Sedimental
The artists have, thankfully, chosen cover art and title which testifyto these performances occurring at locations on the surface of theEarth, the Southern U.S. no less, instead of in some forgotten fissureof the planet's crust or from the edge of an astral plane, far, far inthe distance as the music would suggest. The 10" contains two sidelongselections from stops along a small duo tour in 2001. Gross, whoalongside Greg Kelley and Bhob Rainey has helped put the Boston improvscene on the map, commissioned Tonne's exploratory vocal talents forthe tour, following a single, fruitful collaboration earlier that year.The reeds-man's impulsiveness does not disappoint, as his increasinglybizarre, limit-crossing assault on sax and clarinet finds a perfectcounterpart in his companion's strained pipes. Much of Gross' playingfocuses on a baffling expansion of the sounds and textures available toa particular instrument. His blowing reaches squealing pitches thatbelong to the ambiance of the motorway or factory space, his lowwarbles and grating trills enough to transform every hair on the bodyinto a lightning rod. Most impressive, though, are his extended boutsof pushing note-less air through the saxophone, creating completelyalien whistles, scrapes, and dry rustles. In short, his is eye-popping,head-rushing, and blood-quickening music that must be heard to bebelieved. Tonne's contribution is equally arresting. The vocalist'sattunement to the nuance and textured rise-and-fall of Gross' playingis remarkable, her voice rising to match the most challenging pitchesor inhuman bits of vibrato. The tendency to mistake one musician forthe other is a risk even after hearing the record several times, aphenomenon that fills the listening experience with frequent moments ofutter disbelief. Tonne builds gliding, theremin-like tones, archingmasterfully into frightening high-pitched shrieks and lowly half-moanswith clear precedent in artists like Diamanda Galas or the venerablePatty Waters. Her most unique talent, however, is the incorporation offoreign syllabic utterances, a kind of glossolalian scat spread acrossGross' varied landscape with enough restraint to keep it wondrouslyeffective. The vocal style brings a subtle degree of future-primitivismto the pieces, recalling the free-calligraphy techniques used by manyAbstract Expressionist painters. My only complaint is that this releasewas not expanded to 12" or full length CD; both pieces fade out withthe wish that at least the room ambiance or a bit of Gross' clappingair-holes might continue long enough to inspire Tonne to swoop backinto song. I can only hope that the duo was pleased enough with theseinitial excursions to take more, soon.
The artists have, thankfully, chosen cover art and title which testifyto these performances occurring at locations on the surface of theEarth, the Southern U.S. no less, instead of in some forgotten fissureof the planet's crust or from the edge of an astral plane, far, far inthe distance as the music would suggest. The 10" contains two sidelongselections from stops along a small duo tour in 2001. Gross, whoalongside Greg Kelley and Bhob Rainey has helped put the Boston improvscene on the map, commissioned Tonne's exploratory vocal talents forthe tour, following a single, fruitful collaboration earlier that year.The reeds-man's impulsiveness does not disappoint, as his increasinglybizarre, limit-crossing assault on sax and clarinet finds a perfectcounterpart in his companion's strained pipes. Much of Gross' playingfocuses on a baffling expansion of the sounds and textures available toa particular instrument. His blowing reaches squealing pitches thatbelong to the ambiance of the motorway or factory space, his lowwarbles and grating trills enough to transform every hair on the bodyinto a lightning rod. Most impressive, though, are his extended boutsof pushing note-less air through the saxophone, creating completelyalien whistles, scrapes, and dry rustles. In short, his is eye-popping,head-rushing, and blood-quickening music that must be heard to bebelieved. Tonne's contribution is equally arresting. The vocalist'sattunement to the nuance and textured rise-and-fall of Gross' playingis remarkable, her voice rising to match the most challenging pitchesor inhuman bits of vibrato. The tendency to mistake one musician forthe other is a risk even after hearing the record several times, aphenomenon that fills the listening experience with frequent moments ofutter disbelief. Tonne builds gliding, theremin-like tones, archingmasterfully into frightening high-pitched shrieks and lowly half-moanswith clear precedent in artists like Diamanda Galas or the venerablePatty Waters. Her most unique talent, however, is the incorporation offoreign syllabic utterances, a kind of glossolalian scat spread acrossGross' varied landscape with enough restraint to keep it wondrouslyeffective. The vocal style brings a subtle degree of future-primitivismto the pieces, recalling the free-calligraphy techniques used by manyAbstract Expressionist painters. My only complaint is that this releasewas not expanded to 12" or full length CD; both pieces fade out withthe wish that at least the room ambiance or a bit of Gross' clappingair-holes might continue long enough to inspire Tonne to swoop backinto song. I can only hope that the duo was pleased enough with theseinitial excursions to take more, soon.
