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Skin of Evil is Mercer's second full length release as Blackout Beach (his solo name). In ten songs over 30 minutes, he offers different perceptions about and around the figure and persona of "Donna." Her lovers relate their sparkling, fractured, obstuse tales, laden with bile and self-loathing, and the picture emerges of Donna as a siren-like destroyer of hearts and minds. If this seems a recipe for an unpleasant wallow in self-absorbed pity, the result sounds quite the opposite. The record is partly about obsession and, fittingly, Mercer knows how to gradually build a weird—almost sexual—tension and release it without deflating the entire atmosphere. The songs crackle with violent delirium; with longing, lust, and regret.
It's not an easy listen but there are sections of undoubted prettiness. Opener "Cloud of Evil" has lovely pulsing dubbish undertones and a stuttering vocal rhythm to match. "Nineteen, One God, One Dull Star" is infused with a hazy, swaying version of the kind of languid glamor managed a long time ago by Bowie on his live version of "Sweet Thing." Eventually, wider themes emerge than the Donna syndrome and it becomes clear that, as with most intimate human events, sole blame can't be heaped upon anyone: it takes (at least) two to tango. Amidst these complex crooned rants we also hear Donna's brief right-of-reply, the layered ecstatic chant that is "Woe To The Minds Of Soft Men."
One of my gripes with so much singing done by independent rock musicians is what I call the glorification of the mumble. This is often either an unsuccessful attempt to disguise the absence of feeling and meaning by hinting at incoherence or to obscure a thin and narrow range by distractions such as muddy production. This can even be presented as a virtue wherein "the voice democratically shares the mix with other instruments" or some such guff. By contrast, Mercer's cathartic singing hides behind nothing. Idiosyncratic it may be, but at least it is gloriously over the top. His claustraphobic, theatrical utterances (and the terrific accompanyments of Carolyn Mark, Megan Boddy, and Melanie Campbell) make the naturalistic versions of sincerity from the mouths of the grey legions of indieland seem like flaccid, pale, apologies.
This may be Mercer's most uncluttered recording, but it doesn't lack any intensity. The wider themes on Skin of Evil seem to go in and out of focus: self-reliance, failure, politics, salvation: and the lack of all of these. And from within the chiming guitar, thudding percussion, and layers of feverish, howling and cooing, some classic lines float by: "she burned the orphanage but saved the payroll", "we break our paddles in woe". At one point Carey Mercer sings "The automatic and justified response to a cruel and graceless age is to run away". But it doesn't sound like he's retreating from concocting the audio equivalent of molten lava any time soon.
samples:
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Given that these pieces are primarily violin and saxophone duets, and that both members have a penchant for jazz inspired work—Yeh in groups such as the New Monuments, a trio featuring percussionist Ben Hall and Borbetomagus sax demolitionist Don Dietrich; Flaherty in groups including Orange and Cold Bleak Heat—it may be a surprise to find that, while these improvisations surely call upon the free jazz tradition, they are not overtly such.
Both Yeh and Flaherty are among a burgeoning few who traverse the grounds between free jazz and the underground experimental and noise camps, and it is this diversity which allows for such fertile material to be chiseled throughout the proceedings. Yeh's violin is nimble, but rarely does a clean tone or traditional bowing tactic reveal itself. Rather, his instrument is sonically ground down to its very elements, just wood and string, from which he creates any number of scrapes, whispers and shrieks. Flaherty too is well versed in a "sound as sound" approach, having played with members of No-Neck Blues Band and Sunburned Hand of the Man among many, and his saxophone dives from Ornette Coleman-like runs to deep crevices of saxophone bellow and airy fluttering.
