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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This Swiss project has a new take on sludgy drone music: most tracks here are full of harsh noise and feedback, while others are driven by a fuzzed out bass, all paired with the infinite tones of a harmonium. The increased sense of musicality based on a wider sonic palette makes for a better experience across the diverse tracks presented here.
As a full work, this self-titled album is largely omnious drone, most tracks mixing abrasive sonic elements with the pure sounds of the harmonium, most obviously on "Bones, Beer, and Muscle" and "Basics of Sleep." The latter of which—the longest track on the album—features tactile crunchy vinyl textures, and organ to compliment the harmonium. The former features more clearly defined guitar and rhythmic string plucking, being one of the more sparce pieces.
Other tracks focus more on the bass: both "Our Karma is Broken" and "Pack Mule" are lead by overdriven fuzzed bass guitar, the first with a loud bed of noise in the background, the latter having guitar that sounds like it was played through an old intercom, buried voices, yet a memorable and musical quality to it, despite the dissonance. "Eleventh Rib," on the other hand, adds in treated found sounds and more traditional sounding guitar work.
Some of the tracks actually have a more ambient, less sinister vibe: though it ends with a storm of white noise, "Requiem for a Liar" also has its share of bird calls and a rich, underlying element of ambient music that feels warmer than most of the other tracks on the album. Others are not so sinister, but they are just harsh: "Unlisted Disasters" is all scrapes and stabs of noise, a rudimentary bass rhythm underpinning jagged guitar noise.
The closing "Good Night Francine" is an appropriate coda for the album, a focus on feedback is met with atmospheric electronics and shrill outbursts of noise, before being stripped down into a spaced out, organ and harmonium led ending. As a work of droning sound, it is a complex interconnected album of mixed instrumentation, leading to a breathing, organic whole of music that manages to be abstract, yet familiar and memorable.
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While nearly all musicians use technology in their craft, few do it so literally as Skeletons Out members Howard Stelzer and Jay Sullivan; Stelzer plays tapes while Sullivan opts for vinyl. Despite a means of production that would appear to require a reconfiguring of previously recorded material though, Skeletons Out instead concoct a barren piece of industrial architecture from the sounds of the tools themselves.
Consisting of one long piece, In Remembrance of Me is a study in the sounds of playback. Stelzer's tape heads roll over dirty cassettes, Sullivan's vinyl scratches grind the needle to dust, and faint radio playback hums beneath intimate mechanical manipulations. The result is a dark and static sound world that more closely resembles the sound of cars in a tunnel or the inside of a vacuum cleaner than overt destruction. It is a grim and demolished listen but also a rich one, full of detail and warm physicality.
Opening with the familiar crackle of cassette hiss, the piece unveils its elements patiently. Distant taps and sliding holes of sound reel among each other as rusted frequencies emit themselves. Indeed, Sullivan and Stelzer often seem more initiates of a process—albeit a guided one—than controlled musical catalysts. As tape is run over heads and odd distant hums murmur beneath whispered vinyl shifts, a refreshing freedom manifests that is largely devoid of any standard forms of musical expression. There seems a near academicism to it all in fact, more in line with the output of Stockhausen's "Kontakte" works than the turntablism of Christian Marclay or the noise efforts of Merzbow.
As the piece progresses, it continues to unfold into pockets of process whose sources are difficult to identify but highly varied in nature. Caked in a thick layer of analog dust, each sound is given a character apart from its means while still maintaining its sense of industrial reworking. One moment, there is the sound of contact mics rubbed against rotating vinyl; the next, the turning is allowed to speak for itself. There are pockets so dense that it is nearly impossible to decipher what sounds are coming from where, yet there are others that are stripped down to what sounds like the white noise created by the instrument's very existence in the room. That all of these modes contain the restraint and inwardness that they do is an impressive feat, and one that provides the work with a near ambient, timless quality.
