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Pelican's latest proves that you don't need a crooner to rock, and that you don't have to ramble on for a quarter of an hour just because your band doesn't have a singer, either. This is an album full of gritty, muscular songs that makes the case for hard rock bands releasing instrumental versions of their albums.
A few years ago when indie hip hop was getting attention from indie rock labels, there was a somewhat disturbing trend where labels would release instrumental versions of albums that were recorded with vocals. Sometimes if I just didn't like a particular MC, I would pick up the instrumental disc so that I could at least appreciate the production, and that worked for me. But the whole thing seemed to reek of a way to sell hip hop records to folks who thought it was cool to listen to hip hop but who couldn't be bothered with all of those rappers. With Pelican's newest record, their first full length for Southern Lord, the notion of the instrumental album makes a little more sense to me.
Unlike most of the bands making heavy, instrumental rock records, Pelican aren't out to write epics. The songs on What We All Come To Need are never longer than about seven minutes and they are always designed with verses and choruses and bridges and hooks—the standard trappings of rock music. Pelican stands out in this respect, because these songs could very easily be written around a voice, but thankfully they are not. Every time I put this record on, I'm reminded of how it could so easily be spoiled by dumb lyrics or a voice that draws every ounce of attention to itself. I'm also reminded that I don't listen to a lot of heavy rock music precisely because so much of it is rendered useless by singers that don't do anything for me.
What We All Come To Need is full of driving rhythms and logical changes. It doesn't veer into noodly prog territory but it doesn't take a single chord and just make it louder for 12 minutes either. There's enough in each of these songs to pay attention to, enough moments for the players to shine and for the songwriting to take center stage. The songs don't wallow or whine—they are meaty and aggressive when they need to be, but the band isn't afraid to air things out either. In doing so, they create some magical moments where the tension of all of that grinding testosterone is released by wide open chords and beautiful beds of fuzzy guitar tones.
The album closes with a song that swims against the instrumental grain by including a voice. After demonstrating the virtues of instrumental rock, I was afraid that the band would blow it at the end with a singer but Pelican have wisely chosen a voice that kind of drones and melts into the music perfectly. I love this record because it fills a void. This is quality heavy music that isn't overly maudlin or fixated on embarrassing themes. It doesn't meander or take itself deadly seriously—it's just a great rock record by a band who clearly know what they are doing.
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Juana Molina's music is a child-like and eruptive force of nature. On her fifth album she has refined her musical vocabulary and crafted a work that rejoices in playfulness and unrestrained dynamism.
Molina's songs have always been a congregation of electronic and acoustic sounds that bounce off one another in messy and sensuous ways. Ever since hearing Segundo, I've been captivated by the way her instruments interact to synthesize environments of sound. Although her music is always bound by strong melodies and persistent rhythms, Molina's arrangements create a sense of unity that emphasizes a totality rather than a particular part. On Un Dia, Molina has taken that approach further into the abstract and sewn together an album that thrives on connectivity and harmony.
The opening and title track begins everything with the roar of Molina's voice. With the trumpeting of her throat, a parade of rhythmic vocal dubs flow from the speakers and a wave of various instruments follow suit. In the past, Molina's voice has sometimes been a soft and airy addition to her music, but on "Un Dia" it is the focus. Even as hordes of percussive and harmonic additions work their way into the mix, it is Molina's persistent voice that takes center stage. Throughout much of the album her voice is the entity holding everything together and she imitates her utterances across a myriad of tones and timbres, finding parallels in rumbling pianos, buzzing electronics, and kitchen-sink percussion. The result are songs with recognizable hooks and distinct parts that nonetheless solidify into an organic mass. The whole is greater than its parts, but Molina's voice is the conductor.
