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Swans were dead, but Michael Gira is emphatic that this is not a reunion or a re-hash of a defunct brand. The Angels of Light were a rebirth (the title New Mother emphasizes that), but they have run their course as an outlet for Gira’s music. They represented a different sentiment and a different focus and this album is very much back where Swans left off in terms of feeling. That is not to say that his time spent doing The Angels of Light has not rubbed off on Gira but this feels right as a Swans album. Not only that but it feels like one of the definitive albums of the year, there is nothing here I would remove or alter.
Most of the songs on My Father Will Guide Me Up a Rope to Sky were previously released as solo acoustic versions on the album I Am Not Insane (although "My Birth" dates back to the last Swans tour in 1997) so, for better or for worse, many fans will already be familiar with the material before they press play. While lyrically I knew what to expect, it was hard for me to envisage how those acoustic versions would translate to the full sound that Swans are legendary for. I find that when Gira picks up an acoustic guitar, no matter what song he plays it could very easily end up going in any number of directions once a group gets involved. However, from the moment "No Words/No Thoughts" begins, it is impossible to deny the intention behind this release. The cynics who are dismissing this as a cash grab by Gira could not be further from the truth. Had this album been released in the late '90s, no one would have been surprised at the band’s name (though the music might have been more of a surprise).
The only song on I Am Not Insane to sound instantly like a Swans song was "Eden Prison" and I am delighted to find it present here fully developed. The distinctive rhythm could easily have evolved from earlier Swans pieces like "Feel Happiness" from Swans Are Dead or "I Am the Sun" from The Great Annihilator. It is hard to put a finger on what makes a Swans song and I feel the usual descriptions of heavy, slow and miserable to be not entirely persuasive. For me, Swans have always been about the rhythm: the songs lurch rather than follow a steady 1, 2, 3, 4 beat. Whether it is a quiet, introspective piece or one of those pummelling early works, it is all in the rhythm and that particular rhythm is all over this album. "Eden Prison" churns like a powerful engine; the pistons firing, driving the group like a runaway, overladen train doing its best to stay on the tracks.
"Inside Madeline" totters on a knife edge as a snaking bass line care of Chris Pravdica (his first tour of duty with Swans) worms in and out of the layers of guitar and Thor Harris’ fantastic drumming. I was a little disappointed that Toby Dammit (a.k.a. Larry Mullins) was not involved again but Harris’ confident and commanding drumming (amongst other duties) is well up to scratch. Swans’ sense of dynamics proves to be still intact as "Inside Madeline" drops to a whisper to allow Gira to inject his words into the music. Gira steps back from the microphone on "You Fucking People Make Me Sick" to allow his daughter Saoirse and Devendra Banhart to carry the vocals. Banhart has made a career out of capturing his childhood spirit but here his voice sounds ragged and ancient, especially so when Saoirse’s joins his. Midway through the song, the mood changes drastically as clusters of notes are dragged out of a piano like a difficult birth.
There is a deluxe version of the album which unfortunately was not made available to those who pre-ordered the album back in January. Even an option to upgrade would have been appreciated as the piece is every bit as good as the main event and it sucks to have to buy a second copy of the album to get it. Yet it is easy to overlook this as "Look At Me Go" has a gravity which allows it stand alone from My Father Will Guide Me Up a Rope to the Sky, it is not a bonus disc in anything other than name. A collage in the style of The Body Lovers/Body Haters albums, "Look At Me Go" takes the raw recordings from the My Father Will Guide Me Up a Rope to Sky sessions and sends them into a vortex. Some of the sounds are obviously out-takes from the album (such as Saoirse Gira’s full vocals for "You Fucking People Make Me Sick") and it is interesting to hear some of the segments that did not make the album, the what-could-have-beens and the familiar hammered into new shapes.
I have rated all of Gira’s post-Swans work highly, usually more highly than much of the Swans catalogue (The Angels of Light were Gira’s true calling) but My Father Will Guide Me Up a Rope to Sky is even better than I could hope for. The music remains vital and powerful, the idea of this as a "reunion" does not sully the work put in by these musicians.
Swans are alive.