By the time In Remembrance reaches its end, with its increasingly distressed nature, it becomes clear that this is a work born from the great care of veteran experimentalists. Its mechanized nature is impressively stagnant yet engulfed in movement and constant change, giving it an organicism that is too often ironically lacking in music made from far less automated means.
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Marion Maerz was possibly Germany's coolest pop star for a while in 1965, a reputation earned largely from her rather downcast hit "Er ist Weider Da" (released at a time when German pop songs were uniformly cheery). Unfortunately, she was never able to repeat her initial success and gradually faded from being a chart presence. In 1971, she attempted to reinvent herself with an album of German-language interpretations of Burt Bacharach hits. No one noticed and Marion’s second (and final) slide into obscurity began. In the ensuing four decades, this album has become a sought-after collector's item and is regarded as something of a masterpiece (according to the label, anyway).
Maerz has had quite an unusual career. She got her "big break" while attending secretarial school. She was singing at a cassette manufacturer’s booth at an exhibition and got invited to participate in a talent contest organized by Pepsi-Cola (I like to imagine that Karlheinz Stockhausen started exactly the same way). She didn’t win, but her performance earned her a contract with Polydor. Sadly, her first two singles failed to chart and she was quickly dropped.
However, shortly after this setback, a chance meeting at a recording studio resulted in the release of the aforementioned "Er Ist Weider Da". During the brief but intense fame that ensued, she became the first German female ever to appear on the pop music television show Beat-Club and none other than Paul McCartney was rumored to be a big fan of the single's B-side ("Blau Blau Blau"). She even recorded a song written for her by the Kinks' Ray Davies. Unfortunately, all that was soon followed by several years of waning popularity, frustration with her material, and mounting disillusionment.
Released nearly six years after her peak, this album was intended to resuscitate her career. On paper, it seemed like a good idea. Maerz’s producer even managed to enlist a famous jazz organist (Ingfried Hoffmann) to do the arranging. Hoffmann clearly put a lot of effort into the project, as the album is chock full of string accompaniments and horn flourishes, but he played it a bit too safe at a time when the naïve pop of the sixties was well past moribund.
There is very little stylistic variation evident here: every song was aimed straight for the charts and, correspondingly, all adhere to a strict bubblegum pop formula and feature very slick studio musicians and absolutely no surprises. However, the material is quite strong (it is Bacharach) and Marion was a charismatic and spunky little minx (kind of like a German Nancy Sinatra). I especially liked "Close To You," "I Say A Little Prayer," and "All Kinds Of People." Of course, all of the songs on this album will be recognizable to anyone with ears, given Bacharach’s pervasiveness.
However, when Maerz attempts emotional heft, such as in the climaxes of "Anyone Who Had A Heart" and "A House Is Not A Home," she can be squirm-inducingly melodramatic. Whether that is a problem or not is largely dependent on the listener’s mindset. I found myself grimacing, but they have quite a bit of camp value. If I were singing into a hairbrush in front of my mirror, I would probably skip right to those.
Frankly speaking, this is not a musical masterpiece. Sorry, Bureau B. However, it is quite fun and kitschy and definitely deserves a new life. This album’s downfall was solely due to its incredibly terrible timing. In the six years that elapsed since "Er Ist Weider Da," a seismic shift in teenage musical taste had taken place and she was now competing with Led Zeppelin, the Rolling Stones, and the Beatles at their creative height. Marion, unfortunately for her career, had stayed the same.
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The duo of Howard Marsden and Holy McGrail is a unit whose long excursions explore the more ominous realms of synthesizer slush. This, their second album following 2005's The Creep eschews the dark fragility of their previous effort in favor of 65 minutes of near unmoving gloom whose finale, a poem written and recited by Julian Cope, merely serves to seal the casket.
The disc opens with low synth murmurs and cavernous swathes of airy atmosphere. It is a dingy environment to be sure, but one which does a fantastic job of setting the mineshaft mode of the rest of the work as it transports itself downward. McGrail's guitar rings slowly emerge, spreading outward to further widen the vast spaces that Marsden's repeated bass tones continue to conjure.