Nothing that follows "Un Dia" is quite as bombastic. "Vive Solo" begins with a softly plucked guitar and Molina's reverb-thick voice. It sucks up and employs tribal rhythms and atmospherics over time, gradually increasing in intensity as additional elements begin to surface. Yet, it never reaches a fevered pitch. Molina takes joy in finding a place for new textures and approaches in every song; she's capable of writing an entire record's worth of ideas into one five minute space without sacrificing continuity. Dissonance, chaos, organization, ugliness, and beauty sit side by side on songs like "Los Hongos de Marosa" and "Dar (Qué Difícil)." Without flinching, Molina blends snappy, dance-like rhythms with detuned guitars, haunting moans, half-muffled electronic bass, and disheveled effects. The final product is not, amazingly, a muddy soup of sound, but a lush stream of music.
It seems there's no end to what Molina is willing to toss into the mix. It is as though someone threw her into a room filled with musical toys and she found a way to use every last one of them on her record. Her songs have always been full of random noise and her music has always been a synthesis of musical approaches. What makes Un Dia stand out in her catalog is the depth of her production and the quality of her writing. On past albums some of her chaotic playfulness could be a bit distracting, but here it is an essential element. Every single bit of sound is necessary for the success of the whole. This album is filled to the brim with exotic sounds and unexpected twists, some of which fly by the first few times because of the album's dynamic character. Molina has outdone herself with Un Dia and expanded upon her song-writing formula. She is still firmly writing within the realm of pop music, but she's stretching its conventions to their extremes.
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Ka-Spel's follow up to last year's excellent Part One is similarly organized, but features vastly different results. More disjointed and even jarring at times, this album mines new emotional territory. Uncertainty and dread give rise to paranoiac self-effacement on this melancholic gaze into the underworld.
Themes of flight from things both geographic and psychic occur throughout Dream Logik Part Two, starting with the lyrics about running and fleeing on "As a Bird/A Missing Piece." The use of screeching tires, horns honking, and passing trains on "Going My Way?" and Ka-Spel's line, "Don't talk about me when I'm gone" from "My Wandering Star/As a Bird (Part 2)" add to this theme. There's even a sense of Kafka-esque escape throughout the first-person narration of "The Modest Ambitions of Cedric the Centipede." On "Darkness O" he hints that this desire to flee comes in part from a fear of the future when he says, "Nothing can be forecast/nothing is clear except the water we tread/and our endless capacity for fear of what comes next." He also hints at a sense of disillusionment with himself when he says, "I am the accident waiting to happen" on "Going My Way?"
Yet, not everything on Part Two is so bleak. "As a Bird/A Missing Piece" opens with the sound of deep-sleep breathing that's interrupted by whimsical jazz and a tapping at the window, perhaps by one of the many Alices who appear lost in the reflecting corridors of Ka-Spel's own dream wonderland. The album's centerpiece, "Cedric the Centipede," uses simple, playful synth melodies to illustrate the story. Later, this mood is reinforced with the repetition of a child-like chorus. Things end on a gentle note with the aquatic sounds, light chants, and bird-like electronic chirps of "My Wandering Star/As a Bird (Part 2)."
The lack of anything so bold as "Harvester" from Part One and an increased reliance on collage techniques makes Part Two a somewhat lackadaisical affair, and this patient pacing combined with such dark lyrics give it an intensity that's more emotional than musical. Even so, Ka-Spel's nightmarish visions make it a successfully fascinating and, at times, chilling successor.
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It's hard to imagine a better guide to vintage European prog/psych than The Bevis Frond's Nick Saloman. Here he curates another compilation of quality obscurities from the late '60s and early '70s, this time originating primarily in Belgium, Holland, Germany, Ireland, and Britain. While not every selection is a lost classic, this collection is thoroughly entertaining.
The blues are very much an influence on these tracks, showing up in things like the staunch staccato verses of Bismarck's "Shotgun Express," on the lead in Ginger Ale's "Get Off My Life Woman" or in the swagger of the Tenderfoot Kids' "Man in Black." A couple of the songs sound eerily similar to songs by Led Zeppelin, like the "Whole Lotta Love"-aping intro to Carriage in Company's "In Your Room" or Silence's equivalent of "Communication Breakdown" called "Devil Woman." Still, there are few straight rock songs to be found. The forward-pounding "Old Songs New Songs" by Big Wheel breaks up the action with a slowed, harmony-heavy, organ-drenched chorus. CWT's "Widow Woman" has a reggae rhythm, horns, and a proto-metal riff. Even on something a little more typical, like Kingdom's "All I Need," the attacking guitar and ferocious drums are blanketed in abnormally monstrous reverb.