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Swans were dead, but Michael Gira is emphatic that this is not a reunion or a re-hash of a defunct brand. The Angels of Light were a rebirth (the title New Mother emphasizes that), but they have run their course as an outlet for Gira's music. They represented a different sentiment and a different focus and this album is very much back where Swans left off in terms of feeling. That is not to say that his time spent doing The Angels of Light has not rubbed off on Gira but this feels right as a Swans album. Not only that but it feels like one of the definitive albums of the year, there is nothing here I would remove or alter.
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When I first heard the rumors of a possible Swans resurrection, I wasn't quite sure what to think. I never thought for a second that they'd follow the path of other lesser bands that put out an album of re-recorded "hits" and toured state fairs, but I did think there was a chance it could result in a rebranded Angels of Light disc or a Michael Gira solo album. However, neither of those happened, and instead there is a new Swans album worthy of their legacy, and hopefully the first of many.
 
Another concern I had about this album was more of a personal one.My first actual exposure to the band was after their dissolution, so I wasn't "there" for the release of new material, it was all historical to me.Considering my first actual experience was Cop/Young God/Greed/Holy Money, and my second was Various Failures, I was quickly exposed to the two extremes in their sound.But, I never had to "accept" an album as a new Swans album until now.
So I started the disc with some trepidation, not knowing how exactly I was going to feel about "new" Swans material.It took less than a minute into "No Words/No Thoughts" before I knew I had nothing to worry about, thanks to founding member Norman Westerberg’s repetitive, but crushing guitar, layers of noise and drone.About half-way through, Gira's vocals appear, still carrying a certain southern drawl he began cultivating with Angels of Light, but the intensity of the song is pure Swans.
As I hoped, My Father sounds as massive and "heavy" as any prior album, but it feels like an entirely new entity.While I hear traces of older albums and songs amongst the eight tracks, never does it feel like an attempt to duplicate previous work, just influence of it arising in new material."Eden Prison" has a loping repetitive inertia to it that feels in league with the earliest work, but entirely singular and contemporary.Same with "My Birth," which pounds away like the Swans of old, but with a much stronger sense of melody and songwriting.
A few of the songs retain that southern folk influence that Gira developed with Angels of Light, such as sparse "Reeling The Liars In," replete with tales of skinning and burning bodies.The final section of "Inside Madeline" sounds like it could actually be an outtake from one of the Angels albums, but with a thrashing, aggressive instrumental opening that constitutes about two-thirds of the song.The focus on acoustic guitar and backing harmonies in "Little Mouth" results in a sort of country/blues hybrid that is all its own, however.
"You Fucking People Make Me Sick" has probably received the most attention on this album prior to its release, featuring Devendra Banhart and Gira's three year old daughter in a vocal duet.Banhart's sound and style never appealed to me much at all, but the relatively light arrangement and his perverse fairy tale vocals work well together to create a truly creepy atmosphere, which is just magnified by the two minute piano/drum outro, with some extremely dark horn drones to close everything out.
The deluxe edition of this album contains a bonus disc consisting of a single 46 minute track, "Look At Me Go," that was built from instrumental segments and pieces of the final album.In that regard it is reminiscent of the material from the latter Swans albums such as Soundtracks for the Blind, but again is its own beast.The harsh, more abrasive moments of the album are drawn out even longer, resulting in something that is part "megamix"/part sound collage/part unique composition.While the primary "album" consists of songs in the traditional sense, this extra material is a pure exploration of sound that ranks with the best of the band’s experimental moments from the past.Played loudly (as I’m sure it was intended), it is a beautifully visceral experience.
I think most people will be as thrilled with the fact that Gira has decided to revive his old band as I am. My Father had a lot of expectations to live up to, and it surpassed them easily.Considering this isn’t just a one-off project, I can only imagine how the next album will turn out, especially once the band has a new tour under its belt and begins writing new material.
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Strumming Music For Piano, Harpsichord And Strings Ensemble.