Yeh also displays a penchant for vocals, as on the second track from a show at Issue Project Room in Brooklyn. With elastic verbalizings, Yeh belches and guffaws sounds that fit right into his violin approach, even mixing in harmonica at one point. This experimental versatility is impressive, but more impressive is the fact that he gets away with it. Flaherty's lack of playing allows Yeh enough space to turn his voice into its own odd sonic landscape, a necessity in its avoidance of seeming mere self-indulgence, and in lesser hands it might. But Yeh's control and energy mean that it is as effective as any other instrument on display. That Flaherty joins in to end the piece in a torrential duet only makes the approach all the more effective.
When Kelley steps in on the fourth and fifth tracks, both recorded at the Nom D'Artiste in Boston, his breathy play weaves effortlessly into the duo's folds. With plenty of experience playing with both representatives here, Kelley is more than comfortable in this environment. Like Bill Dixon filtered down to mere wind and brass, his broad trumpet tones stretch across the tumultuous landscape above, providing a subtle touch without being rendered useless or lost in the anarchic mix.
That these duets are so successful is testament not only to the abilities of those performing, but also to the health of experimental music in general. Yeh and Flaherty are astute improvisers whose interest in music spans gaps that, in this climate of interconnectivity and availability, need to at last be spanned, i.e. noise and free jazz, lower case improv and drone, and a whole slew of other subforms whose similarities number far greater than their differences. These recordings are a display of three key representatives in a burgeoning subculture that is quietly doing just that, albeit through some pretty noisy means.
samples:
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More importantly though, the album provides an early glimpse into the formative years of this modern guitar hero. Presented are nine tracks, all recorded to cassette on the same day in 1981, that see Connors mixing acoustic, delta-inspired guitar abstractions in duet with moaning vocal accompaniment. With only these two sound sources to work with, this is an intimate and haunting display of Connors' creativity within the blues medium, stretching Charley Patton's gospel vocals and Skip James' country blues style into his own collagist breakdown of the form.
As strange as his version of the blues may be though, Connors' play is steeped in tradition, as can be seen by numerous blues covers and allusions throughout. Twice, on "Chant 3" and "Chant 6," he stretches out on the themes of "Amazing Grace," infusing it with the deep gospel soul of its past while giving it an angular, exploratory quality too often lacking in covers of such well-known material. Rarely does the avant-garde so neatly coalesce with tradition without losing any of its soul.
Elsewhere on the disc, Connors calls upon any variety of influences, always handling them with aplomb and imbuing them with his own highly developed improvisational signature. Though often associated with a more folk-based (and seemingly classicist) tradition, Connors is an improviser at heart; barely able to read music, he has to be. With the same vigor that he would later bring to duo recordings with Jandek then, he croons and moans his way around these dark tunes with a loose and dissonant grace. The notes are important, sure, but what is ultimately more interesting is the proximity that Connors has to the guitar as an object; the sliding of his fingers, the banging of the wood, all add to the richness of these pieces.
Vocally too, Connors presents a highly elastic and deeply felt style that, while wordless, is never secondary to the guitar work here. Instead it moves around the thick chords and twanging runs, humming and vibrating in conjunction before breaking off to present some variant on the melody beneath the guitar's own distractions. While it may not be the kind of singing most often associated with the blues, there is a cathartic and spiritual quality here that is wholly Connors'. And ultimately, isn't that what good blues is all about anyway?
Special note too should be made that Connors presents a cryptic message on the back of the album, suggesting that no one listen to it due to the circumstances surrounding its recording and subsequent loss. Well I'm still here, and having survived the night, can safely say that music with this much life should never be missed for fear of some mysterious undoing.
Hope that doesn't jinx it for me...
samples:
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Restraint is a word known to few musicians. Here it is shown in the extreme delicacy of every glistening note. As Jon Kealy pointed out in his Astral Social Club review, some artists feel the need to release everything they have ever bothered to make. Calder, for their second more widely available release, chose to take their sweet time. Their efforts are evident in the care that is shown on these ten tracks; the result of a three-year distillation process.