For many of these tracks, there's no escaping the time period in which they were created. Lyrics like those from The Tower's "In Your Life" emphasize this: "Looking back through a crystal of colors/at the good things gone by in your life." There is a similar line on Distant Jim's title track: "I taste vision/I see sound/I like trees in the ground." Although these are cringe-inducing lines with dated New Age aspirations, many of the lyrics in these songs aren't quite so bad. What makes even the blemished songs so enjoyable is that there's always some other redeeming quality, and the musicianship is of a high quality. With this many tracks, that there aren't any duds to be found is a testament to Saloman's ear for this material.
Cosmarama's pleasurable mix of the foreign and familiar makes for a heady aural concoction. It's unlikely that this compilation will recruit new fans to this type of music, but for existing fans, it's an ear-opening thrill.
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The album is pleasant enough but its consistently mellow tempo and similar arrangements don't do enough to stimulate the imagination. The band plays a lot of atmospheric jams using soaring guitars, lyric-less vocals, electronics, and a rhythm section to keep them grounded. A hazy smoke screen is used on almost every track, giving the album moments of bland uniformity. Similarly, the bass line from "Hallucinations" doesn't sound too different from the one on "Trem Fantasma," and the bass is a tad generic and forgettable on "Labyrinths." Yet the latter track is perhaps the album's finest, not only because it's one of the few that has a hint of emotion, but also because it features a saxophone that takes up the theme in a satisfyingly cathartic manner. The album does have a couple of other exceptions, like the brief, Terry Riley-inspired sax delay of "Pink Light" or the eerily droning "Echoes," but the other songs are fairly conventional, even when they add decorative textures to the introductions or endings.
Because it doesn't really end up saying much, III is a slight album that ambles about prettily without elevating itself to any remarkable or gorgeous heights. However, all the songs are mostly above average and perhaps best used as background soundtracks to more intriguing action.
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This album is overflowing with garden variety house music, the kind found in garish, overpriced nightclubs and played ad nauseum at ear-splitting levels. These standard beats do nothing to stir up any excitement, let alone thoughts of dancing, and could be unnoticeably interchanged among themselves from song to song. Even the attempts at humor on this album fall flat, like the lame "Public Announcement Skit" in which Darth Vader claims that he likes touching himself in public or the equally stupid fake public service announcement about safe sex, "Black Fu Condom-mints Skit." The album's only true funk song, "Rollin' Paper & Bush," is actually decent, or at least more palatable than the rest of the album. More songs like this one would have been a drastic improvement. On the other hand, "Earth Hoes," which follows, is a forgettable, obnoxious track that seems inspired by too many ill-advised late-night viewings of Earth Girls Are Easy.
A joyless disappointment, Nuttin' Butt Funk has very few moments of interest and is best forgotten as quickly as possible.
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Lauded often as the zenith of their career, this album manages to be richer and more unified by actually being more disjointed: rather than the nine distinct pieces that made up Information Overload Unit, Leichenschrei is 14 shorter tracks that bleed over into one another, often invisibly. Taken as a whole there is a certain thematic linkage that pulls the album together into one of darkest, bleakest ones in existence, one that loses none of its power nearly 30 years since its release.
Thermidor/Side Effects/Mute
The most obvious differentiating factor between this and the previous Information Overload Unit is less of a reliance on raw, harsh noise strategies.While dissonance is still the norm here, it is placed within a more structured, rhythmic framework that feels more focused overall.While there is little hint of the more conventional, commercial tone their work would take afterwards, there is more form here for sure.
Rhythms—acoustic, electronic, and metallic—drive most of these songs, along with a more open use of analog synthesizers and sequencers.Rather than burying them in layer upon layer of distortion and effects, they're allowed to sound as they were intended in most circumstances.While it bears only the slightest hints of the synth pop rhythms that dominated their later work, there are some memorable patterns to be heard, much different than Information Overload Unit.
