinery.  It also boasts a number of other cool features, like well-timed sizzles of static; thick, insistently burrowing bass; and some very ruined-sounding synth melodies.  In fact, the only thing stopping it from approaching the brilliance of the title salvo is that it winds down after just over 3 minutes without ever evolving much.
The 13-minute closer "Life Ends at 30" suffers from exactly the opposite problem, as it badly overstays its welcome (it is almost as long as the other 3 songs combined).  That is hugely exasperating, as Swanson again makes inspired use of a house beat, jacking up the distortion and crunch so much that it sounds far more like a rock crusher than a dance beat.  Everything else about the song is equally extreme and overloaded, which is why the duration is a problem–it is an absolutely exhausting and unrelenting sensory assault.  Music this one-dimensionally bulldozing needs to be brief to maximize its impact, as such a densely punishing torrent of sound becomes very deadening very quickly.  Some of the individual parts are absolutely crushing though–a more condensed edit could have been a stone-cold classic of relentless, mechanized brutality.
Ultimately, Punk Authority occupies the rarefied territory of a release that is equal parts masterpiece and misfire.  Both the aesthetic and the production are on a level that towers above nearly everyone else currently making beat-driven noise: no one else sounds like this...and even if they did, they would not sound nearly as great doing it.  I honestly do not know what Swanson could possibly do that would top "Punk Authority," nor do I think most of the remaining pieces could have been any heavier.  Swanson's sole misstep seems to have been releasing this EP before the songs were fully perfected, as most pieces are either too long or too short and the weakest ideas are perversely given the most time.  As far as I am concerned, Swanson's evolution can stop here: he has found the perfect aesthetic–now he just needs to perfect the songs.
 
Important Records keeps their recent string of excellent minimal drone albums intact with this long-neglected gem from the distant past.  Originally released back in 1970 as Was?? on a split with psych legend Bo Anders Persson (Pärson Sound), What?? has woefully only re-surfaced once in the ensuing four decades (in 1997 on Jim O'Rourke and David Grubbs' Dexter's Cigar imprint).  While it sounds quite contemporary today, I cannot begin to imagine how it was originally received, as it is essentially nothing less than an uncomfortably dissonant rejection of nearly every major aspect of Western music (composed at the height of rock's supremacy, no less).
Though it took three years to ultimately get released, Rabe originally composed this piece in the summer of 1967, which is quite noteworthy for a couple of reasons.  While several other experimental visionaries (Steve Reich, La Monte Young, Terry Riley, and all of the early electronic composers) were already somewhat established, none of them had recorded anything quite like this.  Also, while Sweden was definitely a very happening place musically around that time, making proto-industrial electronic drone music was most definitely not the zeitgeist.  Rabe was basically an isolated vanguard of one, a fact which is even more remarkable given that he began his career as a dixieland/swing trombonist.
Folke did share some common ground with his more psych-minded countrymen though, as much of his inspiration arose from an interest in Indian music.  The difference is that Rabe was far more interested in ideas of monotony, repetition, and the actual qualities of sound than in more overt borrowing (like buying a sitar).  Recorded using the now-primitive electronic gear at Swedish Radio, Folke's stuttering harmonics and queasy haze of overtones bear absolutely no timbral relation to Indian classical music at all.  Certainly not the original piece, anyway, which sounds like a hypnotic, otherworldly hum hovering above a bed of purring machinery.
The 1999 reissue added a half-speed version though, which is considerably more drone-like and easier on the ears.  Of the two, I prefer the slowed-down version as a listening experience, as the periodic clouds of dissonant harmonizing tones do not feel nearly as harsh or tense at a lower pitch.  Rabe was right to choose the more radical and challenging normal-speed version for the original release though, as it is much stronger artistically (the half-speed version's softened edges blunt its impact).  Greatness and listenability do not always coincide.
Unsurprisingly, the ensuing 40+ years of other drone and minimal music that followed in the wake of What?? serve to dull its impact as well–this reissue is unlikely to blow any minds or kick down any doors of perception in 2013.  It still holds up as a very good album though and packs significantly more bite than I would have expected (though I wish it did not ultimately resolve with a major chord).  I admittedly prefer some of Important's more contemporary minimal drone albums to this one, but the gulf is not a wide one at all–What?? fits quite comfortably into Radigue/Eleh/Hennix pantheon of classics.
 
Is there such a term for a Catch-22 with a Catch-22? One of the massive upsides to recording music in the current age is the ability to affordably multi-track in real-time. Studio time and money isn't burned in a studio recording demos and soon-to-be outtakes. Waste is decreased, or is it? Are those first versions unimportant artifacts? Is the final product any better because it was practiced less? As a fan of the Shadow Weaver albums these two collections are an exciting special treat, but I doubt any of these songs would have made a mix tape of mine for an LPD newbie 20 years ago.