The work's greatest strength lies in both the sheer quantity of its length and in the unit's monolithic pacing. Momentary rises in density give some indication as to the duo's potential for claustrophobic sludge, but Slomo clearly prefer a slower and more spatial atmospheric exploration. Everything here has a certain tangibility to it, a physical weight.
Despite its apparent stillness, the piece does grow though. Slowly sprawling across its length are motives of movement that recur and reshape, whether they are as slight and momentary as the twanging of a guitar or as continuously subtle as the crackling backdrop. Its changes are then based more on its vertical qualities—the various tonal configurations of whatever sounds are present at that time—than its horizontal progression. Even as momentum builds with an extended guitar note and the increasing rapidity of a bubbling synthesizer, the duo never allows for any sense of emotive release or cathartic climax. Rather these moments arrive, build, and then settle back into the whole. It seems "the bog" will let nothing escape its grasp.
After the work finishes, having surveyed all corners of its static world before slinking back to a wall of hiss, Cope enters to recite his poem, "Land." Like a reading out of Beowulf, Cope exclaims with apocalyptic sorrow: "Cast down to the bogart, thou. / The highest to the highest of the low, / Cast into the bog art though, / Distinct, most noble, sad necessity." It's hardly a happy ending, but after the last 65 minutes it's good to hear another person's voice. Which isn't to say that this isn't a beautifully constructed and detailed achievement; it absolutely is. Just don't expect a parade.
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The music crafted by Strings of Consciousness could appropriately characterized as stream of consciousness: improvisation being the musical equivalent of the literary technique. Based around the core of a string quartet, the international collective, instigated by Philippe Petit, join themselves with a revolving cast of fellow musical travelers. This time they team up with Angel, who began in 1999 as duo between Ilpo Vaisanen (Pan Sonic) and Dirk Dresselhaus (Schneider TM). In 2004 Icelandic multi-instrumentalist of Múm fame, Hildur Gudnadottir, was recruited. The result has become a vehicle on which my own consciousness can travel, moving from the ominous and hyperdriven sounds of deep space to wander amidst the ancient ruins of a moonswept world.
Music like this can be hallucinatory, and while the sounds of “#1” left me with a feeling of vertigo that I was afraid would not go away, as a side effect it was minimal. The first lengthy song, close to 22 minutes, is built on the bedrock of a long sustained tone that pricked at the back my skull. A distorted guitar soon joins in and its strings sound frayed. Blistering on the first listen, its heavy wall of layered fuzz was like an itchy sweater only put on during winter's coldest days; at first it is uncomfortable and the need to scratch soon follows. Strings of Consciousness' oscillating lines of noise are very warm, crackling with subtlety and hidden nuances.
Inside the push and pull of wind rushing through an accordion I can hear the explosion of air on a rocket ship as the fuel is ignited. Solar flares must have interfered with the recording equipment; I can hear them as heavy noise squalls bleeding through the speakers. Somehow the background radiation of the universe has been made audible. Tossed about on the rocking waves of this cosmic ocean, I am eventually pulled in beyond the event horizon. The music keys me into a superstring theory of everything, and I am born into a new parallel world.
While “#1” is beautiful in the way that it makes my nerve endings feel burned raw, “#2” by comparison has a more palliative effect. On this track the accordion has a more pronounced presence, as I follow its echoes and get lost in labyrinthine ruins of sound. Holographic guitars emerge from hidden grottoes, electronic bleeps twitter and swarm before being overtaken by deftly flanged, panning chords. Chains rattle, riding in over the high metallic drone of a Tibetan singing bowl. Percussive clangs dance with raucous abandon before things settle down, all carried in on a balmy Mediterranean breeze. I know I will be returning to the landscapes conjured in this 18 minute song again and again. It was my favorite of the two. By the end of the record I feel purged and uplifted, as if I had passed through a storm while making a pilgrimage to the temple of sound.