(SR 297CD) : OUT 10/12/2010
Sub Rosa presents unpublished works by minimalist composer/vocalist/performer Charlemagne Palestine. Charlemagne Palestine wrote intense, ritualistic music in the 1970s, intended by the composer to rub against audiences' expectations of what is beautiful and meaningful in music. A composer-performer, he always performed his own works as soloist. His earliest works
were compositions for carillon and electronic drones, and he is best known for his
intensely performed piano works. These unpublished pieces from the mid-'70s are
works built on the same principles that he developed and established over the years
for the piano. This is a unique variation on composition that introduces a perpetual
rise inside a continuum of sound. "All of the Strumming Music manifestations seem to
have originated from Charlemagne's physical relationship with the colossal carillon
bells in the tower of St. Thomas Church on Fifth Avenue in New York. I met
Charlemagne Palestine in 1968. The intensity of his listening impressed me as the
intensity of his playing would later, when I heard him play on the carillon and the
bells to 'his church.' I realized later, when Charlemagne had started to develop his
series of piano pieces called Strumming, that he was assaulting that concrete
ceiling and literally pushing through its three feet to release the sonic energy in
the piano, much as he had with the carillon. Charlemagne's interest and work in
electronic music increased in the late '60s, and in 1970, he decamped to southern
California where he became a graduate student working with Morton Subotnick. It was
during this year at CalArts (1970-71) that Charlemagne developed an approach to the
piano that was not only extremely repetitive and physical, but predicated on the
theory that, given the right stimulus, the instrument had a voice of its own and
could produce a whole array of high overtones that seem to jump out on their own as
if by magic. Over the next few years, he developed and polished the music that came
to be known simply as 'Strumming.' The rapid alternation between single notes and
chords and different registers became a technique that he seemed to own, and it
really only worked with this magic piano. 'Strumming' was the physical technique;
the melodies and harmonies that resulted made the music breathe and feel alive.
After a while, the ear doesn't distinguish between notes that are sounded by hammers
and those which are." --extract from the liner notes by Ingram Marshall. Housed in
an 8-page digipak including a 16-page book.
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release date: Sept 28, 2010
catalog#: IMPREC310
format: CD
"Erroneous, A Selection Of Errors” is the result of the meeting of Italian cult band Larsen
and Steven Stapleton’s ubiquitous creature Nurse With Wound.
Almost 2 years of file swapping and occasional conceptual meetings led to a multi-headed
collection of deformed sounds based on one long NWW piece and two Larsen tracks (that both bands have written specifically for this project) then deconstructed and rebuilt by each other into totally brand new opuses.
Erroneous also features Neu! and Kraftwerk original member Eberhard Kranemann on additional guitars, synth, sax and vocals as well as Larsen collaborator Daniele Pagliero, a.k.a. Lo Dev Alm, on bass.
Just like the music, the artwork of the album is also a joint effort sporting works of Stapleton’s
alter-ego Babs Santini, Larsen’s graphic designer Bellissimo and E. Kranemann.
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Location is integral to Manrico Montero’s Sisal, as it is with virtually all of the albums released on Unfathomless. Without it, there is still music, but the context and inspiration driving it is at least partially effaced. Sisal is both the common name for Agave sisalana, a species of agave cultivated for the fibers it yields, and the name of a small port town located in the Yucatán Peninsula, where said fibers play a significant role in the economy. But the album focuses on another species native to the region. With just one exception, each of its tracks are named for the mangrove trees that grow in a nearby area called La Bocana ("The Mouth"), where seawater meets the freshwater of a cenote. Montero’s recordings capture plenty of maritime activity around these trees, including the rocking of ship hulls, strong coastal winds, and a multitude of insect and animal life. They also expose sounds that are not ready-at-hand, that are a part of the place without appearing as such.
There is a temptation to connect field recordings with documentaries. It’s an impulse compelled by the sense that field recordings are uncontrived compared to conventional music, which requires instrumentation and a high degree of human intervention. But documenting and repeating the sounds of nature requires just as much mediation as does strumming a guitar or playing a keyboard. For one thing, Montero’s subjects are precise. He consciously hides as much as he reveals. For another, though he tries to mask it in different ways, his subjects are edited together and presented not as an unaltered image of a place, but as a carefully constructed simulacrum of it.
