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Leave it to Editions Mego to release something that is so unclearly either random electronic improvisations or a highly structured piece of experimentation. But whatever it is, Altars of Science is a captivating piece of computer wizardry that is surely even more fascinating in the included 5.1 surround sound mix.
I must specify before the review that, although this release is packaged as a dual disc, containing the stereo mix of the piece on one side, and a 5.1 DVD compatible surround sound mix on the other, that my copy was only of the stereo mix, so I cannot completely speak for how the surround portion is. However, given the layering and disorienting phasing and panning of channels in the stereo version, I can only imagine the surround mix is even more fascinating if you have the equipment to fully enjoy it.
Altars of Science is a single piece of computer generated chaos, split across eight individual tracks, indexed for ease of listening. The track dives in with the electronic noise, buzzing, distortion, sharp piercing tones, air raid sirens, all things that make for uneasy listening. There is no gentle introduction to science, just a quick dive into the mechanization. The piece begins to calm, if only somewhat, by focusing more in swells and pulses of noise, akin to cars racing by on a freeway, rendered via an old Atari video game. Glitch type outbursts are unexpected and a bit shocking at times, punctuating the mix with even more volume and force. Then, like an unprepared spacecraft re-entering orbit, the sounds begin to come apart, like pieces flying off and burning in the atmosphere, represented through stutters and digital time stretching.
Later, the panning and shifting of the computer-based noise is like a swarm of insects, their tiny wings amplified to defining volumes, coming together to destroy an old mainframe computer a la the kind in Wargames, all flashy lights and meaningless bleeps. The buzzes mix with the dying beeps of the machinery, a bit of nature triumphing over science. The culmination of the disc is a final bit of minimalism, buried clicks and scratches, some stuttering, much more mellow and less aggressive than the previous parts of the work, the calm reflection after the previous storm.
Schmickler's Altars of Science has enough harshness and chaos to appeal to fans of harsh realms despite being a work of electronic composition. Although he has previously worked in more conventional and pop-like genres, this is purely experimental. It is hard to say whether this is one man improvising with his laptop, or something that was planned, programmed and scored beforehand. In the end, it really doesn't matter worth a damn, because the final result is exemplary.
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An entirely logical and almost mythical collaboration, this joining of the two greatest studio bands in the history of audio recording has arrived with surprisingly little hype or fanfare. Undeservedly so as it is a thoroughly enjoyable album, albeit with less reinventing the wheel (or inventing some new shape to replace the wheel) than is expected from a pair of groups that are both known for their adventures in the studio.
Considering the massive influence Faust have had on Nurse With Wound (with Stapleton as a young man famously travelling to the group's headquarters at Wumme only to find Faust were off on tour), it is nearly asking for either an anticlimax or a masterpiece yet it is neither. Yes, there are moments of absolute sonic majesty; the hypnotic, motorik rhythms of "Lass Mich" being blended into smoky ambiences is a stunning start to the album. This was the kind of magic I was hoping for. Yet from here on the album never returns to the sense of urgency and power of the opening song. This is not a problem or a major criticism but after getting so pumped and then left to stagger through the rest of the album wondering "Where has all the muscle gone?" is a bewildering experience. However, after a few listens I settled back in and the other three tracks reveal their own charming characters.
There are times when the music is unmistakably Stapleton and Potter—the time stretched vocals and ethereal drones of the title track being obvious hallmarks of Nurse With Wound—but it would be fallacious to suggest that they are the main drive behind the sound. Faust (in this case consisting of Jean-Herve Peron, Zappi Diermaier and Amaury Cambuzat) bring an awful lot to the table, some of the material here sounds like it could have come from the classic recording sessions at Wumme, the band sounding as vibrant now as in their youth. Diermaier's percussion (when it is not obscured under layers of post-production transformations) is full of raw energy but is as precise as a surgeon. Peron's bass on "It Will Take Time" is a simple two-note refrain but resonates like the hull of a ship hit with a very large hammer.