It is hard to pick out a single track for analysis. When I listen, I get caught up in the slow modulated drones, the handsomely plucked melodies, and perfectly syncopated but never overbearing beats. Before I know it all the songs have blurred together into a seamless whole. I have to play the disc over again, something I’ve done quite often since the first time I popped it into my player.
“Calc” is one of the many gems on this album. A plaintive guitar riff is laid out over the top of a fuzz of icy ambience. Snare hits add a bit of punch to the static hum. The slide effect on “Vast” gives the song a melancholic tinge, as backward flutters ripple and glide underneath. A piano’s notes are sustained over a low volume feedback effect, paired with precise glockenspiel accentuations, on “Tone.”
If I had to pick a favorite out of the many exemplary pieces, it would be “Semi.” All of the aspects that make this record great are here in fine form. A twittering hand rattles the strings of a mandolin while haunting measures are coaxed out of the piano. The bells and strings are there as accompaniment, floating around each other in complete sonorous harmony before fading into the next song on the heels of a long drone.
The accomplishment of many great albums, the beauty present on “Lower” continues to resonate in my mind for long after it has been played. As I’m happy with the result of their patience in making a second album, I hope my own patience will hold long enough for them to make a third.
samples:
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Kurihara’s previous encounter with Boris produced the excellent Rainbow; its idealised '60s/'70s psych vibes made for one the best of all Boris various collaborations. Although Cloud Chamber appears to have been recorded at the same time as Rainbow (it has a 2006 copyright notice), the two albums could not be more different. The melodies, rhythms, solos and vocals are all gone and instead there is a murky soup of feedback and atonal guitar. Cloud Chamber is not out of place next to other Boris dirgefests like Absolutego but considering they have been there, done that so many times (and so well) before, this seems like a step back for them. In addition, why they needed Kurihara (who is one of the best living guitarists for sure) is a mystery.
These would not be issues if the album was good but out of the two pieces, only “Cloud Chamber Part 1” has any of the power that I would associate with Boris and their ilk. Cavernous, black and huge, it is how I always imagined Boris sounded in the days before I could get my hands on their releases. The thick drone fluctuates in intensity from deafening to ear-splitting to face melting, at all times it fills the room like a fog. Had the group stopped at the end of this and released it as an EP, I would be hailing this as a titanic return to form for Boris after a string of disappointing titles (Smile, Walrus/Groon and Rock Dream all sucked).
However, “Cloud Chamber Part 2” is a limp, ham-fisted attempt at free rock. It starts off with a cracking buzz saw guitar which is killed before it gets going. From then on, most of the music sounds like a band trying very hard to be Fushitsusha but failing miserably. Even Kurihara sounds like he is just going through the motions. There is a brief respite at the end when the frenetic instrument bashing ceases and a very low, almost seismic wave of guitar takes over. Had all the piece sounded like the intro and/or the outro, this would be a monster. Yet the sheer laziness of the middle section serves to back up my initial thoughts about this being recorded three years ago; this could be the sound of the rot setting in. This should have stayed on the cutting room floor but Boris being Boris, they have not only released it but probably have half a dozen variations on it ready for release any day now.
Boris have never been consistent but at the very least they would release some great records at the same time as abysmal ones. Unfortunately I think the well of inspiration has run dry as they have offered little of interest in too long. I will most likely continue to chart their progress but I think the chances of another classic are approaching zero.
samples:
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“Archives Génétiquement Modifiées (Exploitation des Concepts No. 3)” is a work from Ferrari’s later period where he began re-evaluating his sound recordings by re-using them as source material for new works. For two DJs (one using CDs and the other vinyl), this piece is an amorphous mix of unidentifiable sounds, dialogue, snippets of music and atmospheres. Hearing Ferrari being influenced by his earlier self sounds remarkably like other artists who were influenced by the same early Ferrari works. The style of turntablism and the types of sounds being used find parallels in Autechre’s most recent work and with a large chunk of the Nurse With Wound back catalogue.