Another distinct feature are that the vocals, rather than being either harshly barked in German or obscured in effects, are instead more of a spoken word type, often rather clear and performed by either Graeme Revell, the late Neil Hill, or Sinan Leong (Revell's wife, who I think made Machine Age Voodoo worse than it could have been, but here is an acceptable presence), and are thematically either related to autopsies or sex.Very few albums feature lines as memorable as "…he tried to give me syphilis by wiping his cock on my sandwich," but it's here on "Post-Mortem."
Looking at the album in its original vinyl arrangement, the second half features more "songs" in my opinion: longer pieces that feel more fleshed out and structured, while the first half are shorter sketches that are more experimental overall."Despair" is the most conventional song here. It works with a repetitive bass guitar/junk percussion rhythm section, focused synthesizer work, and Revell ALMOST singing the lyrics.In a way, it almost heralds the transition of "industrial" from its early, experimental days when this album was recorded to the aggressive, synth driven dance music "industrial" became.
"Day of Pigs" comes in a close second for musical structure, with noisy electronics and muted vocals, propelled by bass guitar and a beautifully stiff analog drum machine.Structurally it adheres to traditional song conventions rather well, stopping and starting in all the right places.The repetitive synth sequence and erratic rhythms of "Wars of Islam" carry some additional early proto-techno/electro sensibilities to it:while sinister and messy, it’s not hard to hear how it structurally fits into both of those genres quite well with its tight sequences and repetitive rhythms and melodic synth lead towards the end.
One exception to the song orientation on this side is "The Agony of the Plasma," which pairs spoken word and muted musical elements with repeated loops of a woman’s scream and breaking glass, only feeling less like a sonic collage and more like an actual "song" in its closing minute.Its skeletal structure makes it perhaps the most formless piece on the album, and while it lacks in cohesion, it makes up for it in mood.
There are precious few albums that can present this level of violence and menace without coming across as cliché or forced, and I honestly can’t think of one that does it as well as Leichenschrei.Oozing with pure malice, it is also a timeless album that, if released today, would be considered just as brilliant as it was in 1982.I've personally owned this for over a decade and listening to it again for purposes of this review, it still felt fresh, with nuances I never noticed before being apparent.I suppose it was inevitable that SPK took such a nosedive in their career afterward, because I don’t think it would have been possible to top this album or create something even similar.It's a beautifully disturbing album that sounds or feels like nothing else.
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Ankersmit's first solo foray, last year's Live in Utrecht was praised by many, including myself, as a powerful and unique piece of abstraction mixing inorganic processed sounds with saxophone in an impressively diverse live setting. Here, with fellow composer Valerio Tricoli (3/4HadBeen Eliminated), the work is in a more traditional context, composed between 2008 and 2010, with the results being no less impressive than his solo live endeavor.
These five pieces embrace elements of both analog and digital, using both to create a unique balance that sounds like nobody else."Zwerm Voor Tithonus" wastes no time opening the album, immediately launching into shrill shimmering tones, radio static, and emergency sirens in a dense, aggressive mix that quickly disintegrates, leaving a spacious canyon of ambience, with lost fragments of sound echoing in the distance.Slowly the noisier vibe returns via layered and textural static, becoming disorienting and extremely obtuse, but fascinating all the while.
"Hunt" uses a similar template, putting heavily reverberated glitches and carefully restrained harsh squeals together into a dark miasma of sound.The impenetrable wall of sound eventually drops off to allow more subtle elements to be heard before becoming chaotic and messy again, with the multitude of unrecognizable sounds fully engulfing the composition.
Between these twin monoliths of difficult sound lie two shorter, more restrained and meditative pieces that weave the album together in a perfect balance."Brent Mini" is all subtle insect like cracklings and distant hums, creating a more tonal and sparse experience."Plague #7" uses chirpy synths and heavy drones to create a calm and peaceful, though still dense piece of music.
Closing the album is "T√¢hkt-e Tavus," which stands on its own conceptually as a piece focusing on Ankersmit's alto sax playing, which is slowly merged with a heavily treated, synthetic version of the same instrument, creating a wall of sound that is built brick by brick until the human and inhuman sounds are indistinguishable from one another.It is a brilliant work, both conceptually and sonically, and illustrates the strengths of these two young composers.