The symbiosis between the two groups comes naturally, although with all the studio trickery it is hard to tell where one band begins and the other ends. However, the studio trickery on offer is a bit old hat for anyone who is familiar with either group's repertoire. Granted it all sounds brilliant but at times I feel like there should be some sonic epiphany that lives up to the legend of both sets of artists. That being said, any Nurse With Wound fans who have not ventured out into the world of Faust should be inspired by this to go out and explore the jaw dropping back catalogue amassed by the group. Equally, I can only hope that curious Faust fans will pick up on Steven Stapleton's work on the strength of Disconnected and see where Faust might have gone if they did not lose their access to Polydor's generous chequebook. Of course, fans of both will probably spend hours wondering where to shelve the album.
Disconnected may not be a Faust Tapes or a Soliloquy for Lilith for the 21st century but at the very least it answers a big "what if" question. Its best moments shine brightly and at worst it is not a million miles away from some of Nurse With Wound's more recent output (and really that is not a bad place to be at all). Hopefully this will mark just the beginning of a long lasting working relationship between the various parties, more live shows and further studio experiments are, needless to say, welcome.
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Only a year and a half after their debut release, mwvm (aka Michael Walton) has already entered and settled into a much colder territory. Taking a step forward, Rotations moves its ten tracks on a single flowing journey through shivering layers of guitar and fx coatings. While it may share elements with post rock, isolationism and ambient musics, this is definitely of itself. Heightening this cold atmosphere, the bleached out Saturn's rings-style artwork is the perfect visual accompaniment to the excursion.
The majority of the tracks here favor the abstract over the relaxing guitar-gone-ambient style of his peers. This album stands out as a panacea to the remaining dependence on rock that even the far left of post-rock still retains. It's only the opening "Context. Where?" where memory-tugging melodies and brushstrokes of pedal steel like playing come to the fore. The rise and lull of notes, and their progressive coming together, sees guitar lines floating in alternating layers like varicoloured liquids that won't mix.
Circling itself, "Oratory Clout" adds field recordings and dim electronics to layers of ringing, shivers running alongside and through the notes. There are dark movements across the record, whistling metallic glides and recurring vibrations of satellite paths. The lost horn call sounds of "Negative Pole" are trapped in the air, cold basilica echoes running through Rotations. This records perfect moment though appears on the drowsily titled "Sleepy Crayfish," avoiding guitar glories it goes instead for subtle currents. Gorgeously (and surprisingly, for such a frozen release) capturing a warm underwater world without resorting to anything other than lush emissions of sound, this is mwvm inspiring the rest of the crowd to keep in the gentlest possible way.
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The latest bulletin from the far north's most mighty improvisers is nothing short of staggering. From start to finish it is a bewildering and bewitching journey; the familiar trappings of rock and jazz being reprogrammed into a chimera of musical styles in a strange, shifting landscape. It is the sound of absolute freedom, of musicians completely breaking away from the constraints laid upon them by those who have gone before.
A word that is not unfamiliar to those who have encountered Supersilent is "intense." If this was a one word review, it would be just that. However, blessed with a relatively unlimited word count I can go into the required detail. Anyone familiar with Supersilent will know that the idea of intensity is always key to their power. What form this intensity takes depends on their mood when they walk into the studio, for 8 it is an almost violent, heavy vibe that rumbles through the album. The queasy synth and lurching rhythms that opens the album brings to mind the nauseous live jams of Throbbing Gristle. From the second it starts it is obvious that the world's favourite Norwegians are back and they are taking no prisoners and leaving no survivors.
The pace is then taken down a few measures for about half the album, the jazzier side of Supersilent comes to the fore but even then, jazz is just one word that fails to do justice to this band. In saying that, there is a serious Miles Davis air about "8.4" with its cool drums and trumpet center. To class this music as jazz (or rock or improvisation or experimental) does not convey in even the slightest what Supersilent are like on their best days (on their worst days it is possible to use stronger words but that is not the focus here). The best I can do is go back to the idea of intensity, gripping the moment with both hands and freefalling into oblivion, recording the sounds all the while. The white hot freakout of "8.7" captures this feeling most effectively; it vomits out of the stereo like a million Wolf Eyes hungry for your hearing.