LPD Bandcamp (click for samples)
The Shadow Weaver albums represented a significant evolution in the band's history. After the untimely passing of Bob Pistoor, the group underwent an expansion, adding guitarist Martijn de Kleer and multi-instrumentalist Ryan Moore to the trio of Edward, Phil, and Neils. Additionally Patrick came back for some stringed appearances and they hooked up with Steven Stapleton, whose talents both as an engineer and visual artist were both utilized. The resulting releases were ripe with juxtaposition. Each was longer in duration than any prior single-LP, however with fewer songs. There was more of a "pop" feel to the songs themselves, however there was strong element of exploration and studio wizardry that permeated throughout. The songs were clearly formulated from longer sessions that were more spacey and experimental in nature than anything the LPDs had done.
Come Out from the Shadows (the first collection) features five pieces of music. The first version of "Stitching Time," originally on Shadow Weaver, has surfaced before on a compilation from Beta-Lactam Ring in the exact same version. It serves as a great introduction to this particular ensemble, provided space for each member to take turns, much like an old jazz ensemble.
The group are in fine form on both grooves "On the Boards" and "Window on the World," each from Malachai. The Dots demonstrate a more "rounded" feel the group had, in comparison to the band's prior history. Ryan's bass provides a wonderful pulse and I enjoy Martjin's elemental guitar work, as it's never overbearing.
The untitled improvisations have less structure, but there are certain bits and pieces which seem familiar, as they evolved into other songs. The first one could be heavily influenced by Asmus Tietchens with its whimsical speedy digital melodies while the beautiful piano, flute, and analog synth interplay of the second one might be from the same sessions that produced "Prague Spring" or "Paris 4AM."
Come Out of the Shadows 2 consists of six untitled session pieces totaling 54 minutes. I can hear the genesis of "We Bring the Day" immediately with the opening one but it, along with the other pieces are noticeably less structured than those songs featured in the other collection. It's a great listen as a whole, however, especially to hear Patrick on viola and violin.
There's a very enjoyable voyeuristic aspect to listening to this set. I easily feel either like a fly-on-the-wall or that I'm actually sitting down on a couch while the group play in front of me. The session pieces have distinct identities but if there were no denotations of "Shadow Session 1," "Shadow Session 2," etc, I wouldn't be able to discern much of a difference while listening start to finish.
Without words or themes is fine by me. I do listen and my mind wanders on its own.For years I have claimed that the age of social networking has made us more antisocial. The advantages of the digital age mean that we can send tracks across cyberspace and save on air and accommodations, but this comes at the cost of social moments such as this. Come Out of the Shadows 2 feels like a social moment frozen in time where a small group of people (one Canadian, some Brits and some Dutch men) met and engaged in a conversation far more entertaining to me than to listen to a panel discussion or watch a television show.
Don't misinterpret my wandering mind, though. This recording isn't a meandering snore or a clumsy mess. Each musician takes turns and collaboratively allow others to play, maintaining a collaborative and democratic feel throughout. Moments build, specially on session 3, where malleted drums and guitar take turns along with synth and violin interplay. Even though the LPDs have run in circles with "anti-musicians" for years, make no mistakes, they have always been authentic musicians and composers at the core. Improvisational work, to me, is best when it is accomplished by musicians who possess the ability and virtuosity to perform within structures and framework.
The digital age is not a complete wash, and here's the catch 22 inside the catch 22. While appeal of outtakes and demo sessions is considerably less broad than main albums, digital distribution can now afford musicians the ability to get the music to those who want. This can be accomplished swiftly and inexpensively without investing loads of money on the manufacturing of product, which may collect dust in storage for the most part. So while the digital age might not produce more sessions captured on these two collections, it has afforded us, the fans, the ability to listen and enjoy these golden moments.
And, to top it off, you can pay whatever you want for both of these sessions on Bandcamp! What a treat!
 
The perfect blending of rhythms, effects, and an oddly bucolic ambiance characterize Scientist's 1980 debut, an effortless masterwork of dub which very nearly earns its self-aggrandizing title in addition to exemplifying why Hopeton Brown was bestowed such an accurate moniker. Nearly all bass and drums plus studio wizardry and scarce half-choruses of organ or guitar, Scientist intimates the future of electronic music to an unsuspecting public in two minute servings, with groundbreaking restraint.
There's an ethereal peace and placidity to the best works of dub, and I feel it here along with the best of Lee Perry or King Tubby (of which Brown was a student). The murmuring, insistent bass, given the perfect center stage, imbues songs like "Elasticated Dub" and "Bali Hi Dub" with an anesthetic sweetness. And trust me, these songs deserve good speakers. The mids and highs rattle along in focused bursts, diverting occasionally into watery delays and subtractive frequency filters while the bass coos on unhindered; patiently, calmly, almost maternally. On my subwoofer, these notes rung out with a persistence that seemed like a heartbeat, interrupted only by well placed snare fills and the ringing electronic hoots of something synthesized I can't seem to identify.
