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![cover image](/brain/images/klangmutationen-schwarzhagel.jpg)
Sonically based around dueling saxophones and underpinned by dark, heavily reverbed guitar ambience, Schwarzhagel is an extremely dark, tense listening experience. The short opening track of black, reverb drenched ambience and violent guitar string bends serves as a more than adequate prelude to the pummeling that awaits.
The second, longer piece begins similarly with wobbling pitch guitar and carefully controlled feedback that swells and sustains violently, but never feels unnecessary or unfocused. However, once the saxophones enter, the bleakness is replaced with pure violence. Tham Kar Mun and Yandsen both manage to produce the most tortured, pained shrieks from their instruments that rivals anything Peter Brotzmann or John Zorn has done similar in sheer brutality. Unrelenting, the guttural screams continue, occasionally dropping off into a death rattle just to come back strong. Finally, the horns retreat and the piece retreats into the calmer darkness of the guitar that opened it.
The third long track is more focused on noise laden guitar riffs that are punctuated by subtler, but still uncomfortable horn blasts. The guitar grows noiser and noiser until the latter half where it erupts into pure unhinged noise that could have been the work of Hijokaidan or Solmania for utter guitar raucousness. Throughout this piece, however, there is a greater variety of dynamics taking place. While the former piece was one unending blast, this one allows for some breathing room in the first half, with the volume and density of sound swelling and then retreating, allowing for more tension and less pure chaos.
Ending with another short track, the album closes is a much more softer manner than it opened, chiming, crystalline guitar tones shine through the mist of reverb, and the piercing feedback swells stay carefully under control. As a whole, it’s an interesting take on what is usually just considered free jazz. Even with the sonic parallels to the FMP label and other such camps, Klangmutationen retains a darker, more sinister quality that was never quite as apparent in other similar works.
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Having already reviewed the Daturas' Dead in the Woods CD a short while ago, I was anticipating a sustained barrage of raw granitic blockiness and in that respect I wasn’t to be disappointed. Despite that, their sixteen and a half minute slice of doom, “Golden Tusk the Endearing,” left me somewhat unconvinced. All the right ingredients are there: slow-moving tectonic plates of gravelly guitar, interrupted by splintering, sharp flinty shards as fault-lines shift and break, along with the protesting squeal of feedback, with the whole culminating in cyclopean seismic ruptures in its fabric. Yet, there is still something missing. Compared to the previous album, this one seems to wallow in a sludgy one-dimensional pit of its own making, and just self-indulgently stays there. It never really appears to elevate itself beyond that, determinedly staying in the lower registers without attempting to inject a measure of personality or dimensionality into it, which I found massively disappointing. I got the impression that it was too self-limiting and unwilling to break bounds, preferring instead to root around in the mud and muck, simply for its own sake.
Monarch follows a similar path, equally subterranean and equally monolithic in execution, on their somehow appropriately titled “Rapture.” The difference here though is there is palpable heat and electricity being generated as the geological processes stack up in coiled-spring tension, releasing energy in tectonic spasms of high Richter-scale detonations. Utilising the same dirty filth-inflected instrumentation of granular guitar explosions and feedback, but this time augmented with the behemothic percussion of Stephane and the hellishly demonic vocals of Eurogirl (aka Emilie), “Rapture” dives and plunges into the lightless Stygian depths. Apart from any other consideration this adds the multi-dimensional layering missing from the Grey Datura’s entry. Miasmatically black swirls of noxious, asphyxiating essence clog the senses, enveloping and suffocating. Knife-sharp feedback and chainsaw guitar slice through, wielded by unseen hands, cutting and dicing with malign abandon. A genderless angelic voice rises from the airless gloom, enticing and pleading, until all pretence is dropped and its true demonic nature is finally revealed. One feels the weight of both the subterranean gloom and the mass of rock above. Oppression and dread take on a physical form here, cowing and buffeting the soul mercilessly.
I was more than a bit disappointed with the Grey Datura side, but it was more than redeemed by Monarch’s effort. Compared to it, “Golden Tusk the Endearing” lacked any energy or drive, remaining nothing but monochrome in the process. In contrast, Monarch ignited their engines, stuck them on full throttle and just let go. Consequently it felt like whole landmasses were moved and crushed, and mountains crumbled. Sadly though, the Grey Daturas never managed to emerge from their little pit.