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2008 was a big year for Emeralds. Solar Bridge (released on Hanson) garnered the most widespread acclaim for the trio yet and all three members—guitarist Mark McGuire and synth players John Elliott and Steve Hauschildt—continued their solo explorations with numerous releases that garnered further praise. What Happened sees Emeralds further honing their sound as they hearken in what is sure to be another fruitful year for the unit.
The album opens with "Alive in the Sea of Information," an eight minute excursion which fits snuggly into Emeralds’ previous oeuvre. The trio is unflinching in their alliance with the forms of '70s synth explorers like Cluster and Klaus Schulze, and they display their fine capabilities in that realm here as the soft ringing of Hauschildt's Moog gradually thickens with Elliott's Korg MS-10 bass tones. The liner notes state that "this recording is a collection of improvised songs recorded live to tape 2007-2008," an important indicator as to the group's process and one which is on fine display here. Each line undulates along in a soupy mix of analog psychedelia that captures perfectly the group's capability for spontaneous improvisational composition. As long vocal drones are spread across the weighty synth backdrop it does become a song of sorts, exploring its parts with a careful and confident hand
One of the paradoxes surrounding Emeralds is their close-knit affiliation with the underground noise scene. Despite the high-fidelity and overt beauty often explored on their works, the unit has continued to sharpen their abilities in the tape, vinyl and CD-R culture of labels such as Fag Tapes, Ecstatic Peace and their own Wagon and Gneiss Things imprints. This influence is readily apparent on "Damaged Kids," which starts off with synthesizer gestures that bubble about among thick and mossy tones, sounding more like John Olson's remixes of Elliott's solo work than the traditionally vibrant Emeralds sound. As it builds however, it meshes into a series of mobile synth gestures that are carried along by McGuire's guitar pulse before lightening its load in favor of crystalline drops of guitar tone and synthesized garble that drift off into a quickly pulsing end. Given that the group takes 15 minutes for the piece, it is still surprising how frequently they are able to smoothly transition from one mode to another.
"Up in the Air" is, as its title suggests, a lofty affair that serves as a brief intermission in the album. It is the most overtly gentle work on the disc, providing a respite before the next two tracks make up the last half of the album. "Living Room," the longest piece here, begins with an organ-like line that recalls Terry Riley or La Monte Young's "The Well-Tuned Piano" more than Neu! or Tangerine Dream. McGuire's guitar lends a church bell quality to the work as it drifts toward a starker, more static area. The trio's abilities as a whole are on display, with each member circumventing the whole with well placed and unselfish playing far beyond the maturity of most musicians in their early-twenties. Which isn't to quantify Emeralds' talents in terms of their age; these improvisations would be impressive for anyone. The proximity of their work to synthesizer legends of the past serves as testament to this. Never mere impersonators, the group manages to find its own worlds of sound through the means of decades past, but with the ears of today.
The closing "Disappearing Ink" slides across the speakers with monolithic grace as it unwraps its own sonic world. McGuire's guitar tones stand out in their lulling rhythms, staying warm without ever slipping into post-rock wankery. As the piece evolves, it emerges as a wall of vaporous, spectral beauty, as rich as an Eno instrumental with the weight of Popul Vuh or Ash Ra Tempel's best work.
In interviews, Emeralds often speak of the importance of volume in their music. To see the group live is to understand the true capacity of their music to physically manifest itself. Too often their albums are heard with this crucial factor lacking. For the complete experience, What Happened is a fine example. Each song materializes as it is meant to while Elliott, Hauschildt and McGuire, chisels in hand, continue in shaping the walls of sound before them.
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This is K-The-I???'s second album of "densed-out boom bap" and first collaboration with producer Thavius Beck. Beck, who recently worked with Trent Reznor on Saul Williams' Niggy Tardust, complements K’s literate, dystopian verse beautifully with what Mush has aptly dubbed "Blade Runner beats."