While they're working in a crowded field, Tricoli and Ankersmit have created an album that stands above many other imitators, carefully balancing the chaotic nature of their sound with careful and deliberate pacing and structuring.It's not quite light listening, but it is well worth the effort.
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J. G. Thirlwell's Manorexia project is perhaps the most idiosyncratic in a career of idiosyncrasies. As both a specifically solo project and one in which traditional structures are an afterthought, it excels in both the realms of modern composition and pure chaos. Those strengths are magnified on this album, specifically with the inclusion of a 5.1 surround sound mix on DVD, which one of the most creative and effective uses of the format I have yet heard.
Ever since getting my surround sound receiver I have been interested in this format, but too often it has become a novelty more than anything truly captivating or creative.What seems like the perfect panacea for counteracting the prevalence of file trading has seemingly fallen flat.Major record labels have used it mostly to pad out overpriced collector's editions, contracting journeyman engineers to go in and play with the master tape to create something that has little to do with the original artist's intent.Smaller labels, meanwhile, have mostly ignored the technology entirely, opting to instead embrace more difficult to copy formats like cassette tape as their middle finger to MP3 leeches.Many of the 5.1 albums I've heard just don't feel "right" in my opinion, with one exception being the Trent Reznor remixed version of The Downward Spiral which, regardless of opinions of Nine Inch Nails, showed just how strong the format could be, given the right amount of attention and creativity.
Dinoflagellate Blooms is also another high water mark for surround sound releases, perfectly suited for a format that uses five channels rather than the standard two.From the opening moments of "Cryogenics," I knew it was going to be a good disc.Initially pushing the stringed and plucked instruments to the front, while keeping the heavier, low register stuff in the back, creating an unsettling balance.Erratic, heavy horn blasts that resemble a trumpeting elephant pan around the room, as do rattling percussive blasts.It also gives that .1 part of 5.1 a work-out, blasting out a sonic-boom level bass outburst here and there.
"Anabiosis" is an industrial symphony, putting aggressive stabs and what sounds like guitar swirling around the mix, combining deep strings and dramatic horn blasts with quiet, wheezing moments of unnatural origins.All throughout it constantly develops and changes, never losing its cinematic intensity but conveying a variety of moves.
"Krzystl" goes right for the jugular when it opens, pushing sharp, violent static out of every channel that made me wonder at first if my receiver was breaking down, but only briefly.Between that and manic, chopped speech fragments that pan around, the infrequent quiet moments being quickly ruined by aggressive crashes and bangs, it an ugly, but thoroughly enjoyable piece of dissonance.
The middle tracks are surprisingly more restrained, working with more restraint than the opening pieces."A Plastic Island in the Pacific" doesn't really throw everything and the kitchen sink into the piece, but instead works with a spacious, but uneasy creepy vibe.Tones drone away, broken up by deep bass thuds, but menace never seems far away.
"The Perfect Patsy" goes back to the sweeping drama of the earlier pieces, characterized by muted strings that drone away, while the back channel are subtleties underscoring the main sounds.There feels like the urge to explode into the theatrical chaos from before, but it never quite happens.
"Kinaesthesia" goes back to the restrained tension, with demonic growls and sinister feedback panned around the room aggressively.Ominous ambiences, air raid sirens and bizarre sonic twitterings, eventually relenting only to leave a dark bass drone to remain.The closer "Struck" ends the album like it began, with messy percussive blasts and wheezing horns.With pounding orchestral chaos in the front and sound effects in the back, it's another piece that really takes advantage of the disorientation that 5.1 surround can bring.The bombastic, massive sound of the piece actually belies its relatively quiet ending, closing the album with surprising peace.
While the included CD presents the album in traditional stereo, Dinoflagellate Blooms feels like it was intended to be heard in 5.1, and thus I focused on that part of the album.The stereo version is no slouch by any means:Thirlwell could likely be putting his work out on nearly inaudible wax cylinders and it would still be captivating.The extra depth that the additional channels give makes a great composition even greater.