Samples:
- Grey Daturas - Golden Tusk the Endearing
- Monarch - Rapture excerpt 1
- Monarch - Rapture excerpt 2
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Die Stadt
What brought these two (rather these three—a trio again!) back for asecond take at the arch abstraction that has protected their careersfrom scrutiny thus far can only be guessed at, left unanswered orforgotten by those with the courage and the will captivated enough tostretch prone across these two discs, these vast hollow spaces. I havenever been to space, but I’ve been trapped in the funnel of a bedroom’srestless blanket-mess enough times, absent and terrified, alone in asearch for clues that might be miniature parts of myself, to know wherethis is coming from.
“Post-technoid” this is not; switch on the lightand you might see it evaporate, petrify in sepia, graft onto an inch ofwallpaper. Here is glitch as the subtle-supreme counterpoint to anotherfragment of McKenzie’s masterpiece of micro-strata exposed. Glitch asdistinct and spare as Autechre can make it, set, as if upon silkenpaper, as if in an ancient dressing, with proportions easily projectedbut also perfectly, so very regularly, aligned.
It's funny how logic cantrip such a wide hole. Autechre, the neat sutures to the Hafler game ofplaying sweet orchestra for those deeply paranoid. Droning, descending,solemn innerspaces get ruptured, even painfully, but never without anhonest recoil, to the oceanic calm that is more reticence thanacceptance, a cold glow across distances whose shortness is beyondmeasure. No beats save that heart-click, the slow break of a bodyturning in on itself, the thuum-ph of an eyelid that has only to riseon things changed in their own deceptive degrees.
I have fallen asleepin these silences (there are many), only to be awoken by the swingingof latches and humming and swirling of machines in warm-up, again, forme. (He has awoken; he will not quit us; he has visioned the walls ofthis room in their true dissolve; he can see again) No rust, nothinghangs, nothing weeps or weezes and everything moves with a purpose thatis the only the assertion of its own maintenance. I cannot be astranger traveling through, all is part of and one with; I have willednothing but exist on the obliterating fringe of every new noise.
Haflerdrones forward and around, Autechre finds, binds, and questions, whatcan stifle and disprove this atmosphere, which details can push thisdrift into harrowing reverse? The answer is none, and the answer ispart of a continued method of questioning bent on perpetual negationand discovery.
I am at a loss to describe this painful union of forces.
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There's something unspeakable wandering the halls of a deserted hotel somewhere in the past and its sound has been captured so that all can know it. Salvaged from dusty records in plain white and brown sleeves, these recordings take a decidedly darker stroll into the halls of forgotten happiness and celebration. The Caretaker has managed to take the deserted and neglected and give them new life by expanding their sound: horns blasting for the satisfaction of dancing men and women are slowed down to funeral marches and the static and hiss of old records become the wind and rain as it toils outside the windows of a shining and elegant ballroom. There's an element of surgery in The Caretaker's approach: that which must've seemed so vibrant and brimming with life is torn open so reveal something betraying that image inside. Everyone had their demons at this party and each of them were quite desperate to hide that little part of themselves; fear had its axe in everyone's back. But there's more going on here than just psychological investigation: The Caretaker strips back a little bit of reality to reveal the void underneath everything.
This explains the reason for all the sounds being so spacious: voices extended into the unintelligible, drums turned into drones and smoke, and strings diminished to hollow wails. The good news is that the fear never becomes too great and the void never feels all-consuming. The sounds and sights to be found on this release can be explored with confidence: whatever it is that is lurking through these distorted and destroyed melodies certainly cannot cause any permanent damage, right? Even this seems uncertain, really. "And The Bands Played On" is a reminder that nothing is for certain and that whatever certainty is assumed is truly dangerous. From start to finish, We'll All Go Riding on a Rainbow is filled with absolutely haunting and unmitigated sound. There are points when it is impossible to tell whether the sounds being heard are really from a lost record or from some lurking and abnormal creature not subject to a name or description.