The second of the compositions is a much older piece, “Société II (Et si le piano était un corps de femme)” is a piece from 1967 which originally appeared on side B of the Presque Rien LP (not to be confused with the documentary of the same name also reviewed this week). I find it a bit strange that this is included and “Presque Rien No. 1” is not, especially as the piece does not fit with “Archives Génétiquement Modifiées” particularly well. Reissuing the LP as it was and releasing the newer material separately would have made more sense.
However, this does not diminish the power of the music. “Société II” was composed for an ensemble and piece traverses multiple genres, taking in jazz and most flavours of classical and modern composition. The soloists take the form of suitors vying for the attention of the woman (the piano), each trying to out-do the other and be as flamboyant as possible. This makes for a thunderous, frenetic and ultimately violent piece, its brazen machismo completely at odds with the previous piece on this disc.
In addition to great music, there are comprehensive sleeve notes containing commentaries by Jim O'Rourke and Jay Sanders (actually an instant messenger conversation between the two as they listen to the CD), short notes from Ferrari himself and a scan of the original score for “Société II.” Altogether, this attention to detail in terms of background information and the overall quality of the music makes for a particularly satisfying album, despite my qualms with the choice of material for inclusion.
samples:
- Archives Génétiquement Modifiées (Part 2)
- Archives Génétiquement Modifiées (Part 4)
- Société II (Part 1)
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The first side of this LP starts off wobbly with “Flamingo Moon” where the group (consisting of Stewart Keith and John Clyde-Evans in addition to Campbell) sounds like they are warming up rather than in full flow. The kraut stomp of “Punk Rocker/Mug Cracker” that follows blows the opening piece out of the water, the pulsing beat and dynamic electronics making for one of the spikiest and most exciting Astral Social Club tracks. The music eventually folds in on itself; all sense of rhythm lost and all that is left is a joyous celebration of pure sound.
The second side of Plug Music Ramoon does not fare quite so well as the lengthy “Don’t Step on the Silverfish” goes on too long for my tastes; its demented mardis gras rhythm is a bit grating. It does change over its 13 minutes yet it never seems to come together properly. “Ramoon Ramoon” explores similar territory to far better effect. The tribal percussion combined with dentist drill electronics is more pleasant than it sounds and I wish it took up more of Side B than the previous track. It is here that freer side of the music really opens up and the musicians start to examine the implications of the group’s name (as any albums I have heard previously have never been very astral or social).
The fact I dislike most Astral Social Club releases but dig this one might not bode well for those who do like Astral Social Club in general. However, I do think this is a genuinely good record no matter what name is on the sleeve. Granted it has its less desirable moments but these are most likely due to the recording process (all recorded in one day) and perhaps with more time this line up of Astral Social Club could have pulled something greater out of the hat.
Unfortunately, as this is a vinyl only release, there are no samples. Apologies!
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By 1978, The Isley Brothers had achieved several prior commercial and critical successes including chart-topping albums like The Heat Is On and Go For Your Guns, as well as the landmark 3+3--the first to feature the unparalleled teaming of singers Ronald, Rudolph, and O'Kelly Isley with musicians Ernie and Marvin Isley and brother-in-law Chris Jasper. Released that year, Showdown could be considered the proverbial "beginning of the end", as the 1980s would prove particularly unkind to the group on multiple fronts, leading to an irresolvable and perhaps inevitable schism between the founders and the younger proteges who updated, revolutionized and ultimately defined its sound. After 1980's Go All The Way, it would take two full decades before The Isley Brothers--finally pared down to Ronald and Ernie, in collaboration with the infamous R. Kelly--would have a platinum album again.
