Under the curious moniker hides Phil Begg from Newcastle (a positive sign for starters - does the name :zoviet*france: ring any bell?). Especially known as a creative improviser in the Belgian avant-garde circles, this artist works with an array of processors, microphones and instruments, concocting fascinating sequences of natural-sounding events and seaming the resulting imagery with a compositional maturity that betrays his young age.
We could say that Hatchling features three different stages. In the first part, all one hears is a series of intertwining elements, feeble discharges and toneless secretions superimposed in moderate dynamic alteration. Nothing extraordinarily striking per se, but it’s how these factors are combined that lights a bulb. In fact, these malnourished constituents are deployed very considerately, propagating effortlessly around the listener’s head, totally avoiding that feeling of stereotyped field recording that kills many good intentions in this musical area.
The real mesmeric effects start materializing circa fifteen minutes in. And it happens – you won’t believe it – with water, Hapsburg Braganza having managed to generate something gorgeous with the most worn out kind of environmental accent. It begins with an unadulterated wash, presumably captured at the Crummock Water shore, as Begg indicates in the sleeve notes. Subsequently, the flux grows in intensity until it becomes an actual waterfall, the consequence an extremely effective relaxing therapy, principally when listened via headphones.
From that point on, straight sailing to logical emptiness: a marvelous static drone, perhaps obtained by layering an Indian Harmonium with bowed piano and guitar strings (checking the instrumentation right now) rises from the streams to take full possession of our entire system. The body reaches a state of complete respite, the mind is – as always – ready to be transported in places exclusively accessible to those able to decode a peculiar jargon, where words are a waste of time and vibration is the only desire. The conclusive moments are characterized by the remote, yet still reassuring presence of blackbirds, pigeons and ducks, definitely useful for a gentle awakening from this beneficial analytical inertia.
Forty minutes have passed without us realizing, with just a modicum of ecological and instrumental voices. Delivered from unconstructive thoughts, we set ourselves for another day amidst human vulgarity. When that sort of heart-drying routine tries to molest your internal quietude, give a spin to this beautiful CD.
Idiosyncratics
Tuesday, 29 December 2009
Friday, 25 December 2009
LÉOS ATOR – 3 Requiems Rouges
A recent email by French sound-poet Léos Ator (née Lionel Stora) courteously invited this scribe to give news about the reaction to this CDR, a 30-copy limited edition sent by the composer a few months prior that was lying amidst piles of other records, waiting for review. Uncharacteristically, this polite request ignited a desire to listen to the disc immediately: an act that brought valuable spiritual consequences and the acquaintance with a seriously talented artist.
Ator recorded the music by using the voice and what he calls “pure data programming”, his work, quoting from the press blurb, “freely inspired by medieval Requiem as its main purpose was to invite listeners to meditate on life while fading away”. Whereas the central episode appears as nothing more than an interesting concurrence of electronic pitches generating an uncanny foreign harmony, completely hiding the vocal qualities behind a constantly changing mass of acute sounds, the final piece is almost bloodcurdling, in some measure recalling early Lustmord: a single deep growl counterpointed by vacillating lines, periodic dissonant clusters effectively altering the droning temperament. A strong affirmation indeed.
But the real awe comes from the initial track, entirely constructed on a slowly mounting massive moan that threw me in a state of complete entrancement since the very beginning. This bottomless low-frequency lamentation evolves through semi-static shifts – think a cross of Mirror, Ligeti and a squad of bombers in flight as heard from long distance - complemented by additional waveforms which, peculiarly, resemble a somewhat discordant background of wooden flutes. The whole is augmented by indistinct appearances of soprano-like interferences after the first half. No words can explain the influence, the absolutely stunning effect of this sonic matter on the psyche.
3 Requiems Rouges needs a room to resound just as a human body necessitates oxygen to survive. Even if this will remain the one time in which I decided to spin a CD upon its creator’s pushing, it was the right thing to do. Please welcome Mr. Ator among the personalities to keep an attentive eye on, and try to secure an exemplar of this item, if only for the fantastic opening chapter. Alternatively, you can download the title at the label's website.