Concept albums in general are a bit troublesome. Like "Music from and inspired by the motion picture," they are sometimes not at all relatable to the subject at hand, and often they get overshadowed by some lofty sense of purpose that ultimately falls flat. When I saw the roster on Seasons, I was willing to ignore the fact that the compilation was a concept album just to hear new work from these bands. So, I must say I was pleasantly surprised to find that the music does, in fact, have a fine correlation with the concept, making this the best theme-based compilation I have ever heard.
Anxiety and apprehension are made sound incarnate within the firstquarter of this record and holy ground is consecrated and threatenedthereafter. A narrative runs through the thick, pulsing heart of thesesounds; beginning with shimmering, metallic rolls of lightning andhighligthed by the mysterious calls of nocturnal birds, Behind Your Very Eyesannounces itself as a heavy and imposing experience. The opening"Cryptozoology" has the blood of fear running through it; theatmosphere is thick with the tension of unseen voyeurs and rapacioushunters whispering secrets under forested moonlight. Such a heavy andconsuming beginning might seem imposing, but Colin Potter and PaulBradley make the mystery too intriguing to be ignored. It would beimpossible to turn tail and run. "Decline" medicates and softens thebreath of impending disaster with its organ-like tones and unearthlyshakings. There is a bright light at the center of its being and iteminates the presence of safety and familiarity; it's as if the nightof the first sounds has been transformed into the romantic and alluringnight of summer winds and cricket's voices. But the narrative of themusic is not simple and elegant transformation: "Cavity" invokes theaura of a total void, staring down into the abyss, and being frightenedthat nothing looks back. No semblance of human life is found in thecascading mass and it's low-end humming simply shakes my body to anumbness that removes the physical world to a purely mental state. Thebeauty of Potter and Bradley's work is that it removes easy reference;sounds become pure and without linguistic characteristic and there isalways an environment shaped out of silence. By the time "Flattered ToDeceive" expels its suspended ghost, the music has made a full circle.The electronic whines and textural brushes of sound reverberate backinto the mystery of the unknown and demand another journey; thenear-deceptive warmth of these sounds is Behind Your Very Eyes'greatest asset. Though alien and without translatable elements, itexpands and welcomes the mind to a consideration of the esoteric. 
This is Rabelais' third release using Argeiphontes Lyre, software ofthe artist's own design which runs instrumental sound through agauntlet of time domain filters, resulting in unique digital music thatretains much of the physicality and tender imbalance of its soundsource whilst enacting subtle, though deeply resonant transformations.His previous record, the excellent Eisoptrophobia, featured processed piano works by Bartók and Satie, and ...benediction, drawcontinues with a similar exploration of the latter's idea of "furnituremusic," this time with Rabelais' own guitar compositions run throughthe forgiving machine. The resulting 71-min. piece, essentially dividedinto eight sections, is most certainly the kind of inconspicuous,sublimated work that Satie's doctrine would promote. The originalguitar lines are completely obscured, disintegrating (ormultiplying...who knows?) into creeping waves of tonal flutter, theshivering patter of half-plucked strings, and faint, drone-likebackdrops that sound like the result of fairly extreme time-lapsemanipulation. The relative sameness and level field of each track make ...benediction, drawhard to penetrate at first, and the meandering movement of the piececould be off-putting for the unprepared. However, deeper listeningreveals the remarkably intricate construction of the work, which,rather than retreating to the background, instead completely transformsthe listening environment. Rabelais understands that Satie's ideas donot predict music that is just another piece of room-filler, but musicwhose structure and passage feel determined by the acoustic quality ofthe sounds themselves, music that becomes, to some degree, a room ofits own. Rabelais' guitar emerges from the Lyre sounding like a25-piece ensemble of brushed guitars, chimes, and hammered bells,passing slowly through a cycle that seems immediately incidental, yetpainfully timed and integrated so that no such group could havepossibly arranged it. Digital manipulation is evident, but the sound ofthe instrument, which Rabelais' claims to have recorded withoutmulti-tracking (!), is beautifully maintained. A look at the notesinside tells me