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I first encountered John Chantler's work with 2010's Luminous Ground and summarily dismissed him as just another vintage gear fetishist making gently blooping, blurting, and semi-random-sounding modular synth music. In hindsight, I still do not think that I was entirely wrong about that, but I was quite mistaken in my assumption that that album conveyed the full range of Chantler's artistry. While some parts of Which Way to Leave? similarly invite comparisons to the fading analog synth revival that has plagued me for the last few years, the more substantial pieces show that Chantler is a formidable composer with a vibrant and distinctive style of gnarled and grainy unpredictability.  When Chantler is good, he is extremely good.
It is very easy to see my why previous exposure to Chantler's work did not make much of an impression, as Which Way to Leave? shows that Chantler's greatest talents seem to be textural and that entropy is probably his muse.That being the case, a modular synthesizer should theoretically be the perfect instrument for such an artist.Unfortunately, it is a little too perfect, as it lends itself so well to textured unpredictability that almost everyone wielding a vintage modular synth sounds about the same to me, aside from a few singular artists like Alessandro Cortini.Thankfully, it seems like Chantler is merely using his synth as a tool this time around rather than keeping his hat in the ring with the other synth purists.I have no idea what he plays on this album, as he credits himself with just "electronics," but I do know that he has a few guest musicians on board and that there is ample evidence that these pieces are multi-layered compositions rather than solo improvisations or one-take performances.Amusingly, this is also Chantler's "most explicitly melodic" record according to Room40, a claim that makes me curious to hear how much more amelodic his previous work could possibly be.I suppose the opening "Falling Forward" technically does have a melody, but its appeal lies primarily in how mangled, blown-out, and stuttering that melody gets by the time Chantler is done with it.  Whatever relationship Chantler has with melody seems to be a rather abusive one, as the main theme of "Falling Forward" truly sounds like it is being played at the wrong speed though a blown speaker as the electricity flickers and shorts out.
That said, the best pieces are indeed the ones that balance Chantler’s sizzling, crackling, and gently blooping textural soundscapes with at least a hint of melody.Consequently, "Falling Forward" is one of the album’s legitimate high points: its greatest strength is in the contrast between its dense, gnarled, and sputtering central motif and the nimbus of unpredictably harmonizing sustained tones on the periphery.Another strong piece is "Fixation Pulse," though it takes a while to evolve beyond a subdued host of alien hums and bleeps.Gradually, however, a distorted and sizzling ghost of a melody burns through the haze and achieves a kind of otherworldly, slow-motion beauty.  I suspect my favorite piece on the album is the lengthy "First December" though, which sounds like gorgeous drone work processed through a crazy array of filters that transform it into something vibrantly shuddering, shimmering, and unrecognizably different.That piece is kind of a brilliantly representative microcosm of what Chantler does on this album: sometimes the compositions are strong and sometimes they are not, but the magic lies in how organically alive and otherworldly those compositions can feel.
I suppose the remaining "songs" are quite likable as well, as they are at least admirably warped and evocative. "Lesser Demands," for example, sounds like a field recording from the inside of some kind of giant unearthly beast, while "All Visible Signs" is all woozy twinkling and sad, sea-sick bloops until it transforms into something that resembles nothing less than an alien rainforest.The closing "Beginning Again" is curiously quite similar, but eventually diverges by cohering into a strangely beautiful coda of erratically oscillating feedback and unexpectedly poignant bleeps.I suppose that coda is what separates Chantler's superior work from the rest, as he always excels at setting the stage for something wonderful to emerge, but sometimes seems perfectly content to just remain at that point.When he actually goes one step further and allows something more substantial to take shape, the results can be absolutely sublime.Ultimately, I think only about half of Which Way to Leave? truly approaches greatness, but it is still a complexly layered, subtly hallucinatory, distinctive, and richly absorbing album that seems to get deeper and more compelling with each successive listen.