8 may be intense and even punishing but most importantly it is a splendid album, replete with mind-blowing improvisations that quite honestly left me breathless the first time I sat down and listened to it. Each listen opens up a new view on the music, it is possible to listen to a particular track over and over and pick up nuances that were previously missed. Of course, anyone who has heard any of Supersilent's previous releases will know this already. 8 is as good as anything from the group's back catalogue and better than words can accurately convey.
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As a whole, this album is a dark journey through dense fog, mist, and pure bleakness: a disorienting pastiche of recognizable live instruments and pure electronic and sound manipulation. While it makes for some interesting textures, unfortunately the overall dynamics of the tracks are lacking.
The first track (all are untitled) establishes the mood for the remainder: all minor chords; bizarre rattles; and slow, sinister droning strings. It is the audio equivalent of hovering in a thick mist where nothing is visible in any direction, yet there is obviously something there. The organic strings are a recurring motif throughout, appearing as an obvious cello in some tracks, or simply a slow, dense wave of tension later on.
Found sounds play a role as well: dripping water, indecipherable fragments of human voice, and the hum of a guitar amplifier run through distortion to no longer be ignorable, but prominent, and matched with an orchestral ambience in the longest, fourth track on the album. There is a definite density and thickness that can be heard in the mix of all tracks, layer upon layer of organic and synthetic instrumentation that beg for focused listening, which is where the problem arises.
There is nothing patently wrong with the album, not at all. In fact, the tracks reflect the album's overarching concept of landscapes. Like the terrain, they sit there, vast, but unchanging. From piece to piece they differ, but they don't have much individual direction: they're too complex to hinge on pure minimalism, yet structurally too repetitive to build much in the way of tension. Because of that, listening closely causes the tracks to start to slip into the background, which is unfortunate because there is a lot of interesting stuff going on here, the tracks just need more development and inertia to make them more engaging. As it stands now, the pieces just blend into the terrain they are intended to mimic, instead of standing out in uniqueness.
Most interesting is the fact that the shortest track on the disc—the third one that clocks in at about three and a half minutes—shows the most variation and development, with intertwining guitar and vibraphone sounds over drone and steady electronic pulse. Compared to the rest, it is very dynamic and the most fascinating here.
In small doses, as in by a track at at time, this is a great disc. However, it too easily becomes background sound and makes close, intensive listening difficult. Rather than relying on the tension built up at the immediate start of the tracks, Stimulus would do well to integrate more dynamic variation and structure into the individual works, because keeping the listener's attention that way could shift the album from simply being "interesting" to being far more "compelling."
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Most people when asked about the distinctly Japanese dialect of what the world knows as noise can easily mention Merzbow. Some of the more well versed can even come up with Masonna. Pain Jerk and the Incapacitants, however, are often reserved for those a bit more "in the know." Both have had long, prolific careers and this disc captures both of their first, and only performances thus far in the US. The sound is every bit as brutal and engrossing on here as it is on either of their multitude of studio works.
I must admit to feeling more than just a bit of frustration from this disc. Back in May, I was all set to see the Incapacitants during their first every US show. However, due to an awful (now ex-) girlfriend who was an even worse driver, I missed the show because of an accident and instead had to spend the night in fascinating Poughkeepsie, New York. Not only was that incident annoying enough, but now I look through the photographs in the accompanying booklet and thing "wow, if it wasn't for her, I could perhaps see my ugly mug somewhere in one of these photos!" But, I digress.
Kohei Gomi, a.k.a. Pain Jerk contributes the first performance in "Hello America (Excerpt)," which is 33 minutes of pure phased destruction. Crushing low-end pulses, shrill shards of processed white noise, and everything in between. No moments of quiet introspection or any relent at all to the pummeling. I must admit to finding it a bit disappointing overall when compared to Pain Jerk's studio work. In that context, he has a very unique sound based on very tight, well-controlled loops and almost rhythmic processing; which is something that set Gomi apart from his contemporaries. It might just be a factor of the live versus studio setting, because that element makes only sparse appearances throughout the performance. It is by no means a bad set, but it doesn't stand apart from other noise artists as much as it should.