Bourbaki
Ator recorded the music by using the voice and what he calls “pure data programming”, his work, quoting from the press blurb, “freely inspired by medieval Requiem as its main purpose was to invite listeners to meditate on life while fading away”. Whereas the central episode appears as nothing more than an interesting concurrence of electronic pitches generating an uncanny foreign harmony, completely hiding the vocal qualities behind a constantly changing mass of acute sounds, the final piece is almost bloodcurdling, in some measure recalling early Lustmord: a single deep growl counterpointed by vacillating lines, periodic dissonant clusters effectively altering the droning temperament. A strong affirmation indeed.
But the real awe comes from the initial track, entirely constructed on a slowly mounting massive moan that threw me in a state of complete entrancement since the very beginning. This bottomless low-frequency lamentation evolves through semi-static shifts – think a cross of Mirror, Ligeti and a squad of bombers in flight as heard from long distance - complemented by additional waveforms which, peculiarly, resemble a somewhat discordant background of wooden flutes. The whole is augmented by indistinct appearances of soprano-like interferences after the first half. No words can explain the influence, the absolutely stunning effect of this sonic matter on the psyche.
3 Requiems Rouges needs a room to resound just as a human body necessitates oxygen to survive. Even if this will remain the one time in which I decided to spin a CD upon its creator’s pushing, it was the right thing to do. Please welcome Mr. Ator among the personalities to keep an attentive eye on, and try to secure an exemplar of this item, if only for the fantastic opening chapter. Alternatively, you can download the title at the label's website.
Bourbaki
Thursday, 24 December 2009
AIDAN BAKER - Dry
What can a sonic crafter who became famous for the use of looped guitars do, if dispossessed of effects and delays? The answer lies in the 47 minutes of Dry, which was entirely played on an unprocessed electric guitar, nine tracks linked together as in a single piece.
Difficult, for the non-owners of an instinctive musicality, to even think of appearing completely exposed and unaided, attempting to produce appealing music without resorting to tricks. It is there that the separation between contenders and pretenders takes place. Baker is well acquainted with the core essence of the instrument: the fact that this record sounds related, in a unique way, to one of the countless lucid dreams he gifted us with in the past is testimony to his immutable sense of personal synchronization, which transits across many lands – static recollection, tranquil arpeggio, unanticipated crackle. Rather stunning, especially considering the bareness of the utilized means.
The Canadian’s ability is also established by the customary richness of those layers, reiterative figurations and chiming chords that, once superimposed, cause sympathetic resonance in large quantity. Not that there’s only cuteness: on the contrary, noisy particles of unclear activity, thumping hits and semi-strums – and, just maybe, some manual preparation - characterize the most surprising parts of the disc. But when Baker brings the whole to a conclusion by utilizing a mechanism of heartrending pseudo-vocal glissandos – ending the trip with the highest percentage of evocation – we’re finally able to release our breath, the deep sigh that typically follows an intense listening experience. “Yes, it’s still him” is the thought that comes to mind during the silent instants following the closing stages.
A touch of class that resounds magically, a highly recommended work – again – by a true poet of reminiscent reverberation.
Install
Difficult, for the non-owners of an instinctive musicality, to even think of appearing completely exposed and unaided, attempting to produce appealing music without resorting to tricks. It is there that the separation between contenders and pretenders takes place. Baker is well acquainted with the core essence of the instrument: the fact that this record sounds related, in a unique way, to one of the countless lucid dreams he gifted us with in the past is testimony to his immutable sense of personal synchronization, which transits across many lands – static recollection, tranquil arpeggio, unanticipated crackle. Rather stunning, especially considering the bareness of the utilized means.
The Canadian’s ability is also established by the customary richness of those layers, reiterative figurations and chiming chords that, once superimposed, cause sympathetic resonance in large quantity. Not that there’s only cuteness: on the contrary, noisy particles of unclear activity, thumping hits and semi-strums – and, just maybe, some manual preparation - characterize the most surprising parts of the disc. But when Baker brings the whole to a conclusion by utilizing a mechanism of heartrending pseudo-vocal glissandos – ending the trip with the highest percentage of evocation – we’re finally able to release our breath, the deep sigh that typically follows an intense listening experience. “Yes, it’s still him” is the thought that comes to mind during the silent instants following the closing stages.
A touch of class that resounds magically, a highly recommended work – again – by a true poet of reminiscent reverberation.
Install
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