Samples:
 
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Lamentably, I have not been following Thomas Brinkmann’s career at all until now, as I had unfairly assumed that he was exclusively a techno producer and probably not of much interest to a connoisseur of the fringes like me.  As it turns out, however, his releases for Editions Mego are quite radically experimental and very much to my taste, particularly this one.  A 1000 Keys has its roots in an intriguing and ambitious premise: Brinkmann basically converted the sound of a grand piano into binary code as a "fatal homage to minimalism and a consequent denial of virtuosity and the idea of creative genius."  Naturally, that claim was more than enough to pique my interest, but I would not have stuck around for very long if that concept had not translated into such a gloriously visceral and dissonant tour de force.  Brinkmann decisively delivers on his bold promise, taking the more chromatic and violent strains of modern classical piano composition to an impressively inhuman extreme.
In keeping with his ballsy and quixotic rejection of all warmth and humanity, Brinkmann named each of these 18 pieces using three-letter airport codes.  His reasoning was that airports are "non-places that establish their own space-and-time continuum, while lacking individual identity and history."  Also, they are "sterile passages for anonymous, objectified masses."  I definitely like the way Brinkmann thinks.  Unsurprisingly, the corresponding music is similarly anonymous and lacking individual distinctions, turning something that would normally be a flaw into a perverse virtue of sorts.  There is nothing resembling a conventional melody anywhere on 1000 Keys and Brinkmann does not expression much interest in differentiating the pieces with significant rhythmic or dynamic variations.  He even seems content to mostly restrict his activities to the rumbling lower registers.  What he offers instead, however, is an unrelenting onslaught of jagged, percussive dissonance.  Occasionally, he changes the formula a bit with something like a deep, buzzing drone ("TLV"); a scratching and popping rhythm ("YWG"); or an occasional brief interlude of gently burbling synth-like tones ("SFO" and "HEL"), but the overall aesthetic is very clearly one of nerve-jangling punishment and harsh chromaticism.
Aside from the impressive and maniacal show of force, I was most struck by the pieces where Brinkmann digitally obliterates the piano-like elements so completely that his grand piano sounds like crunching industrial machinery, as he does with the relentless and crushing locked-groove of "CGN" and the grinding closer "KIX."  Neither piece would sound out of place on a noise album.  Nor would the jagged, disorienting, and dissonant arpeggios of "KGD" sound all that out of place on a Morton Feldman album…or at least they would not if they were played with an uncharacteristic degree of violence.  For the most part, however, Brinkmann's pieces remind me favorably of Pierre Boulez’s more confrontational work, but played with an unfeasible number of fingers and very much fixated on the gut-level power of the churning lower register.  While those differences are admittedly significant on Brinkmann's side of the equation, they do not matter all that much on my end.  Aside from the two palette-cleansing synth-like interludes, listening to 1000 Keys is basically like being attacked for 70 minutes or so: the differences between songs can seem very trivial as the cumulative effect adds up.  No one cares about the nuances that separate being hit with a bat versus being hit with a hammer.  Both hurt.  The same is true of punishing repetition, ugly percussive chords, and roiling chromatic runs in the lower registers.
Perversely, 1000 Keys greatest faults can also be seen as thematically pure attributes.  Without question, this is a very single-minded and one-dimensional album and it stretches out for two LPs.  Listening to the entire album is exhausting.  However, that sameness and unrelenting density also gives the album a monolithic power that effectively emphasizes Brinkmann's intended statement.  Another possible critique is that Brinkmann's "denial of virtuosity and the idea of creative genius" is literally just that: a denial, rather than any kind of replacement.  Post-1000 Keys, I am still more than happy to seek out both virtuosity and genius, but Brinkmann at least showed that the alternative can offer quite an impressively bludgeoning and absorbing spectacle.  Also, I think he definitely pushed the envelope a bit regarding the piano’s range of expression.  Admittedly, I wish 1000 Keys showed a bit more depth and variety compositionally, but that is probably beside the point and possibly even antithetical to what Brinkmann was trying to do here.  These are not brilliant compositions, but they are fascinating experiments and great art.  Thomas Brinkmann basically took one of the greatest symbols of Art and Genius (the grand piano) and weaponized it.  More importantly, he crafted an album ferocious and uncompromising enough to make me care.  A 1000 Keys is a seriously heavy album.