While looking at the photos Pain Jerk can be seen as the long haired, metal looking guy he is, the Incapacitants provide a stark visual contrast. The band, consisting of Tosiji Mikawa (also of Hijokaidan) and Fumio Kosakai (of C.C.C.C.) are both short haired Japanese salarymen. Mikawa is a bank employee, and Kosakai works in a government office. Hence, their noise work is a pure hobby. Until a DVD (which I hope is forthcoming) is released, take it on my word from previous performances I have seen via video: these two always look like they're having the time of their lives during performances. Hopping around, fists pumping, wrestling with each other and just generally spazzing out is how they roll: Mikawa has said he started the Incapacitants as a way to explore pure noise without any other pretense or framework, and the two seem to be possessed by the spirit of harsh electronics whenever they're on stage.
Their performance, "The Crowd Inched Closer & Closer," begins with the recorded yells from the audience, yelling various album titles the group has released in the ultimate perversion of "the request" at rock shows before a sputtering noise comes in accompanied by one of the two's screams. Then, without a pause, the roar begins. Hypnotic washes of white noise, ray gun sine waves pulsate, and the screams of two men enjoying the moment in the most enthusiastic way possible.
Kudos to everyone involved with recording and mastering this beast, because even through all the expected difficulty in making a noise recording "clean," especially in a live setting, the individual elements come through nicely and various complexities that could be otherwise overlooked are noteworthy.
This is truly the spirit of noise: no macho posturing, no pseudo-intellectualism, no "rocking out," no pretense. Just pure, unadulterated electronic distortion of the highest quality done by two of the masters who have ever turned the knob on a distortion pedal that is fun, terrifying, hypnotic and fascinating all at the same time.
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- Hello America
- The Crowd Inched Closer & Closer (Excerpt 1)
- The Crowd Inched Closer & Closer (Excerpt 2)
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Richie Hawtin has made some excellent though unexpected choices in 2007 with his still-thriving imprint. After implausibly giving newcomer JPLS a magnetic though understated full-length album showcase, the superstar DJ/producer shifts away from that informed unorthodoxy with a relatively risk-free and agreeable extended EP from one of his apparently deserving second-tier acts.
Though Gone Astray marks his first ever CD as a solo artist, Troy Pierce has enjoyed a fair bit of attention through releases with well-received projects such as Louderbach and the decent yet inexplicably hyped Run Stop Restore trio with Magda and Marc Houle. On the surface, he seems a perfectly reasonable and logical fit to get his time on plastic, though with only 8 original tracks out of the 10 provided here, I immediately found myself concerned over whether or not this could live up to the promise and challenge of JPLS' Twilite. Having been written largely while on the road, this incohesive collection of material seems perfectly appropriate for the 2x12" vinyl format, but as a disc it feels forced.
To his credit, Pierce does not hold fast to stoic asceticism in these fit and funky productions, unlike many of his restrained M_nus peers. Opening with "Lost On The Way To DC10 (Berlin)," he precariously tinkers in the fuzzy, quasi-melodic badlands that make minimal techno just about impossible to define. Konrad Black's subsequent remix initially attempts to suppress the excesses of the original, though the textures and tones gurgling under the surface are far too animated to stay beneath the low-pass filters for very long. Rhythms swing freely as well as on comparatively sparer cuts like "Word" and the claustrophobically acidic "Golden." "Go Without Me (Come Back)" is almost nausea-inducing with its oscillating, disoriented waves, while "Finnished" bleats an routinely EBM-esque bassline in the vein of early Nitzer Ebb.
Appearing in two versions, the bleak and bleepy "Even If It's Alone" features the infrequent voice of Louderbach collaborator Gibby Miller. The basic lyrics and dry delivery hemorrhage a druggy desperation, something all too common and rather tiresome on the cold vocal tracks that M_nus and like-minded labels have unleashed in the past couple of years. Ultimately that very familiarity—or rather, that unoriginality—evinces why Gone Astray will hardly move more than the dancefloor, and even then only fleetingly. Pierce's work, though quite satisfactory, finds its home in the comfortable and even prosaic, whereas with JPLS' album, strains of a possible genre evolution tantalized and provoked. Techno devotees will naturally engage with these tracks but, with nothing captivating to cling to or embrace, will likely forget all about them shortly after the disc is done.