Montero’s concern is not fidelity, it’s evocation and correspondence. These are the places he wanted to represent in the way he wanted to represent them. There is an aesthetic of the hidden in his work, evidenced in the above-water and below-water soundscapes found on "Litoral Nor-Poniente" and "Cuarto Manglar," and there is also an emphasis on the pleasure of listening: to the movement of water and to the life that thrives around it. Even if the specifics are foreign, there will be something familiar about these vignettes—maybe in the rise and fall of chirping crickets or maybe in the patter of rain on glass and the crack of distant thunder. What is far away is drawn closer and that closeness registers as a kind of geographic harmony. The apparently foreign in fact shares a common root.
On "Mangle Negro," Montero pairs heavy winds and rain with something that sounds like the child of a creaky floorboard and a party balloon. Someone moves about the scene as the storm gains strength and blows through the leaves outside, but their activity ultimately merges with the aeolian din. There is no way of knowing whether it all happened in real time or whether Montero slapped two recordings together and carefully disguised the seams. Either way, a continuity beyond the documentary emerges because the flow of time and the necessity of proximity are eliminated. Listening to the echoes and percussive spikes on "Cuarto Manglar," the continuity from man to machine to nature is rendered with a kind of minimal clarity, even as the activity of the music remains mysterious.
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As far as I can tell, this is the first major Silver Apples album to appear in almost 20 years, though Simeon Coxe has kept busy with singles, remixes, collaborations, and his other band (Amphibian Lark) in the meantime.  Interestingly, the Silver Apples aesthetic of 2016 is almost identical to that of 1968: the production is a bit different and Coxe has adapted to playing without a drummer, but Clinging to a Dream sounds every bit as bizarre and unique as the band's self-titled debut.  If there is a significant difference, it is merely that Coxe has gone from sounding like an iconoclast ingeniously ahead of his time to sounding like an ingeniously retro-futurist iconoclast.  Admittedly, Coxe’s imagination, inventiveness, and instrumental prowess continue to exceed his songwriting and vocal talents, but Dream's weaknesses are generally rendered irrelevant by the singularity of his vision.
As remarkable as it is that Simeon Coxe is still making challenging electronic music and touring well into his late 70s, that feat is dwarfed by how incredibly alien and effortlessly outside the zeitgeist Clinging to a Dream manages to sound.  It is not at all surprising that Coxe is not absorbing hot new trends in experimental music these days, but it is nevertheless interesting that Simeon's own influential late '60s work did not bring the rest of the electronic music world any closer to his unique vision over the ensuing years.  I guess everyone else eventually caught up, then went off in an entirely different direction, leaving Coxe free to sound as radical as he always has.  In fact, four decades after he first appeared on the scene, Coxe still seems like a mad scientist or outsider artist that is blissfully following his muse without any concern at all for what other people are doing.  I suppose one of the reasons that no one else sounds anything like Silver Apples is that Simeon exclusively plays a primitive self-built synthesizer (The Simeon, of course), but his aesthetic is such a strange and personal one that it is hard to imagine anyone else trying to replicate it even if they could.  Clinging to a Dream is about as personality-driven as electronic music can get.
It DOES seem like Kraftwerk may have made an impression on Coxe at one point though, as "Concerto for Monkey and Oscillator" shows that Coxe has a real talent for crafting gorgeous, catchy, and pristine electro-pop.  That influence only went so far, however, as Coxe has too much of an absurd and perverse sense of humor to just record a piece of sophisticated pop music: as suggested by its colorful title, the infectious catchiness of "Concerto" is primarily just a backdrop for a host of crazy electronic animal sounds.  Occasional Teutonic flourishes aside, Coxe generally sounds like the last true hippie standing. In fact, he often seems even more so than he ever did, as Clinging to a Dream is full of poetic lyrics and spacey, lysergic moments and there is very little of the bitterness, paranoia, and menace that crept into Silver Apples' early work.  That is doubly strange, since an actual poet (Stanley Warren) helped with the words on band’s debut and Simeon has had plenty to get bitter about since: record label problems, a massive lawsuit regarding Contact’s cover art, the death of drummer Danny Taylor, a bus accident that left Coxe with partial paralysis in his hands, and–most dramatically–allegedly getting fired from his long-running job as a news reporter for "telling the truth about Santa Claus."