Those performing on Showdown couldn't possibly foresee the difficulties ahead, or at least if they did any such anxiety fails to materialize in the music. As groovy as ever before, Ronald's breathtaking voice leads the band through eight solid tracks, from the sweltering funk of "Rockin' With Fire" to the laidback soul of "Coolin' Me Out". On par with anything George Clinton's Parliament was producing at the time, the fine and funky single "Take Me To The Next Phase" comes across almost as a Sly and The Family Stone homage, purposefully borrowing a lyrical snippet from the latter's classic "Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)". The title track features Ronald mastering and maintaining his fabulous falsetto while the rock-inflected "Love Fever" gives guitarist Ernie his time to shine, recalling his onetime mentor Jimi Hendrix, who had toured with the band prior to his own massive success. While a good record all around and on its own, in the context of The Isley Brothers' prior discography Showdown passively returns to the well more than the players want to admit, in the vain hope of discovering something different and innovative there.
An astoundingly under-appreciated masterpiece, 1980's Go All The Way surpasses the inherent complacency of Showdown and boldly explores a shimmering pop galaxy to the right of its comfort zone. This has much to do with the fact that most of these songs were never originally intended as Isley Brothers material. Rather, as Chris indicates in the booklet, these tunes were written with Ernie and Marvin--growing disgruntled with the business end of things--with the intent of establishing a splinter group featuring those three younger members. (That notion would prove prescient when, in 1984, Isley-Jasper-Isley released the first of three albums.) Indeed, the song had been recorded and were ready for vocals when, at the urging of the two blood brothers, the trio presented it to the singers who decided it was right for a proper Isley Brothers album. Though Chris wrote "Here We Go Again" with his own voice in mind, hearing Ronald sing so exquisitely here I could hardly imagine anyone else doing the song justice.
Incredibly, discord and the threat of secession by the key songwriting team produced an authentic record both like and unlike its predecessors. The funk hasn't dissipated in the slightest, but there's a glossy sheen that makes everything beautiful. "Say You Will" could have been recorded five years earlier, but not in this elegant fashion. Here, vocal harmonies soar over and alongside Ernie's soloing, with one of Marvin's seismic basslines balancing out Chris' keyboard leads. Both "Pass It On" and closing cut "The Belly Dancer" capitalizes on the final days of disco with a dancefloor-friendly beat and the latter showcasing Ronald's breathy, faux-orgasmic vocal. "Don't Say Goodnight (It's Time For Love" is a rare downtempo cut in the quiet storm tradition, with Chris' delay-drenched synth blips adding an extra bit of dreaminess to the atmosphere fostered by Ronald's seductive tones.
Alongside the requisite liner notes mandatory in any decent reissue, both albums feature full lyrics as well as Chris Jasper's aforementioned commentary in their accompanying booklets. These features add to the excitement of delving into these reissues. Not to discount the work of the rest of the 3+3 lineup, I have to point out that Ronald Isley is a national treasure, and these two records demonstrate his worth. He is perhaps the greatest soul singer alive today, which makes his continued incarceration for a 2006 tax evasion conviction all the more tragic.
samples:
From Showdown:
From Go All The Way:
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Mark Nelson’s post-Labradford work has always done more for me than Labradford itself. This is not a disparaging comment on Labradford but a testament to how good Nelson has become. With each Pan•American release, Nelson has further crafted his distinctive and often copied style. These are not just interesting sounds or clever use of musical form, the music goes beyond that (and any "post-rock" clichés) to become a genuinely moving experience.
There is a lot of space in this album, both in terms of the music being uncluttered and the imagery conjured up by the titles. The track titles make up an extract from a letter from Dr. Robert Goddard to H.G. Wells and concern the idea of space travel which brings to mind the album’s title and images of glistening white space shuttles hurtling through space. However, this is not cosmic music but music made from the ground looking up, earthly and hopeful. Other artists have explored the psychedelic aspects of space and music but Nelson has created something different, something reassuringly human. Due to this, White Bird Release is one of the strongest albums that Nelson has contributed to.