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Collecting ideas from fiction and philosophy, this release clarifies Florian Hecker’s reputation for playfulness and investigation. Like a rogue mathematician who is considering questions which most people will never consider, Hecker attempts to turn metaphysical query into sound. His response to the (strange and hilarious) notion of hyperchaos will be unpalatable for some; but others of us wouldn’t have it any other way.
 
Speculative Solution is partly an elaborate joke about predictability. The disc comes in a lovely dark blue box demanding adoration, with titles printed in silver letters. This object held my attention for days, not least as the box has a lid too tight to open without considerable effort. Turning it back and forth, though, meant further distraction from five tiny metal balls rolling around inside. Once open (with the aid of a second person) a dense booklet of theoretical essays is revealed providing weeks of pleasure, frustration and hilarity. During that time, I didn't actually bother to listen to the music.
More on the box: The 2008 documentary Boxes details Stanley Kubrick’s obsession with cataloging everything from crank letters to audition tapes and photographs of hats, storefronts and gates. Eventually, Kubrick came to demand the perfect box in which to store everything. This was to be of certain dimensions and not too loose nor too tight. While Kubrick may have found the Speculative Solution box to be visually pleasing in decoration and dimensions, I fear its functionality would have resulted in him giving the designer of the box a right bollocking.
Hecker's blogspot claims he is investigating "whether concepts of absolute contingency and hyperchaos offer a rigorous new alternative to the employment of chance and randomness in avant-garde composition." This is a question I feel ill-equipped to understand, let alone answer, despite dipping frequently into the highly enjoyable and fascinating accompanying texts from Robin Mackay, Quentin Meillassoux and Elie Ayache. There are some disparate references including Philip K. Dick, The Hitch-hiker's Guide to The Galaxy, Hume’s observations of billiard balls, and so on, and when approached in the right frame of mind, these somewhat impenetrable and preposterous writings become light and airy flights of logical fancy; at once engaging, funny and impressive.
Hecker suggests that the musical part of this project is best heard at loud volume through speakers and that headphones are not advised. I concur, and also strongly suggest that listening while driving be avoided since passages of hideous, jarring squealing, rapid-fire pulses, and unnervingly high-pitched frequencies may cause a serious multiple pile-up. My listening revealed that Hecker has facilitated a piece of musical closed-circuitry which seems to extrapolate from the starting point of the chaotic interaction between the metal balls in the box. The resulting sounds are a hyper-real edifice of (un)imagination which completely transported me to another place; albeit one from which I was somewhat relieved to escape. Clicking sounds akin to Chinese water torture, shoveling gravel, accelerating squelching electro-spasm, sudden jolts, bangs, and rare glimpses of extreme quasi-funkiness are just the start. Meanwhile, several tones had me reaching for the booklet in case I missed the small print which explains that bringing the box into your home gives Hecker permission to play a tune on your fillings using telescopic laser technology.
The more palatable periods resemble the space creatures from The Clangers attacking an electric piano, someone whistling through a baboon’s anus, and fleas jumping on the strings of an oddly-tuned piano. Also, sections of "Speculative Solution 2" have a narrower focus than other tracks and benefit from a chugging rhythm akin to the sound of a robot continuing to speak calmly while choking to death in a mud pool. That and liposuction being performed with (alternately) bagpipes and bellows. Having said that, "2"'s adherence to a stricter rhythm becomes dull compared to both the epic "Speculative Solution 1" and "Octave Chronics." Indeed Hecker seems to use this dullness to illustrate or mock predictability (and accentuates this by naming two tracks "Speculative Solution 2.)
My first time through the entire recording was intriguing and definitely unpredictable. I had to leave the room at one point, though, and listen from afar. So, for me, this is a disc which demands to be heard, but also demands to be put away for a long time before approaching again; in the hope of having an experience akin to the first unbelievable hearing. I must add, by way of perspective, that the box is a much more alluring and darker color of blue than the photo here and equally there is no way a few sound snippets can reflect the flow and surprise in this recording.