If the breezy, almost tropical-sounding opener "The Edge of Wonder" is any indication, Coxe has transcended all of that misfortune and come out on the other side, as he casually drops couplets about how wind is Aphrodite’s violin and proclaims that as one dream ends, another one begins.  A few songs later, Coxe sings that "nothing matters anymore, nothin’ to do but wait," but he does it over such a perky rhythm that is hard to see it as fatalism rather than Zen.  As typified by all the aforementioned pieces, Clinging to a Dream generally relies upon a formula of bouncy grooves, simple yet catchy synth hooks, and cheerily half-spoken poetic lyrics.  Nevertheless, it is a very bizarre album in both its structure and its apparent influences, often seeming like some kind of disorienting sci-fi rock opera, as Coxe rarely allows his catchier instincts to flow along unmolested: there is always a discordant interlude waiting around the corner and even the hookier moments often have thick, wobbly oscillations hovering over them like a UFO.  Also, the most memorable pieces tend to be even more wrong-footing than Coxe’s normal template.  For example, my favorite song on the entire album is "Susie," which melds somewhat stomping and sinister-sounding music with a comprehensive narrative covering all of the delicious foods that the titular Susie has in her house.  "The Mist" is yet another significant aberration, as Coxe dispenses with hooks entirely and slows down to a gently percolating crawl for a whispered spoken-word piece beset by dark, ominous chords and an eerily howling undercurrent.  It is disorienting that two such pieces can appear side-by-side on the same album, but it certainly makes for a pleasantly deranged and unpredictable ride.
Granted, Clinging to a Dream has some shortcomings, as its cheerfully poppy core coexists rather uneasily with its more perverse and experimental tendencies and Coxe’s thin, almost barbershop quartet-like vocals remain an acquired taste.  However, such quirks and unevenness are easily eclipsed by the fact that Simeon Coxe sounds like an artist who just fell from space or magically appeared with no real musical influences other than himself.  That aspect also eclipses the details of Dream’s strengths, as it does not matter all that much that Coxe has a real talent for elegantly simple hooks, punchy rhythms, and using subtle dissonances and psychedelic touches to cast shadows over an otherwise innocent-sounding pop song.  Without those elements, Clinging to a Dream would not be nearly as enjoyable, but its ultimate appeal is that Coxe is such an iconoclastic visionary that this album has more in common with alien transmissions than it does with most contemporary electronic music.
 
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Geir Jenssen is my kind of artist: the kind that now only surfaces when he has something truly new or significant to convey.  Ending a five-year hiatus, Departed Glories is a radical departure from past Biosphere releases, all of which were very much of their time.  Departed Glories, on the other hand, ambitiously takes aim at timelessness instead.  Taking inspiration from the forests around Krakow, the photography of Sergei Prokudin-Gorsky, the story of medieval Polish mystic Bronislawa, and some research into Polish and Ukrainian folk music, the otherworldly, mysterious, and hallucinatory vignettes of Departed Glories jettison all obvious traces of Jenssen's contemporary electronic music past.  I am actually quite fond of that past, mind you, but the best pieces on Glories are on a completely different level altogether.  This is a major creative breakthrough and easily one of the most inspired albums of the year.
Though it was a convergence of several different interests and occurrences that ultimately led Jenssen to make such an uncharacteristic album, it was his daily walks along the Wolski forest during his brief time in Krakow that set the whole process in motion.  Initially, it was a place of fascination primarily because it was a beautiful place that had also been the site of mass executions during WWII, but his research into the region eventually led him to the story of Bronislawa, a 13th century nun of noble birth who eluded a Tartar raid by hiding in the forest with her fellow nuns.  While she allegedly saw a vision of the Virgin Mary during her lifetime, her perceived supernatural powers apparently remained effective long after her death, as she was beatified for protecting Zwierzyniec from cholera in the 1800s.  As interesting as her posthumous exploits are, Janssen was most struck by her time spent hiding in the forest and tried to imagine what sort of "music" a terrified nun hiding from a bloodthirsty horde might conjure up in her head.  Geir's concurrent discovery of Sergei Prokudin-Gorsky’s photography provided further inspiration, particularly the image used for the album cover, though it actually portrays an Armenian woman in Turkey several hundred years later.  While it may be a different person in a different time and place, Geir felt it beautifully evoked the same atmosphere as Bronislawa’s frightened forest exile.  Departed Glories attempts to capture that same haunted and solitary atmosphere and succeeds wonderfully.