that ...benediction, draw is dedicated to theartist's "father, who [he] never knew, and mother who abandoned [him];"also, the track titles read sequentially, making two florid sentencesthat describe the journey of a "dispossessed child under the invisibletutelage of an angel." Turns out the record is a reminiscence onRabelais' childhood, growing up estranged on the desolate sweep that isSouth Texas, which explains the cover photo of a boy, presumably theartist, in full Gary Cooper regalia. It's easy to imagine ...benediction, drawas furniture music for the wind-damaged Texan plains; each shimmeringwave full of weightless solemnity, highly expressive but also elusivein character. Comparisons to late-period Morton Feldman, particularly For Philip Guston, would not be out of place; a similar tenebrous beauty stretches through ...benediction, draw'sdrift, making any lapse of attention impossible. With this record,Rabelais has created one of the most singular processed guitar worksI've heard in a long time, and it will be a pleasure hear whichinstrument he approaches next. 
Timothy "Speed" Levitch was the star of the 1998 documentary The Cruise,
one of my favorite films of all time, which profiled the New York City
tour guide's unique perspectives on the city, his own transitory life
and deeper questions of existence. Through a series of bus loops,
interviews and walking tours, Speed displayed his enthusiasm, his
intelligence, his inquisitiveness and his romantic quest for
intellectual and spiritual fulfillment. One of the more eccentric
oddballs ever captured on film, Speed's extraordinary linguistic gifts
communicate his deep passion and jubilation at existence. His ideas are
the perfect antidote for a world that every day moves towards irony and
detachment, pessimism, cynicism and nihilism. Though it's a minor
travesty that The Cruise has never been released on the DVD
format (or even a VHS that doesn't cost upwards of $100), Aspyr Media
recently released this short documentary also featuring Speed, made
last year by Richard Linklater of Slacker. Linklater previously featured Speed in one segment of his animated masterpiece Waking Life,
a rambling episodic film that dealt with the many solutions to
existence offered by science, philosophy, magic and dreams. Clearly, he
was impressed enough to direct this follow-up film, which deals
primarily with Speed's response to the September 11, 2001 attack on New
York City - its historical context, its ramifications, and Speed's
unorthodox suggestion for what should be done with "Ground Zero." It is
a refreshing film that completely transcends the seemingly endless
parade of ridiculously schmaltzy, over-cautious and reverential garbage
that has been said about the tragedy by nearly everyone since 9/11.
Speed is anything but sentimental, living as he does in the eternal
"now," and his suggestion for the proper commemoration of Ground Zero
is uniquely inspired. The DVD also contains numerous extras, including
picture-in-picture annotations by Speed himself, as well as some live
appearances and readings from his recently published Speedology: Speed on New York City on Speed.
Standing at Ground Zero, Speed pontificates: "9/11 was one of the many
parables the great sagacious cosmopolitan guru has dropped upon this
population to illustrate one of its greatest points: the creation and
destruction that is the rhythm of the universe is a part of our
universe. Creation and destruction: the dance of Shiva. New York City
is an excellent dance floor for that specific choreography."
Italian auteur Michelangelo Antonioni's first film in English is also
arguably his most famous. Although it bears his trademark hypnotic,
dreamlike style, Blow-Up
transcends to another level with its commentary on and reflection of
London in 1966. Based on a story by Julio Cortázar and starring David
Hemmings, the plot revolves around a jaded fashion photographer who may
or may not have witnessed something sinister during a morning stroll in
the park. Like Antonioni's earlier films, Blow-Up progresses at
a languid tempo, and instead of plot, the emphasis lies primarily with
the essence of the characters, who range from aloof fashion models (one
in particular played by Veruschka, who was herself one of the most
famous models in the 1960s), naive groupies (Jane Birkin in one of her
first film roles), and a mysterious woman (Vanessa Redgrave)
relentlessly demanding the photographs taken of her and her lover by
the photographer during his walk in the park. The culture of 1960s
music is also plays a role in the film with the presence of the band
The Yardbirds during a club scene, although the score is dominated
mostly by the sleek, cool jazz of Herbie Hancock. It is endlessly
stylish (even now, nearly 40 years later), colorful and beautifully
photograped by Carlo di Ponti.