Everything is boxed in, succinct, and only necessary sounds are permitted; trimmed from its vibrant and sometimes overblown reggae source material to a foot-tapping core sound, songs like "Front Line Dub" speak plainly with no distractions, only a pure hook. When a particular guitar melody or organ stab is worth inspecting, Brown pulls everything but the constant bass to a halt and lets the sample play itself out. Hopeton takes these traditional instrumentals and tampers with them so perfectly they play out like live takes from the subconscious of the listener, where the pulsating rhythms like "Jungle Dub" seem to have always existed.
Records like this are why I have always cherished dub over reggae, and why (in my opinion) it has gone relatively farther in musical circles outside its core sound in comparison; dub has always been, to me, a very exact experiment in uncovering shared experiences. Stripped to its simplest means, each instrument and each precise note examined, dub removes the ego and most of the political detritus of reggae and supplants it with forward thinking ideas: putting the producer at the forefront, integrating the studio as an extension of the music, and driving at a smart minimalism which invites a thousand new perspectives on how to craft a record. The best records in dub never squander their precious seconds or lose sight of their ambitions, and for that reason, it's fair to say that The Best Dub Album In The World is almost certainly a contender for such a title.
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For every stubborn fan who thinks their best period ended with LP5, there are plenty of others who have found something to love in Autechre's post-Confield run. Expectations and ideas about what Autechre should sound like aside, there's actually plenty there to love. But Exai is one of their best albums, period. Forget about their past work. Without the shadow of Tri Repetae hanging over them, these 17 songs prove to be among the most hypnotizing and dynamic the duo has ever made.
Nevermind that Exai, Autechre's 11th proper album, comes on two CDs and four LPs. It's neither too long nor too taxing, and anyone with an attention span longer than a goldfish's will find it easy enough to appreciate. Listen to it one disc at a time—or one side at a time—if going through two hours of music all at once sounds unappetizing, but don't trust anyone that says it is poorly edited or too difficult to swallow in one go. Exai is littered with catchy melodies, intricate rhythms, and unexpected twists that make listening to it fun. It's also beefier and more tightly woven than anything Autechre's produced over the last couple of years. Instead of treating them as separate elements, Brown and Booth once again bind their melodies, rhythms, colors, and textures together, creating a geometric sound that gives their songs depth, structure, and a sense of completeness that's long been missing from their music.
Even when songs like "irlite (get 0)" turn on a dime and meander into weightless, pixelated wastes, the duo maintain a feeling of cohesiveness by sticking to the palette and logic they've developed to that point. Exai leaps and turns in on itself this way, jumping freely from tightly wound passages to looser ones without falling apart. Not that there are many places where it could fall apart. Beats resolve into airy, stuttering loops and melodies disappear into a storm of snapping drums, but through all the twists and turns are familiar sounds and signposts: bright synth pads reminiscent of Aphex Twin take center stage on "T ess xi" and "cloudline" bounces with a rubbery melody and vocal effect funky enough for Squarepusher or Daft Punk. Autechre make it their own by using density and unpredictable variation to move the music along rather than tension or the usual structural devices.
But Sean and Rob have never relied on big builds or easy payoffs to make their music exciting. On Exai they've struck a middle road through the roaming looseness of their last two albums and the mechanical logic of well-loved classics like LP5 and Tri Repetae. Finding this road has obviously inspired them, or I don't think they'd present two full of hours of music at once. Not everything on the album is equally excellent—the second disc is definitely the stronger of the two sets—but there's nothing I'd want to cut. Digging into this music, stumbling on its nuances, and letting it work its magic is part of the fun. At two hours long, there's plenty of time to get lost and forget about expectations and preconceived notions. Repeat listens offer up hidden patterns, previously unseen red threads, and a better lay of the land. Exai offers some upfront pleasures, but needs a little time to fully sink in. Once it does it sounds even better.
In fact, Exai's biggest problem isn't its length. It's that albums like LP5 and Tri Repetae came long before it. They're 15 and 18 years old now; as old or older than most people's favorite pets. But these records aren't going to die on us and we can listen to them anytime we want. In the meantime, it's worth giving this new dog some time and attention. It knows a few tricks the old ones didn't.
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When Luc Ferrari first presented Presque Rien No. 1: Le Lever du Jour au Bord de la Mer (Almost Nothing No. 1: Daybreak at the Seashore) to his colleagues at the GRM, it caused quite a stir. Ironically for such adventurous experimenters in sound, Presque Rien was both too far away from music and too far away from the main principles of musique concrète. However, the four segments of Presque Rien represent some of the most exciting ideas and sounds in the history of electronic music. It goes far beyond an interesting experiment to being a landmark piece of composition whose effects are still reverberating today.