Naturally, Geir came to the conclusion that his usual tactics were quite unsuited for conjuring up mysterious and phantasmal scenes from a medieval forest, which is what started him on his folk music research.  That folk music, spanning Russia and Eastern Europe, ultimately ended up being the base material used to form the album.  However, while Departed Glories is constructed from hundreds of such snippets, they have all been collaged and processed into ghostly unrecognizability, aside from some unexpected guitar chords in the otherwise otherworldly and Siren-esque "Aura in the Kitchen with the Candlesticks."  There are also a few pieces where Geir returns a bit to his old comfort zone, blurring and stretching his samples into warm ambient/drone music, though he always manages to let some hissing, spectral ominousness creep into the periphery.  For the most part, however, Jenssen evokes nothing less than a beautiful nightmare of hazy and angelic female voices, ominous thrums, and richly disconcerting textures.  In fact, the best moments sound far more like field recordings of a haunted and mist-shrouded forest than anything resembling a structured composition by a human.  The transfiguration of Geir Jenssen is probably most complete with the gorgeous "Sweet Dreams Form a Shade," where a shimmering and precariously undulating chorus of heavenly voices sounds like nothing less than a ripple in the very fabric of reality.  Later, Jenssen unleashes yet another stunner in the form of the throbbing and subtly menacing "You Want to See It Too," which transforms similarly angelic voices into something far more unsettling and wraithlike.
The sole minor flaw with Departed Glories is merely that there are probably a few more songs than necessary, though I would have a hard time deciding which songs might be worthy of the ax, as there is no obvious filler.  Naturally, there are some clear stand-outs like the aforementioned "Sweet Dreams" and "You Want to See It Too," but most of the other pieces are quite compelling in their own ways as well.  Some charms are more understated than others, however, so Departed Glories is very much a headphone album–in fact, it is a goddamn brilliant one.  It is so complexly layered, beautifully nuanced, artfully sequenced, and eerily evocative that I find myself more deeply appreciating new moments each time I dive into it.  In that regard, I suppose it is uncannily a lot like a dark, misty, and unfamiliar forest, so Geir gets bonus points for unexpectedly meta thematic consistency.  In any case, I was initially just going to proclaim that Departed Glories is easily the best album of Jenssen's career, but I am increasingly of the opinion that this is likely to be the best album of 2016 as well.  It admittedly takes some time and focused attention to unlock its full majesty, but that is time well-spent as far as I am concerned.  Departed Glories is a masterpiece.
 
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Ren Schofield’s reliably bludgeoning Container project is back with a yet another EP of caustic, pummeling beats and squelching, swooping electronics.  He has moved to a new label (Powell’s Diagonal imprint) since his last outing, but otherwise not a whole lot has changed: Vegetation is yet another feast of concise and bulldozing rhythmic salvos.  That is no surprise, of course, as Container has always been the absolute embodiment of the "all killer, no filler" philosophy: Schofield gets in, he kicks ass, and he is gone long before he overstays his welcome.  That said, Container does seem to get incrementally better and better with each release and that trend continues, as Vegetation tempers Container's percussive assault with a bit more dynamic variation and sputtering, squiggling electronic chaos than usual.
In characteristic fashion, Vegetation starts barreling along right out of the gate with the title piece.  Unlike some other former noise artists who have made similar transitions into beat-based music, however, Schofield's beats are not particularly heavy nor are they especially satisfying in their own right.  Rather, the drum patterns on Vegetation seem to exist primarily to provide an unrelenting forward momentum.  It is almost like Container appropriated Neu's motorik rhythms, then willfully set out to make them too fast, too muscular, and too unpredictable.  In any case, they serve their purpose just fine, but the real show is generally what Schofield is doing around those beats.  In "Vegetation," for example, there is an obsessively repeating siren-like sound in the foreground that gives the piece its shape and immediate character, but it is the masterfully juggled host of clicking rhythms, bass throbs, cymbal washes, caustic noises, and field recordings deeper in the mix that cumulatively evoke such an uncomfortably unstoppable and escalating tension.  In essence, Container's grooves are not the meal, they are merely the tray in which the main courses (increasing tension and small-scale dynamic pyrotechnics) are presented.