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The lead song, "No. One" is an upbeat maximalistic rocker which is decent but not nearly as catchy as some of the highlights of Ms. John Soda's debut album (the counting vocals and frequent stops aren't much more than a mild annoyance), while the second track, "Sometimes Stop, Sometimes Go" has some beautiful moments. Each, however, are sort of ruined by Stephanie's frequent talking. She's got such an alluring singing voice that I wish she would only sing these tracks rather than hide behind spoken word interludes. The third cut, "I & #8217" begins as a mishmash of sounds and samples from the No P or D album, but as it's re-pasted back together, vocals and additional instruments are added by Subtle (which features unnamed Anticon members - although Dose One's voice is clearly audible). It's an interesting concept but at four minutes doesn't sound like it's beed explored to the full extent. The disc continues with the creepy late-night car wreck devastation score in the form of the slow moving "If Someone Would Know," and closes the almost unbearingly heavy dialogue of "I think it could work, Marilyn," where Stephanie is almost playing dolly, talking as the fictitious voices of Elvis and Marilyn in a situation far more interesting to read about than to hear. I honestly hope this is the last they come this close to making a "spoken word" record. The good thing about the EP is that it's been made with the intentions of selling on the upcoming European and North American shows: shows I'm anxiously looking forward to. I remain enthusiastic and firmly believe that this EP, while mildly anticlimactic, isn't going to lose any existing fans at all.
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Earlier this year Autechre curated the fifth All Tomorrow's Parties festival, and of that bounty comes this, actually the fourth ATP compilation. All Tomorrow's Parties comps have never been more than glorified mixtapes ("ultimate" mixtapes according to Thurston Moore), thoughtfully scratching the surface of one of the best large-scale concert series; Autechre's volume, though, is the first with potential to transcend its posterity-building, afterthought status, becoming an (almost) essential collection.
This is the first double-disc (or album) of the ATP comps, making the odds of finding something compelling even greater. This is also the first ATP comp to focus almost entirely, and understandably so, on the electronic realm, giving it, though twice as long, a common thread that was lacking on the first two, curated by Sonic Youth and Shellac. An increased cohesiveness is particularly achieved in the sequencing of the tracks across the two discs. Disc one is undoubtedly more of a "daytime" collection. It begins with two hip-hop songs, the first new material from Public Enemy and the second a stellar remix of the Masters of Illusion track "Bay-Bronx Bridge," a Bollywood-breakified gem that would be at home in a DJ/rupture mix for sure. Two hip-hop infected instrumental tracks follow, by Autechre's upbeat alter ego Gescom and Miami's Push Button Objects, whose "ATP track" features sitar plucking and operatic vocals floating above a cracklin' beat. These songs are "pop" enough to follow the hip-hop and segue nicely into a laptop piece from Jim O'Rourke sounding like the more pleasant bits of recent Fenn O'Berg stuff. This is music for relaxing in the backyard after an afternoon of driving around with the beginning of this disc in the ghetto blaster. Two Autechrian, yet nonabrasive tracks from O.S.T. and Made begin the evening's journey into night. Somewhat uneventful, these leave room for the third and final hip-hop track, this time from Kool Keith's ! Dr. Dooom, whose "Leave Me Alone" is a hilarious tirade against the music industry containing one show- stopping verse that begins, "Why you think I should wear a motorcycle helmet—why don't you wear it?" Detroit techno guru Steve Pickton's Stasis project closes disc one with a wonderful piece blending spacious drones into rumbling electro and beginning a trip to the dancefloor that will be continued on the second disc.
More of a "nighttime" disc, with most of its tracks primed for the dark spaces of the dancefloor, disc two kicks off with one of its nicest surprises, faceless technoid Anthony 'Shake' Shakir's "Ghetto Futures," a track whose slashing breaks sound played by a live army. A fragile, beautiful track from Disjecta (Seefeel's Mark Clifford) allows a brief moment of peace before the beefy, though unremarkable techno throbbings of Baby Ford and Mark Broom. A lengthy and exceptionally soothing Pita track begins the final and most abstract segment of the comp. Surprises herein include an Autechre track that, despite its title ("/]-/](II)"), is relatively accessible, even danceable, and a sprawling new track from Sub Pop sludge/drone stoners Earth. The typically harsh stylings of Bola (one of four Skam artists on this comp) and Hecker round off the disc in predictable, though enjoyable fashion. If ATP comps of the future provide the same variety, tempered by the same degree of cohesion and consistency evident here, these collections may become as valuable as tickets to the events themselves.
samples:
- Masters of Illusion - The Bay-Bronx Bridge [Bhongra Remix]
- Stasis - Artifax
- Anthony 'Shake' Shakir - Ghetto Futures (Go Figure)
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