 
 
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The first solo album from Rod Modell (Deepchord) in nearly 10 years, following up 2007's Incense & Blacklight comes in lush form with, Mediterranea. Clocking in at 72 minutes, this cerebral epic reveals a sense of timelessness and stillness, an exquisite portrayal of reflection that is sonically enriching and emotionally engaging. Opening with field recordings conducted while abroad in the islands of Spain, sculpts a sublime sense of nuance that creeps into fore as time passes, gradually enveloping and evolving into what sounds as an orchestra playing from the fathomless ends of the ocean. The quiet jazz induced snare percussion honors the melody hidden deep beneath the surface. Congas and tribal rhythms accentuate its colorful and vibrant dream-like melodies that slowly expose themselves into the mix. Haunting, alluding to the symphonic, its emotional depth shift gradually, revealing the underlying, subconscious tonal colors. The magic and lushness of the strings, the beautiful resonance of the violin and the love felt in each key stroke tugs right at the heart strings. To us here at Echospace, this may be the most beautiful and inviting piece we've ever heard from Rod, absolutely stunning!
More information can be found here.
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A Ritual Work Remixed From Coil Albums.
Featuring extended & dreamlike remixes of Coil fragments spanning 20 years...
Music for the Performancoid Installation in 23 Parts "Plastic Spider Thing"
Originally issued in 2002 on Coil's Eskaton sub-label.
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Wolfgang Voigt has announced the GAS box set, which will be released on 28th October on Kompakt. Inside this comprehensive anthology, listeners will experience the remastered albums ZAUBERBERG (celebrating the 20th anniversary of this essential album), KÖNIGSFORST, POP and the sought-after OKTEMBER 12", all together available as luxurious 10LP+4CD edition, including longer original CD edits never before available on vinyl.
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The first book devoted to power electronics, written by artists, fans, and critics.
Power electronics is a genre of industrial or ‘noise’ music that utilises feedback and synthesizers to produce an intense, loud, challenging sound. To match this sonic excess, power electronics also relies heavily upon extreme thematic and visual content— whether in lyrics, album art, or live performance. It is a genre that often invites strong reactions from both listeners and critics, if not dismissed or ignored altogether.
FIGHT YOUR OWN WAR is the first ever English-language book primarily devoted to power electronics, bringing together essays and reviews that explore the current state of the genre, from early development through to live performance, listener experience, artist motivation, gender and subcultures, such as ‘Japanoise’.
Written by artists, fans, and critics from around the world, FIGHT YOUR OWN WAR provides comment on a musical form that is at once theatrical and absurdist, while bringing to listeners a violent, ecstatic, and potentially consciousness-altering experience. In considering this ‘spectacle’ of noise, how far can we simply label power electronics as a genre of shock tactics or of transgression for transgression’s sake?
About the editor
Jennifer Wallis is a historian and author, currently living in Oxford, UK. She is a fan of power electronics and has previously worked with noise act Hate-Male.
Contributors
Mikko Aspa, Tom Bench, Bindweed, Scott Candey, Nathan Clemence, Andrew Cooke, Mike Dando, Sonia Dietrich, d foist, Spencer Grady, Clive Henry, Grant Hobson, Kevin Matthew Jones, Paul Margree, Nick Nihilist, Jack Sargeant, Stephen Sennitt, Richard Stevenson, Duncan Taylor, Philip Taylor, Jennifer Wallis, Daniel Wilson, Ulex Xane
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It’s easy to forget that Norway shares a short stretch of frontier with Russia, right at the northernmost tip of the country. That region is where Geir Jenssen, the Norwegian electronic producer behind Biosphere, comes from, and where he has been composing his austere, disturbing and deeply textured ambience since the early 1980s.