Schofield’s ostensibly simple template, limited palette, and gleefully single-minded intent seem like a perfect recipe for getting backed into a creative corner and running out of fresh ideas, but Container seems to be somehow thriving and evolving wonderfully within that niche.  I never find myself wishing Schofield would conjure up a melody or two, slow down a bit, whip up a cool bass line, or throw in some trippy dub touches, as each song on Vegetation is abolutely perfect in its blunt yet meticulously engineered simplicity, like an expensive, well-crafted knife.  Also, it helps a lot that Schofield is intuitively aware of the fundamental limitations of his aesthetic and presents it accordingly: while I enjoy his albums quite a bit, an EP is probably the perfect amount of Container.  Five three- or four-minute doses of flawlessly orchestrated techno-violence seem just about right to ensure that each piece is distinctive and makes a maximum impact.  Vegetation leaves no time for numbness to set in.  That said, however, I did love the divergent and comparatively restrained "Funnel," as Schofield periodically lets the beat fall away to make room for some wonderfully sputtering and squiggling electronic weirdness.  As if to compensate, however, he amusingly doubled down on the intensity for the following "Radiator," unleashing a visceral eruption of crash cymbals and white noise.
If Vegetation has a flaw, it is only that Container is such a mercilessly kinetic and visceral project that it feels weird and vaguely inappropriate listening to this EP at home.  That is inherently true of a lot of great techno music though, as what sounds amazing in a sweaty warehouse full of churning and undulating bodies at 3am rarely translates into the perfect soundtrack for my living room.  This would definitely be a great soundtrack for reckless driving though, particularly in a ruined, post-apocalyptic industrial landscape (if one happens to be available).  In any case, finding the right context for Container's artistry is my problem–Schofield has unquestionably handled his part of the artist/listener equation quite brilliantly: this project seems to only get more and more chiseled and tightly wound with each new release.
 
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Angharad Davies and Tisha Mukarji’s contribution to Another Timbre’s "Violin+1" series takes the already blurry distinction between composed and improvised music and blurs it beyond meaning. As odd a title as Ffansïon | Fancies is, it encapsulates the process of investigation and refinement evident everywhere in Davies and Mukarji’s sympathetic playing. "Fancy" here connotes the formation of images, synthetic activity, and the work of the imagination—a de- and re-construction of both the piano and the violin that produces a pseudo-Cubist view of both instruments. Exploded and rearranged, they slip in and out of familiar configurations, darting constantly between energy and form.
Though it was recorded over the course of two days at St. Catherine’s Church in London, Ffansïon | Fancies was meant to be a one-day engagement. That extra time meant Davies and Mukarji, who hadn’t played together in three years, could work with and develop ideas they would have otherwise had to leave in a rawer state the day before. Davies claims this is the first time either of them had operated in that fashion, but the results don’t show it. These seven pieces, despite their seemingly random and unplanned structures, sing with preternatural harmony. Not harmony in the sense of chords and tones, but in the sense of congruity, texture, and space. Using extended techniques, they push their sound well beyond that of a duo’s, sublimating steel strings and horsehair into vaporous colors and anxious rhythms that might typically require four or five musicians to generate.
Nevertheless, the music always sounds tight and controlled, almost thematic. When Mukarji dives into the piano’s low end on "Ffansi | Fancy IV," Davies lets up on her bow and finds a way to match the piece’s new pace with a slower cadence and surprising contrasts, like rubbing on the strings in such a way that the violin becomes a percussion instrument, a stringed head to be played with brushes. At some point, Davies almost makes it sound like a flute. That kind of vertical movement keeps these pieces in a constant state of tension, even as the tempos slow and freeze, and that tension is replicated in other directions as well: between silence and fullness, melody and toneless noise, patterns and undifferentiated pulses. Davies and Mukarji’s minds and ears must always be active and sensitive. Their music, however, glides between lethargic ambience and dynamic, hard-edged motion.