K has a booming voice, an impressive vocabulary, and a commanding presence. His delivery is a bit of an acquired taste, however. At times he sounds far more like a very irate poet than an MC (I warmed to it though). I also found his lyrics to be needlessly abstruse at first (“Ewoks are just mechanized tumbleweeds”?), but the lyric sheet revealed that almost everything makes perfect sense (except the sci-fi stream-of-consciousness of "Cell-Shaded/Daydreams/Nightmares", which probably would only make sense to Kool Keith). Generally, K is a damn inventive and clever lyricist and avoids nearly all traditional hip-hop cliches.
The fact that he is a big, loud, angry guy is also quite an asset, as indie rap is often too non-threatening, introspective, and over-intellectual for my taste. He usually only missteps when he attempts to be confessional or when he attempts a refrain; radio-friendly songcraft is not his strength. I’m not sure if he needs to become better at structuring songs or needs to abandon structure altogether. The tracks that work best seem like Beck handed K a tape and said “here’s an amazing beat, just go crazy over it for two minutes.”
Thavius is nearly a mixed blessing, as he comes extremely close to decisively upstaging K on his own album (especially during the first two tracks). "400 on the BPM" opens the album with an absolutely crushing industrial crunch coupled with an elephantine primal roar. Then "Before the Session" follows, which sounds like a spaced-out IDM remix of Ministry’s "Dream Song." If the album ended there, it would be perfect. Those two tracks hit like a truck and show that these two at their best can hold their own against anyone in hip-hop today.
As for the rest of the album…well, it’s pretty good. However, Beck never recaptures that early intensity and fades into the background a bit. Not completely, of course: the sci-fi samples in "Marathon Man" and the combination of spectral backing vocals and minor key keyboards in "Man or Machine" are quite impressive. K is, for the most part, consistently inventive and impassioned on the mic and all of the guest MCs turn in strong performances. However, the individual components never really achieve the synergy of the first two tracks for the duration of an entire song again. That said, Yesterday, Today & Tomorrow is packed with some great moments, if not great songs.
Beck and K have all the tools needed for becoming a dominant force and it would be unfortunate if they didn't collaborate further. I just hope they stay fixated on being bludgeoning and futuristic as the occasional choruses and anthemic electric guitars have me worried. That stuff should be left to those who are less talented and idiosyncratic.
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Matricaria is a genus of plant well known for its powers of bio-remediation, the first to colonize lands that have been disturbed by human evil. And like the plants after which this album was named, veteran psych-folksters Tara Burke and Helena Espvall have littered this musical venture with seeds of great potential. I hope that in the future their efforts will be more cultivated and carefully pruned. Luckily, the places that needed weeding in this musical patch are passed over easily. What remains is wild in its beauty.
The album opens with backward vocals that glide over a childish playroom guitar ditty. At less than two minutes, as an opener, it seemed extraneous. Called “Matricarian Descent,” it truly is a low point on a disc that has many exalting moments. “Pirin Planina” more than makes up for the weak beginning, however, as thick swathes of cello, bowed by Helena Espvall (who has worked with the likes of Espers, Vashti Bunyan, and Pauline Oliveros), make for a solid foundation, giving structure to the languorous vocals. Casio drones add to the heady mix and when the flute joins in I feel the ripple of gooseflesh popping up across my skin.
“Myrrah” repeats the tactic of the first track, with more reversed sounding voices. At the beginning of it I hear the blurredly sung title melting, one of those rare occasions when I can understand what is being said. Kalimba like plucking is randomly placed over the top. This deviation was an unnecessary interlude for me, like an ornamental balustrade on a building already beautiful. Nevertheless, while going to sleep one night, I found my mind replaying these baleful melodies, wondering at their power to stick in my head when I find them so superfluous.
The nomadic desert percussion of Tara Burke, founder of Fursaxa, is showcased on “Moi Kissen.” Here, blended voices range between the cat like and guttural to the high pitched waver of a warbling Theremin. Brisk as the desert air, this is the kind of tribal bric-a-brac improvisation I think we’ll all be making and listening to in a powered down future; post-apocalyptic folk for a time when the angels of electricity are no longer functional. The danger in recording this type of intuitive music is that the brilliant moments appear before and after the not so brilliant, as happens on this song.