The throbbing tremolo effect on the guitar "There can be no thought of finishing" gives the music a marine-like feeling, I feel like I am bathed in warm brine and floating gently in a reverie. These sorts of feelings are precisely what I expect from Pan•American and the rest of the album is no disappointment. Every single piece is thought provoking and emotion evoking. I hate to use the old "soundtrack for a movie never made" line but the music certainly is cinematic, although it is hard to say what kind of film it would accompany.
The ebowed guitar and whispered vocals of "Both literally and figuratively" are at the same time unassuming and beautiful. The music is like a smoke that dissipates when something else distracts the listener; it is easy for White Bird Release to fade away into the background. Yet this is what makes the album so strong; it is nice audio wallpaper but when I sit down and listen properly, it is some of the best realized music I have heard. The finest moment is saved until last with "In a letter to H.G. Wells, 1932." The understated rhythm pulls us in before being obliterated by a shimmering noise that sounds like an electric organ with all of its keys pressed down at once. It is simple and it is wonderful.
And simple and wonderful is the best way to sum up White Bird Release. It feels so completely relaxed and comfortable, as if the music just fell out of a dream.
samples:
- Both literally and figuratively
- There is always the thrill of just beginning
- In a letter to H.G. Wells, 1932
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Peasant Magik
Korperschwache (which means "organic decay") is essentially the solo project of a fellow named RFK, although he is aided by a frequent female collaborator named Doktor Omega on percussion. RFK is something of an underground institution, as he publishes the long-running e-zine The One True Dead Angel and fronted the now-defunct Autodidact (who have been favorably compared to My Bloody Valentine, Swans, and Skullflower). I have not heard Autodidact yet, but I am intrigued, as RFK's guitar work on this album (despite being deliberately destroyed and buried in noise) occasionally betrays an innovative command of unconventional and dissonant harmony.
Fear The Hex is divided into three (ostensibly) themed albums: Black Canyon Drone, Death Disco, and Dissonance And Submission. Black Canyon Drone is, as expected, largely drone-themed. However, there are several percussive tracks included also (thematic purity is an early casualty).
Korperschwache's source material consists solely of enthusistically mutilated electric guitar sounds. I may be wrong, but I don't think RFK uses a computer for sound manipulation at all. Korperschwache has a very lo-fi aesthetic and RFK's unique sound seems to originate from a mixture of effects pedals and overloaded signals. The multiple tracks of heavily distorted and ruined guitars create a complex rumbling roar, which is well suited for drone music. There is some filler here, but usually (as on "Creeping Interstellar Space") RFK artfully stacks clashing notes together to create some cool oscillations and an atmosphere of vague menace.
Death Disco is the most beat-oriented of the three cassettes and would be uniformly excellent if it weren't for one puzzling stylistic quirk: several of the (surprisingly structured and melodic) songs sound like unfinished sketches of unwritten Jesu tracks ("The White Room," for example). It is maddening and confounding that RFK combined thick, doom-y chord progressions and excellent repetitive, quasi-mechanized beats, then stopped and moved onto the next song. If he had focused on fleshing these tracks out, rather than on assembling three goddamn albums of material, Fear The Hex could have been quite an amazing album. That said, I love Doktor Omega's drums, particularly on the glacially unfolding drone piece "The Soothing Call of Nature's Existential Hum." Actually, that track is excellent all-around; RFK augments his usual low-end avalanche with some psychedelic strangled-sounding weirdness in the upper octaves. It is also worth noting that some of the tracks have rhythms that sound bizarrely Caribbean or Brazilian (albeit slowed-down), which infuses the creeping sludge with a somewhat surreal and playful feel. I think I even heard a bongo on one track.
I am unsure what distinguishing trait Dissonance And Submission is supposed to possess to separate it from the other two cassettes, as it seems to mine the same territory. The opening track ("Targeted For Massive Defoliation") is one of RFK's more successful droning roars and is unique here for having shifting drums that attempt to give the song varying dynamics. Perhaps the drums were added after the guitar in this one instance. I'm not sure if I like this innovation though—I am pretty closed-mindedly infatuated with the relentless, mechanical repetition of the other rhythmic tracks.