In his collection, Letters From London, Julian Barnes quotes (former editor of The Times) Simon Jenkins who states a logic whereby people find comfort in the existence of things which they themselves may never use. Thus, the Royal Family, rural post offices or train stations in places we will never visit, The Times, WFMU, poisonous fish, and so on, can have distant value for those who rarely or never use them. Similarly, I don’t necessarily want to hear music as chaotic and steeped in theory as Speculative Solution very often, but it’s comforting to know that it (and Florian Hecker) is out there.
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In 2009, filmmaker Olivia Wyatt flew to Ethiopia to document an indigenous music festival (the Festival of a Thousand Stars), only to learn upon her arrival that the government had canceled it.  Rather than admitting defeat, Wyatt opted instead to embark upon an epic road trip, visiting more than a dozen of the tribes associated with the festival on their own (very remote) home turf.  The mesmerizing footage of amphetamine-fueled spirit possession ceremonies, unsettling wedding rituals, and bizarre music videos that resulted boasts some of the strangest things that I have ever seen or heard.
I was initially a bit apprehensive about this release, as I don't have a very deep interest in tribal/indigenous African music.  Fortunately, Staring Into The Sun was a pleasant surprise on two fronts.  For one, there is some music here that is so bizarre and unique that it transcends mere "exotic curiosity" status and seems genuinely audacious and experimental.  The Borana Tribe's obsessively repetitious polyphonic singing is one such highlight, but it is the eerie and uncomfortably dissonant pan-pipe piece by the Dirashe Tribe that pretty much steals the show (the unpredictable horn blasts and ululations only make it better, as far as I am concerned).  Secondly, Wyatt's mini-book and film turned out to be much more fascinating and colorful than the music that they are ostensibly documenting.  That is not to say the music is inconsequential or poorly chosen, but it is an unavoidable fact that hearing a field recording from one of these performances is not nearly the same as experiencing it.  Wyatt's footage and writings provide a far more moving and intimate perspective.
The film follows an aesthetic that is typical of Sublime Frequencies films, as it is essentially a documentary with no conventional narrative arc or context/exposition.  Sometimes that can be a bit of an endurance test for me, as it is hard to keep sitting through a lengthy series of independent scenes that are not moving towards any convergence or resolution.  Fortunately, Wyatt has an impeccable eye for isolating and holding striking images which makes it very easy to get drawn in (and then trying to unravel exactly what is happening sinks the hooks a bit deeper).  The film would be most effective as a video installation–its a bit exhausting when taken in all at once, but it is the sort of thing that I could start watching at any point.
There are too many memorable scenes to recount, but the Herzog-worthy opening sequence of the Borana Tribe transferring water up a multilevel well was particularly mesmerizing.  As was the footage of a Hamar wedding–the groom has to run naked across a row of bulls and the bride gets whipped with sticks, as the resultant scarification makes her more alluring to men.  There is also quite a bit of surreal humor to be had, as Olivia breaks up her own footage with Ethiopian pop videos that resemble '80s MTV at its most kitsch, but with more AK-47s and long knives involved.  Again, however, the Dirashe Tribe handily eclipses everything else with their pan-pipe performance, as they look like a row of psychotic line-dancing ice cream men.  I'm sure that they will eventually surface in one of my nightmares somewhere down the line.
The accompanying book is a very entertaining and readable mixture of information about the various tribes and Wyatt's personal remembrances.  Again, she seems to intuitively grasp what is worth focusing on and what isn't.  She covers key anthropological and music topics (which instruments were played, etc.) with admirable concision, but thankfully devotes much more space to stuff like sex, hyenas, jail, and spirit possession.  It sounds like she had quite a trip.  I don't anticipate myself going back to the CD very regularly, but Staring Into The Sun was still a truly bizarre, fascinating, and eye-opening multimedia experience that captures some things that Western eyes and ears have seldom experienced.
Samples:
- Dirashe Tribe, "Dirashe Syncopated Panpipes"
- Borana Tribe, "Borana Singing Wells"
- Habesha 2000 Band, "Habesha Traditional Song 3"
 
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