Although I've been contributing to The Brain for only two years, I've
been a fanatical reader and avid surfer of Brainwashed for nearly eight
years, and just because I work for the site now doesn't mean my
enthusiasm has faded. So, I was obviously excited last year when The
Eye made its first appearance with an impressive 35-minute documentary
on Emil Beaulieau. Initially, I wondered how anyone could possibly hope
to keep up the daunting schedule of producing a documentary every week.
Amazingly, confounding adversity, each week since has brought a brand
new episode to readers. I have nothing to do with the conception,
direction or production of The Eye, so I can say this without fear of
impropriety: The Eye is without peer; there is nothing else on the web
doing anything even remotely as interesting as this, and it's all for
free. This DVD-R, released as a fundraising effort, collects five
episodes of The Eye, including the aforementioned debut episode
profiling "America's Greatest Living Noise Artist." Through an engaging
montage of amazing live performances and numerous interviews with the
ebullient Beaulieau, his friends and cohorts, the doc builds an
intimate profile of the artist that illustrates clearly why Beaulieau
is a legend in noise circles. "Antony: The Androgynous Zone" is a
spellbindingly minimal short film that captures Antony (sans the
Johnsons) performing a rare solo piano recital in Boston, as well as
sitting for a revealing interview about his work, his influences and
his creative methods. "The Dresden Dolls: Brechtian Rock n' Roll" is an
in-depth feature on Boston's punk-cabaret duo on the eve of their
recent success. Delectable siren Amanda and adorable gothboy Brian sit
for an informative and humorous backstage interview about the origins
of the band. The Dolls performances excerpted throughout are top-notch.
The other two segments feature equally fascinating sketches of unsung
post-rock groups Pele and Tigersaw. Sound and picture quality are first
rate throughout the disc, far better than having to contend with that
little Quicktime window and computer speakers. A brief trailer for The
Eye DVD-R series is also included on the disc, with tantalizing
glimpses of episodes featuring Out Hud, Coil, Wire and others. I can
only hope that the future volumes may bring some of these artists to my
home theater.
Boyd Rice is at the center of that spurious underground milieu which
rose to quasi-prominence in the eighties, combining industrial and
noise culture with LeVay-style Satanism, social Darwinism and fascist
aesthetics. The work of NON, and of its progenitors and followers,
influenced a generation of Dungeons and Dragons players, rivetheads and
white supremacists to unite their interests under an anti-establishment
banner that seemed pretty dangerous and sexy when it was new, but
appears a bit silly in retrospect. In truth, Boyd Rice created nothing
that hadn't been suggested previously by David Bowie, and especially
Throbbing Gristle. TG's interest in musical performance and noise as
cultural exorcism, agitation and political rally was clearly a
precedent for NON's subsequent exploitation. Boyd's only contribution
was to narrow and delineate these interests, and to incorporate his
neo-Satanic views and his sadistic sense of camp. Coming after the
double disappointment of last year's tepid Children of the Black Sun 5.1 surround-sound album, Soleilmoon officially releases Non Live in Osaka
on DVD, a frequently bootlegged recording of a legendary 1989 concert
in Japan. This concert was legendary because it was the first to unite
Boyd Rice, Douglas P., Rose McDowall, Tony Wakeford and Michael
Moynihan on one stage. They appear in a thick fog, flanked by red beams
of light, decked out in paramilitary gear, beating on giant barrel
drums, while Rice performs a series of propagandistic invocations in
his familiar modulated monotone. He spouts off the usual monologues
about war, might and superiority. None of this is particularly
ingenious, but it's very much better than any NON performance I've been
unfortunate enough to witness in this decade. In fact, it all seems
quite potent, with the big martial drumbeats, the grinding noise sweeps
and Boyd Rice's booming, echoing voice. I especially appreciated the
long introduction of Iron Guard marching songs directly preceding and
following the performance. Watching this transported me back to a time
when I thought it was quite daring to adopt an amoral, nihilistic
viewpoint and wear Nazi totenkopf symbols on my clothes. In addition to
some nifty photo slideshows accompanied by hilarious Japanese girl-pop,
the DVD also includes illuminating commentary and two experimental
short films by Boyd Rice. I've often heard these films compared to
Kenneth Anger's ritual-on-celluloid masterpieces such as Lucifer Rising and Invocation of My Demon Brother. Judging by the first film, Invocation,
Mr. Anger has nothing to worry about. This grainy, pornographic footage
has all the genius of any Hi-8 video made by a 13-year old goth
teenager from Des Moines. The second film, Black Sun, is much better, a Stan Brakhage-style celluloid trance-meditation on a spinning swastika.