Which is yet another sign of the subterfuge running through their work. There’s an element of deception in Ffansïon | Fancies, and maybe in the name of the "Violin+1" series too. Seen and heard live, some of that illusion could fall apart, but on record at least, Davies and Mukarji draw circles around themselves so that they can hide within them. The music they make as independent improvisers fuses almost from the beginning, at which point their sound transforms into an image of their performance. It is impossible to see the image and the manner in which it was painted at the same time, yet the album unfurls in sequence, just like all music must. It’s a remarkable effect, like seeing and hearing in four dimensions. As with the Cubists, the specifics are multifaceted, but the overall impression is rooted in the limitation and freedom of the present.
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This terrific debut from Indonesia shows how passion, rage and sorrow translate into any language. It's a concept album reflecting cultural destruction and persistence; echoing Melt Banana, Naked City, and zeuhl before devolving into folk laments with added flute.
 
Trilogi Peradaban consists of 22 pieces taken from three recording sessions circa 2007-2008. On the album they are divided into three distinct sections named Neolithikum, Mesolithikum, and Palaeolithikum, or New Stone Age, Middle Stone Age, and Old Stone Age. This all lasts about 40 minutes during which Zoo range from cathartic bass and drum blasts, fierce howling and jabbering, to heavy riffing, deep but abrasive melodies, pseudo-operatic bombast and peaceful acoustic ballads.
The album title means Civilization Trilogy and while this is not a blow by blow account of Indonesian history there is an underlying complexity here that had me researching. Not least, the language and the origin of certain important words. The song "Merdeka" for example is clearly a battle-cry for independence. The word itself is from Sanskrit and has come to mean "freed slave" since Portuguese and Dutch domination of the region. "Merdeka" is among the first 16 tracks which combine a punk aesthetic with the avant-rock genre "zeuhl" as pioneered by Magma. Starting out with "Manekin Bermesin" which probably means something akin to "Puppet Machine" these short, sharp, blasts of aggression use bass guitar and drumming to ignite a musical firestorm. Simple folk sounds and pacing are gradually introduced in the Middle Stone Age section; thecontrast is excellent.
Christian Zander of Magma, of course invented his own language -Kobaian- whereas Zoo appear to use Javanese with snippets of Sanskrit, poetry, Islamic references and punk politics. They incorporate a traditional Aceh poem on "Kelak" which doubtless refers to the recent quest for independence in that region. I had rather hoped it was a mention of the Cardassian Damar-class destroyer starship of the Cardassian Union's Central Command in active service around the year 2376 (as per Star Trek). Oh well, we can't have everything.
"Kelak" is part of the last section of Trilogi Peradaban wherein the group exhibit signs of having been possessed by ancient ghosts who shun aggression and modern electric instruments for a mode of expression which favors acoustic sound. Here Zoo slows rhythms and supplements its spirited wailing with mournful harmony and suling (a traditional flute). Throughout the album, lead singer Rully Shabara Herman whacks the jembe (hand drum) and his distinctive voice revels in both the grinding fury of much of the record and the minimal primitivism of the Old Stone Age section.
As aforementioned, this isn't a complete map or history of Indonesia. Indeed, it could be impossible to trace a path from what scientists believe is"Java Man," through Hindu and Islamic dynasties, into European (spice-trade motivated) co-option, independence, new orders, modern democracy, and East Timor, and somehow make coherent artistic sense of Indonesia (and its 17,508 islands). The territory is now home to the world's largest concentration of Muslims. Previously it was home to the world's largest concentration of communists outside of an actual Communist regime. That was until 1965 when (with a list of names from the always helpful CIA) the military and (in the words of Tariq Ali) "Islamist vigilantes" wiped out at least a million communists and their "sympathizers." One of Zoo's songs, "Perang, Saudara," quotes the word "Babat" from Pramoedya Anata Toer, a writer from that era. I'm not sure what the word means but he apparently said as much to Dutch colonists. He was imprisoned (probably for being a leftist) but survived until his death in Jakarta on April 30, 2006.
Zoo use the word "perang" (war) quite often and their music seems to contain both cathartic anger and an accompanying desire for peaceful humanity. I suspect this is a normal reaction to hearing about times such as those when scores of genitals of murdered male communists were hung outside brothels as a warning, but it might just be a healthy rejection of MTV Asia.
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