Biosphere has released many albums to date including Substrata, voted the greatest ambient album of all time on the Hyperreal website, and has collaborated with Arne Nordheim, Higher Intelligence Agency, Deathprod, Pete Namlook and Bel Canto.
His 12th album Departed Glories is his first in almost five years and marks a new deal with the Oslo independent label Smalltown Supersound. On the cover is a photo of the Russian landscape taken more than a hundred years ago. It’s part of an incredible cache of recently discovered images by the photographer Sergei Prokudin-Gorsky, who pioneered a form of colour photography using three sheets of glass, and left us with a collection of hauntingly beautiful pictures of a vanished world that could have been taken on an iPhone.
These are one of the inspirations for Jenssen’s latest project, which he began working on this project around five years ago, while he was based temporarily in Krakow, Poland. Living near the Wolski forest, his daily walk took him past sites – beautiful and at the same time terrible – where Poles had been executed during the second world war. After researching the area he discovered that a Polish medieval queen Bronislawa, had hidden among the trees with some nuns in the 13th century to escape the invading Tartar hordes, and that a monument to her memory had been built and then destroyed by invading Austrians in the 19th.
It made him speculate about what kind of music someone like Bronislawa might have heard while trembling among the trees? Not real music, surely, but something the fears in the mind might conjure up. He went in search of local folk music, from Poland and Ukraine, and began to work with that material to transform it into something reflecting psychological trauma.
Around the same time he stumbled on Prokudin-Gorsky’s photographs and was immediately struck by the way they brought history, with its long departed souls, a little bit nearer. One image in particular, of an Armenian woman in a forest in what is now Turkey, especially got under his skin. ‘The crystal clear yet haunting atmosphere fascinated me,’ he says.
All of these inspirational elements came together to provide the necessary propulsion to make Departed Glories, an album that sets the back of the neck hairs quivering in just the same way. It’s almost entirely constructed from hundreds of snippets of Eastern European And Russian folk music recordings, melted together to transform them into 17 unsettling and occasionally blindingly radiant beatless tracks. Each sample fragment is like a sliver of glass plate, and like the photos, it has left a music that is radiant, ghostly and unforgettable.
More information can be found here.
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You can’t accuse Supersilent of keeping the noise down. Ever since 1997, when Norway’s finest free music oufit came together for the first time, their unpredictable noises and rapturous textures have been heard all around the world – and maybe somewhere outside the stratosphere too.
Mostly taped in an Oslo studio at the end of 2014, the band record everything on 13 live, while blasting their sound through a PA system, so that they can feel the physical air moving as if they were on stage. Tracks 1 and 5 date from 2009, immediately after their drummer’s exit. “They were tryout sessions to see how we should proceed,” says Helge. “It was a kind of research for the band to feel how it is to be three, not four, and to blow off some steam.”
All of Supersilent’s music is entirely unplanned, with all three experienced musical adventurers throwing themselves into the moment and riding the emerging maelstrom. They always manage to surprise you, whether it’s the Indonesian ritual music heard from a Scandinavian mountaintop on the opening track “13.1” or the compressed digital labyrinths of “13.9.”
The trio swap instruments with abandon: percussion, trumpet and woodwind, electronics and Storløkken’s collectable assortment of vintage keyboards. In this technologize environment, sounds are passed around, distorted and spat out again in tantalizing splurges. “It takes time to shape a band from the beginning,” says Helge, “but for us now the trio is working really well.” With Supersilent’s lucky 13, now you can be the judge of that.
More information can be found here.
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Hubris continues the exploration of relentless, driving rhythms heard on Ambarchi’s Sagittarian Domain (2012) and Quixotism (2014). Where those records looked to Krautrock and techno for their starting points, the sidelong opening track here begins from the perhaps unlikely inspirations of disco and new wave, drawing particularly from Ambarchi’s love of Wang Chung’s soundtrack to William Friedkin’s To Live and Die in L.A. Leaving behind the song-forms of these reference points, Ambarchi weaves a sustained and pulsating web of layered palm-muted guitars from which individual voices rise up and recede, eventually setting the stage for some lush guitar synth from Jim O’Rourke. Arnold Dreyblatt collaborator Konrad Sprenger contributes overtone-rich motorized guitar, pushing the piece into a satisfying intersection of shimmering minimalism and rhythmic drive that smoothly builds up until the entrance of Mark Fell’s electronic percussion in its final section.