Luckily there are polished gems to be found as well. “Velvet Shoon” is one of them. As the last track, it’s pleasant to taste, a good clean finish that cleanses the palette. Cello, banjo, and soft vocals are the central votives here. At the best moments their voices approach the devotional as if they are singing hymns to Anahita herself, the Iranian Goddess of water and fertility. In a broken Middle-Eastern landscape desperate for rain, this is the prayer song that delivers it.
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There seem to be two wildly different sides to this band: one that plays skittering discordant freak-outs, and one that strives for some sort of ambient/post-rock/Tangerine Dream hybrid. I vastly prefer the freak-out side. No one ever says "I saw the most amazing jazz duo last night, they had this virtuousic and incendiary drummer, but he concealed that extremely well and played with tasteful restraint and subtlety instead. It was awesome!". This album lives and dies by how much drummer Thomas Stronen opens up.
The third release between drummer Thomas Stronen (Food) and keyboardist Stale Storlokken (Supersilent) earns the distinction of being the first live album that I have ever heard that does not sound live. Also, it makes a compelling argument that Norway is one of the few places on earth where jazz is still thriving and evolving (and ingeniously incorporating outside influences like Tortoise and Squarepusher). It does not, however, make a compelling argument for vintage synth sounds or ambient-jazz. Aside from the conspicuous absence of clapping and crowd noise, Rest At Worlds End is also unusual among live jazz recordings for being made up entirely of new material and for sounding meticulously planned (at least during the more groove-based tracks). This music appears to exist in a grey area between songs and spontaneous free-form improvisation.
Stronen's drumming is largely exceptional throughout. His free-form playing is absolutely staggering whenever it occurs (such as on "Creak" and "Bullfight"). Even when he locks into a groove (such as on "Steam" and the jungle-influenced "Hit"), he still manages to sound like an octopus on meth- his rhythms are always startlingly complex and constantly shifting. As for Storlokken, he is extremely creative with his keyboard sound and it varies enormously from song to song. Often it sounds entirely unlike a keyboard. Certainly unlike anything heard on a jazz album. On "Stream" for example, it sounds like it is badly malfunctioning and short-circuiting. Storlokken's frantic playing initially yields only static-damaged notes, distorted blurts, and abrupt squonks before finally expanding into a thick fuzzed-out bass line and what sounds like water dripping in a cave. It is absolutely face-melting and sounds like nothing I have previously heard from a live band. Unfortunately, his liberal tonal palette is often a mixed bag. Some of the sounds he employs are rightfully avoided by his peers and skim perilously close to Jean Michel Jarre territory.
This album, lamentably, has two cavernous flaws. The first is that Storlokken has an unhealthy obsession with tones and textures from early electronic and space music. While that might be laudable under some circumstances, in the context of this particular album they frequently sound intrusive and somewhat absurd. Secondly, Rune Grammofon claims that the album features "atmospheric moods" and is "meanderingly contemplative." That is dead-on. The ambient pieces on album (and there are many) seem to go nowhere and often consist primarily of languid, Moog-y, atonal, impressionistic noodlings. The title track is probably the best of these excursions: the New Age-y treated-flute sounds get it off to a pretty dodgy start, but they are thankfully disrupted by wild drum fills. Eventually, the piece coheres into a warm and elegant chord progression that would not be out of place on an early Aphex Twin album. The others, unfortunately, never quite cohere.
I really wish I liked this more. These guys possess a staggering amount of technical skill and a clear willingness to break new ground. This album, regrettably, does not consistently deliver on that promise, but does feature some sustained flashes of brilliance. However, given how actively these two have been collaborating and performing within the Norwegian jazz scene, it seems possible that Humcrush may consciously exist solely as an outlet for Storlokken 's more outre whims and indulgent excursions that would not fit elsewhere. Regardless of his objective, he appears to have found in Stronen the ideal foil for these experiments.