As far as creating atmospherics is concerned, the merging of similarsounds and muddy samples works fine in a simple and amateur way. Thisprinciple cannot be applied to a fifty minute record of unconventionalrecording processes. Nothing leaps out at me in any significant way onthis disc; many of the sounds are intriguing in and of themselves, butthey don't work out when stretched to times well over ten minutes. Ihave a feeling that they wouldn't work out at periods of five or sixminutes. While there are variations in sound and theme on each of thetracks, none of the themes fall into a distinct relationship witheachother and this ends up being unsatisfactory. "Four Chambers PlusTheir Various Fluids" has a great spot near the middle of it thatfeatures the rattling of metal pipes, awkward springs, and bustedpendulums, but it doesn't sync into the rest of the song and emergesfrom the previous section like a young child on stilts. It ultimatelymoves nowhere and returns to silence when covered up by other sounds.On the other hand, "Some Trio Study (#2)" feels as if it belongs in aretirement home; it's a loop of some wonderful melodic samples thatstretch into infinity and change only slightly for the course of fiveminutes. The effect is stunning for the first minute and then themonotony wears thin. The best and the worst is saved for last; "HarborSurfacant" features some stretched and pitch samples of classicinstruments rotating and dying in a mess of pops and claps. It is byfar the most inspiring of the five pieces, but that does not hide thefact that what could've been a journey into the darker realms ofthought ends up sounding more like a damaged toy piano. There's nodynamics at play to keep things interesting for the nine minute runningtime. I just can't sit through it without checking the time to see ifit's over, yet. The sounds are fun here and there, but Vertonen simplycannot come up with an arrangement that stays consistently interesting.
Bill Laswell is trying way too hard. He couldn't decide whether or notthis record was going to be broadcast from Mars, made danceable bysolid rhythms from the past, or infected with the spirit of imaginationand experimentation and this is more than enough to hurt the album. Thereare all sorts of pseudo-melodies winding their way between bass-heavyrhythm sections and musty turntable effects, but none of them stand outor doing anything like create the feel of a hook.Now and then there's a groove established by way of bass guitar andrecord-scratching, but none of them stand out over the other; it's asif every instrument was made to take center stage. This is a solorecord for all heavy and groggy instruments in the court of nothing. Atonce a song can feel like an excursion into Jamaica, a shout out to thebeat-masters of yesterday, and a trip into the drug-fuelled,hallucinogenic march of the future. "Black Dust" is a perfect example;the bass sounds great, the rhythm is heavy and hot, and there's a hintof some exotic instrumentation weaving its way out of the background;but none of these elements ever mix together. They clash like PresidentBush and common sense. The sound of Casio keyboards imitating disco-erahorns don't synch well with the grit and grime of funky rhythms andsumptuous bass pounding. I can appreciate someone who wants to pushboundaries and create new sounds for others to work with, but Laswellsimply isn't doing that or, in the very least, he isn't doing it wellenough. With a mix like this, all of the elements can't work togetherin a perfect unity; something has to be sacrificed (I'd like it if itwere all the faux-psychadelia and space-inspired thematics) for it towork. 