After a short second part, in which Ambarchi, O’Rourke and Crys Cole pay tribute to the skewed harmonic sense of Albert Marcoeur with a track built from layered bass guitar figures and abstracted speech, the long final piece pushes the concept of the first side into darker and denser areas. Joined by electronic rhythms from Ricardo Villalobos and the twin drums of Joe Talia and Will Guthrie, the layered guitars of the first piece are transformed into a raw and tumbling fusion-funk groove that calls to mind early Weather Report or even the first Golden Palominos LP. As this stellar rhythm section rides a single repeated chord change into oblivion, a series of spectacular events emerge in the foreground: first, aleatoric synthesizer burbles from Keith Fullerton Whitman, then slashing skronk guitar from Arto Lindsay, until finally Ambarchi’s own fuzzed-out guitar harmonics take center stage as the piece builds to an ecstatic frenzy. Few artists could hope to include such an incredible variety of collaborators on one record and still hope for it to have a unique identity, but Ambarchi manages to do just that, crafting three pieces that emerge directly out of his previous work while also pushing ahead into new dimensions.
More information can be found here.
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Utterly riveting modernist composition by NWW’s Andrew Liles, twisting influence from original ‘50s and ‘60s avant garde pioneers into a conceptual suite concerned with “the impotence of the masses living in the shadow of military, economic and political institutions”, and suitably sleeved in pictures of Tony and Cherie Blair before make-up (or after the mob gets ‘em).
Using a range of sonic signifiers for power, oppression and gloom such as church bells, blackened minor key baroque themes and deflated, limpid choral discord, each diffused and smeared across the stern field in a toxic miasma, Liles conjures a feeling of deep, pensive unease that strongly resonates with his conceptual intent in The Power Elite.
In typical NWW or Liles fashion, the suite proceeds seamlessly thru the gloom with scarcely any handrails to guide the way, and the ones that do appear tend to dissolve with warning, leaving his spectrally diaphanous, morphing projections as the only source of light to cling onto.
With discomfiting effect, he queasily emulates a state of submission and helplessness, allowing sounds to wash over the listener in a stilted, curdling flow of disjointed information, perhaps requiring the listener to act as non-passive impedance or resistance in order to properly process his aesthetic as rhetoric.
-via Boomkat
More information about Andrew Liles can be found here.
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5th LP of mind expansion and electric truth from Stephen O'Malley (Sunn0))), KTL), Daniel O'Sullivan (Ulver, This is Not This Heat, Grumbling Fur, etc), Kristoffer Rygg (Ulver), Steve Noble (Brotzmann Trio, N.E.W.).
Hazel is the 5th record from this group of eclectic travelers, who bring their considerable pedigrees together in unexpected and original ways. Looking at the people involved, it would be reasonable to expect a massive blowout of sound, but everyone plays with remarkable and effective restraint. The music is atmospheric and layered, with bits and pieces of identifiable rock moves peeking out from under a thick blanket of hard-to-identify drift. Based on live recordings made on a lengthy tour of Italy in 2010, the recordings have been extensively edited and supplemented, but without losing the elemental sound of a group playing live together. While there’s plenty of weird ambient sound to be heard, this isn’t a sound-effects/”pedalboard” record. Like the preceding En Form for Blaalbum, Noble’s drums anchor the music. The drumming is spare and considered, sometimes lashing out with abstract punctuation, and other times laying out a Can-like groove. O’Malley’s guitar is also restrained, providing a bed for O'Sullivan's constantly morphing Rhodes, synths and electronic effects. Kristoffer Rygg contributes a rousing vocal incantation to “Ermanna” and peppers the mix with ghostly modular details. Like their other records, this is not really like anything else out there right now.
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