(the vinyl double-LP version of this album comes with an extra seven tracks)
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LTM's Boutique Label has found a new project in dusting off and reissuing the discography of the largely forgotten cult artsy post-punk label Object Music, which operated for a scant two years. The Noyes Brothers' obscure double-album Sheep From Goats is one of the label's more notable releases, an inscrutable, eclectic and often brilliant collaboration between Steve Miro and label founder Steve Solamar.
Jóhannsson's second installment of a series inspired by iconic American names is as dazzling and solemn as we have come to expect. Hopefully the final component won't refer to The Golden Arches.
Johann Johannson’s preceding recording was devoted to the IBM 1401, the ‘Model T’ of computers. His father was chief maintenance engineer on the first such machine imported into Iceland so the theme is personal as well as intellectual. Furthermore, the album’s starting point was music which his father developed on the 1401. Related fact: Kubrick chose the three letters immediately preceding IBM as the onboard computer, HAL, in 2001.
Not that you need to know any of this to enjoy Johannsson’s music at a level of pure sound. At times it appears that he has managed to isolate the gene allowing for audio stimulus to trigger euphoria, life-affirmation, and weeping. So while Fordlandia expands upon his earliest work, in terms of composition and instrumentation, the capacity to engage the emotions remains intact. From the opening title track it is clear that the simple power first evidenced on the brief “Odi et Amo,” from Englaborn has not been lost. And thankfully, the blissful "Fordlandia" is more than thirteen minutes long. On this track, as always, Johannsson keeps things simple, despite having progressed from strings and vocoder to full orchestra with electronics, and he claims “the ending is a five minute long continous ritardando, quite possibly the longest one ever on record, should anyone care…”
Fordlandia was Henry Ford’s attempt to construct a model town for the indigenous workers at his rubber production plant in Brazil. Workers were supplied with ID badges, made to eat American-style hamburgers and Ford banned drinking and smoking anywhere within the town limits, even in workers own houses. The response to such “bunk” was the rapid growth of a settlement nearby complete with bars, nightclubs and brothels. Eventually the development of synthetic rubber erased the need for the natural product, Fordlandia was abandoned, and the land sold at a loss of 20 million dollars.
The second theme of rocketry, takes in two other stories. The first is of John Whiteside Parsons, by day a scientist and by night a disciple of Aleister Crowley. In the 1930s Parsons developed the first stable rocket fuel. Johannsson imagines him chanting Crowley’s “Ode to Pan” during test launches. Bizarrely, the scientist died after an explosion in his Californian garage. Another strand to this theme emerges on the piece “Guidelines for a Space Propulsion Device based on Heim's Quantum Theory." Apparently, German physicist Burkhard Hein proposed faster-than-light space travel and spent years trying to developing it. In WWII Hein was seriously injured in an explosion, left without hands and almost deaf and blind. Nevertheless, he spent the rest of his life searching for a unified theory of everything. No small task, I imagine.
A poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning is sung on the lament “The Great God Pan Is Dead” and (after a considerable time without them) the human vocals are a superbly effective foil for all the instruments and machine made sounds we have heard. On this album, Jóhannsson illustrates the attempt to obliterate the forest God Pan and Paganism that preceded the rise of industrial capitalists such as Henry Ford and their dehumanizing mass production methods. Still, what goes up must come down. Pagan symbols such as the Christmas tree are still with us and, for his part, Jóhannsson more than hints at the forest slowly reclaiming Fordlandia. There's plenty of theory and concept around Fordlandia then, but the funereal atmospheres, studied pace, and gorgeous swells in the work all allow for wide interpretation. I find Johannsson's music to be equal part requiem and alarm call. Forget the triumphal music that strokes the pleasure glands of the wealthy and puffs their delusions of manifest destiny. In this year of Our Ford here is the sound of inevitable decay, destruction, folly, and rebirth.
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