THANOS CHRYSAKIS – A Scar In The Air

A Scar In The Air is a part of the “Inscapes Series”, namely music “based on the structural and aesthetic capacity of sonic matter”. Six tracks, all connected in a continuous flow, for a total of half a hour which shows the most ear-satisfying traits of this Greek composer’s artistic vision, occupying a well definite place between the (often exaggerate) seriousness of cultivated acousmatics and the kind of vibrations that should be associated with the concept of “space”: not in a celestial acceptation, more as anything associable to the notion of “propagation of sound in an environment”. Under this meaning, Chrysakis offers numerous moments of profound integrity and gratification, leaving the sounds activate our psyche in a state of self-determination despite the evident care behind the compositional effort.

The sources are not indicated, but there are several of them that are clearly intelligible and, although regularly exploited in this ambit, used in such a discreetly clever manner that those colours look just perfect for the segment in which they’re appearing. Coming to terms with the perception of interiority is a perennial struggle which sees human ignorance constantly defeated – here’s the reason of the flourishing of “extreme anxiety groups” sticking definitions to something that exists only in their mind's eye. Yet it’s doubtless that music like this - offering different departure points for the observation of phenomena whose resonance, both outside and inside, is impressively effective – might constitute a good start for inquisitive thinking.

One can decide: appreciating the pure magnificence of an obscure reverberation, recognizing the typicality of chatting people, being displaced in amorphousness when a voice is fused with a marimba which reproduces its same elocution patterns, or just accepting the whole as a mixed-energy macrocosm. What remains is the impression of an unexplainable deeper implication that’s better left undefined, unless you want to join the extended queue of those who sing “progress” to themselves while standing at the centre of a depressing miniature universe, their imaginary advancement a mere shadow elongated by the sun of someone else’s ideas (which in turn had been pick-pocketed elsewhere).

Aural Terrains

GÜNTER MÜLLER / JASON KAHN / NORBERT MÖSLANG – mkm_msa

Reconsider your endorsement of the mollifying aspects of electronic music, as Müller, Kahn and Möslang have returned to divulge another abundant hour of their aural calisthenics which also act as a stimulator without the need of a medical prescription. These six tracks were recorded in 2007 during a series of twelve concerts in South America, yet in their meticulousness they sound as if preconceived in a studio, such is the scientist-like charisma transpiring from the involving contraptions of this decentralizing trio.

This methodical analysis of a sweltering micro-world, where hypercritical expropriations of instrumental physiognomy and inviolable appliance-generated irritableness remunerate our distaste for the frivolous connotations of contemporary masquerades, causes the large part of today’s electronica to sound antediluvian. There’s substance here, that’s the difference. People who declare of having seen the light – while ignoring that “fractal” and “consonance” don’t belong in the same sphere, unless the ears are developed beyond doubt - could even find the nerve to proclaim that this is not really music, that these fabrications of polymorphous propagations, implacably austere investigations of an organic inanimateness, indicate the road to a place where nothing results as callous, excoriating and detrimental as a sonic process. Then, why does this stuff rejuvenates so much? What’s the rationale behind this implausible forthrightness? What idiotic dissertation should deny the only purpose for this biologically artificial combination to exist, namely symbolizing a fruit fallen from an unlikely type of tree?

The legitimisation of intolerance is nearer than you think, often rooted in what’s generally considered as an “open-minded” intellectual environment. It’s too easy to throw a record either in the cauldron of one-a-day-masterpieces that get forgotten after a week or in the closet of ignorable-because-they’re-not-my-friend brilliant releases. The probationary intelligence of these artists - not to mention Müller’s classic “whop-whop-whop-whop” always welcomed on these shores, a heart starting to beat again following a difficult surgery – won’t score many points for friendliness but surely pave the way for that sort of untidiness whose lineaments are nevertheless extremely alluring. Self-congratulatory artistic debauchery be damned.

For 4 Ears

CHARLEMAGNE PALESTINE / CHRISTOPH HEEMANN - Saiten In Flammen

The title translates as "strings on fire". While listening to this proudly droning, cataclysmic elegy to intimidating resonance we comprehend the reason beyond doubt.

Reshaping a sound that corresponds to a landmark of minimalist intensity – namely Charlemagne Palestine's fiercely obstinate piano strumming - is not something that many people even dream about, much less achieve. Yet Christoph Heemann shows how this mission can be accomplished, maintaining the American maverick’s original traits visible despite his subtraction of the most markedly percussive aspects of his relentless tolling.

What happens in less than half a hour is the birth of a new beast, a hybrid sonic warning where expert ears won't struggle in recognizing echoes of Mirror, Organum and Niblock disguised under the clothes of outrageous clusters and reverberations. It takes only a few moments - in both sides of this vinyl album - for the vibrating mass to take command, any restriction forgotten, hordes of aggressive upper partials putting the body through a storm of quivering roars and powerful oscillations. The whole is underscored by massive rumbles, Palestine's Bosendorfer (which for the occasion was taped in 2000 at the Ludwig Museum in Aachen) a dangerous machine capable of inviting the courageous ones to a thorough absorption by a weighty wall of sound - for this REALLY is, not Phil Spector's.

The dam by now broken, waterfalls of misshapen chords denote the conversion from almost elementary gestures to a multiple refraction of the light emitted by two akin souls. There's no looking back. After repeating the experience over and over, we reinforce our intolerance against inferior music.

Rare specimens of creators own the gift of turning every move they decide to make into untainted art. Palestine and Heemann have reached a clamorous balance between enlightened grandeur and utter closure towards cheap-mindedness. This record sounds dangerously close to an exclusion of huge percentages of mortals from certain types of authentic harmonic comprehension. It has to be that way, though, and one feels kind of sorry for those who are left out.

But the sympathy lasts thirty seconds, before the survivors enter the dome of vibration once again to receive the ultimate blessing.

Streamline (distributed by Drag City)