Korperschwache generally have a impressively heavy, textured, and unique sound—I found myself enthusiastically getting into this at times. For that I am quite grateful. My walkman broke while I was in NYC this week (during Black Canyon Drone) and I had to scour the city's worst electronics stores to find a new one so I could listen to the rest. Consequently, I would have been apoplectic with rage if this album had not been so frequently compelling. There's way too much material here for any normal person to process and fully enjoy though, and too many prematurely aborted good ideas too. I hope RFK continues to evolve (even after fourteen years) as he has certainly drifted a long way from his original inspirations of Whitehouse and Merzbow. If Korperscwache's next album is shorter, less claustrophobic and space-less, and more adventurous in its departures from the default Korperschwache song structure, I will probably love it. (Fear The Hex is a cassette-only limited edition of 100.)
Samples:
- Creeping Interstellar Xenophobia
- The White Room (is where the beatings take place)
- Targeted For Massive Defoliation (agent orange)
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Michael Gendreau starts the first disc off with "T921." Quiet at first, volume shifts occur in a manner that resembles walking up a long flight of steps. A landing is reached the volume steadies out for a rest. Subtle oscillations buzz, panning between the speakers, before dropping back down to the previous level. It's a chilling effect. A brief melody appears out of nowhere, followed by a voice on a loudspeaker, before it recurs. What follows appears to be the shuffling of feet and the muffled voices of the workers. A loud fizzing ring takes over and continues unabated, until, with a sudden alarm, something slams; and then with another slam the ringing reasserts itself, all enveloping. The beep-beep-beep of a truck being backed into a dock is heard and it ends with the sound of a door closing and the bell ring of someone summoning a clerk.
Sounds of clunking machines are rarely as engaging as they are on Lopez’s "D156." The beauty to be found in these oil greased behemoths is in the lulling tintinnabulation and rattle of the metal. It's an immersive sound world, hypnotic, and locked in a groove of time. Screeching whines creep in over the top of deep thumps. Steam hisses as the pressure starts to build. All is released in a torrent of a fluttering staccato.
“D138” sees Lopez opening the second disc with low end pulsations that rumble the speakers. Hiss slithers to the foreground; it seems to be a primary ingredient for both artists. The feeling is like a valve about to burst as grumbling motors shake. Abrupt transitions are the norm on this track: a wavering tone of uncertain origin pours out over a desolate warehouse floor. Ruffles of white noise criss-cross back and forth across the stereo field. The engines must have been reorded from far away, as it seems to resonate down a long corridor. The sounds leaking out are calming, something I didn’t expect, but it doesn’t last. Underneath the dust an ominous wind stirs. The fuzz shifts, growing louder, more manic, more frantic, giving way to chattering tics, bleeps, scratching and rustling. Again, clean breaks are made. My speakers have become vacuum cleaners sucking me into a long silence.
Persisting for a few minutes this silence is cleansing for the auditory palette. Michael Gendreau breaks it with a scream on “M928.” A trill buzzes with abject treble turning into an abysmal bass. It might as well be emerging from my third eye: that is where I feel it, in the center of my forehead. Workers are heard talking and walking around, using air tools and power electronics. I hope they are wearing ear protection. Luckily for me the volume fluctuates. The extremely loud parts do not outstay their welcome. Strange tones and percussive textures blanket the rest of the piece in their resonant glow.
Part of the fun, as a listener, with these types of compositions made from industrial field recordings, is that it is left up to me to interpret and intuit what exactly it is going on. I will probably never know whether or not I am right or wrong in my assumptions about a given sound source. In the end I take them of their own accord, enriched by my experience of arm chair traveling, an eager to journey further. Lopez and Gendreau are invaluable tour guides.
samples:
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