Condensing a day’s recordings from a beach into one side of vinyl with minimal processing or manipulation, the other members of the GRM probably felt Presque Rien No. 1 would be more at home with documentary makers. However, Presque Rien No. 1 was one of the major milestones following John Cage’s 4’33" in music embracing all sounds as valid ingredients for a piece. These noises are not just a moment in time in a sleepy village but music in and of themselves. It is hard to hear now why this approach would be so upsetting, as field recordings have become such a part and parcel of modern composition; Presque Rien No. 1 sounds pleasant, relaxing and contemplative but certainly not controversial.
Ferrari describes it as an "absence of abstract sounds" which is perhaps that is what was most unnerving to the concrète school at the time as the composer or engineer was immaterial to the music itself. Traditionally (it is amazing how fast tradition sets in, even in the most radical edges of the avant garde), sounds generated within the tenets of musique concrète were manipulated to the point where their origins became obscured. By leaving the sounds unprocessed and by using a completely transparent title, Ferrari blew open the doors of the GRM and opened the field of experimental electronic music completely.
Presque Rien No. 2: Ainsi Continue la Nuit dans ma Tête Multiple (Almost Nothing No. 2: And so the Night Continues in my Multiple Head) simply finds Ferrari exploring the nocturnal world as he did the break of day in the first installment. The title brings to mind Finnegans Wake as the night becomes more than just a change in time or available light also a means of focusing the listener on themselves ("a psychoanalysis of his 'nightscape'" in Ferrari’s words). The sounds of insects both near and far create a sense of space as Ferrari’s voice pushes through the curtains of darkness like an internal monologue (Ferrari’s intention was to introduce a new concept into each installment and in this case, he introduces the idea of narration). As shocking as the bareness of sound was to the early proponents of electronic music, today I find the sudden intrusion of ethereal music in the last third of the piece as unsettling. Is this the sudden switch from lying still listening to the nocturnal hum around oneself to a deep, dream-filled slumber? It certainly feels like it and, if that is so, the violent power of the thunderstorm that finishes the piece is as dramatic here as any natural phenomenon.
The third part of the series, Presque Rien avec Filles (Almost Nothing with Girls) shifts attention away from the general sounds of world around us to something more secretive: the sounds of a group of young women having lunch together out on the grass. Combining both a voyeuristic insight to their world with an attempt to fuse with their own viewpoints, Ferrari spans the gap between the slightly pervy outsider with the sensitivity of an artist trying to understand his subject fully. Again, my thoughts turn again to James Joyce but this time Molly Bloom’s famous soliloquy from Ulysses combined with the scene where Leopold Bloom masturbates as a girl lets him look up her skirt on the beach.
Again, there is a greater move away from the straightforward simplicity of the first part of Presque Rien as Ferrari introduces more processing and obvious edits into the work. This is in keeping with Ferrari’s idea of introducing the lie (are the sounds here actually part of the scene being imagined or is it all a stage piece?). The girls’ conversation is simultaneously highlighted and battered by an electrical assault before we sound like we are located somewhere in the vocal chords of one of the girls. This is almost psychedelic in its approach to break down the conceptions and preconceptions of the listener.
The final part, Presque Rien No. 4: La Remontée du Village (Almost Nothing No. 4: The Ascent to the Village) seemingly returns to bare elegance of the original work. This is the sound of Ferrari and his wife Brunhild ascending the hill to the Italian town of Ventimiglia and it is remarkably similar to the moods and feelings of the first piece. However, the sleepy isolation of the 1960s countryside has been lost as sounds from nearby televisions and passing scooters permeate the air around Ferrari’s microphones. Gradually, evidence of Ferrari’s tinkering becomes more and more noticeable as he slowly blends the sounds as they were recorded into something more akin to musique concrète. The climax of this is the powerful intrusion of a cow, preposterously embellished by Ferrari to sound super-real. This mix of documentary and postmodernism sows the seeds for Ferrari’s later masterpiece Far West News but never has Ferrari shown such a perfect control of natural and unnatural components in any of his pieces. It is not as ground-breaking as the original Presque Rien but it is aesthetically sublime.
While all four pieces have been released in dribs and drabs over the years (finally collected in the mammoth and highly, highly recommended 10 CD box set L’Œuvre Électronique), this is the first time the whole lot has been issued on vinyl. As with the rest of the Recollections GRM reissues, Presque Rien has been mastered perfectly. Considering how quiet some of the passages are, I was afraid that surface noise from the vinyl would detract from Ferrari’s work but all fears were unfounded. This sounds fantastic and, aside from the aforementioned box set, is certainly the definitive release of this classic.
 