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Chris Hakius and Al Cisneros invert their formula on their third album. Instead of only creating tension through loudness and distortion, they also generate an uneasy mood through a judicious balance of softness and clarity. Recorded by Steve Albini, Pilgrimage finds them branching out into more delicate yet no less intriguing territory for what may be their most consistent album yet.
On the title track, Cisneros explores the timbral nuances of the bass more than he has on any of their previous albums. Rather than just exploding forward with a fiery crackle, he repeats a quiet melody that highlights the tones of his instrument's untreated strings. His vocals are hushed on this song like his bass, and Hakius' drums, mainly rumbling toms, are mixed accordingly. The production on this song heightens the brooding anticipation, drawing me in and making me curious about what happens next rather content to follow them at will.
One of the other benefits of opening with this contemplative, moody track is that when they do choose to amplify things, it's much more dramatic. The ear-crushing "Unitive Knowledge of the Godhead" rears up like the Om of albums past after a brief echo-laden intro. It is vintage Om, and a welcome haven after the haunting opener. "Bhima's Theme" continues in this vein, although here Cisneros' vocals are more prominent and have a different rhythm than usual. Halfway through the song, the drums disappear, leaving only the bass and vocals for another meditative section before erupting with a cacophonous finale. The fourth and final song is a reprise of the title track, which may be unnecessary since the memory of the first version is still fresh, yet it is a faithful reminder of how things started.
While "On the Mountain at Dawn" from Variations on a Theme remains my favorite song by them, I'm more likely to listen to Pilgrimage from beginning to end than any of their other albums because it has the most variety and depth. Even though the music at times is less visceral than I'm used to from them, I found myself more attentive to the details than usual. The chances they take with their songwriting and the variety of subtle production touches they employ go a long way toward making this a satisfying and rewarding album.
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While the album's philosophy is an integral part of its success and woven into the music, and packaging is undoubtedly personal (wax seal, unique piece of photograph as gift), still Tracks is not giving anything personal away with the liners. In terms of vision Everything Judged by Success Alone is about as close as possible to a one man vision of Godspeed You Black Emperor as anyone's likely to be able to conjure up.
Creating a minimalist reduction of GYBE's almost-orchestral widescreeners, Tracks manage to create just as internalised a vocabulary through instrumentals and obscure vocal samples. This album's worldview is just as (if not more) bleak than that collective's ideas. The borrowed narrator on "Starts with Cans" starts with a sad sinking story and then plummets into alcoholism, the post-rock strum plays an ideal balance and backing. When near the song's end a sound emerges that could either be guitar work or a passing train horn, the attention is so deep in the narrator's world that there is no way of telling. Much of the album follows this stripped sepia guitar setting, simple patterns with minimal effects and some field recordings keeping everything intimately close at hand.
Feeling like a single lonely ride, "Everything Judged by Success Alone," Tracks slowly begins to flesh out the second half of the LP. The slowly building "B Flat, D Flat, A Flat, C" pushing the meter into the red of eroding emotional control, the song's sharp notes tempering the content from the cold. There is percussive stringplay on "Special Powers," beating a tattoo below sinister samples, the additional elements never infecting the atmosphere. The only time Tracks fails to hit the target is on "Snowstorm into Blood Spattered Sheets" (superb title though) where a traditional band format recording feels imposed. Feeling like a totally different band, the mood is splintered but it is still not enough to even dent this record.
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The title of this album translates into "everything open again," especially fitting considering that this band have been going for nigh on three decades and continue to evolve. Many a younger band would be delighted with this as a debut, let alone the 20-oddth studio album of a consistently innovative career, not just musically but also the very means by which a record is made. With Radiohead taking a leaf from their book in terms of cutting out the record label middleman, this album is as much a statement of the healthy state of independent music as it is a fine collection of songs.
The fact that Alles Wieder Offen was fully funded by the fans and recorded without any constraints, artistic or otherwise, could have lead to two very different situations: the first being a turgid, self-indulgent mess or the second being a quality work of art done with the full respect for those who have helped and trusted them with their money. Granted Neubauten's track record of exceptional album after exceptional album weighs the odds in their favour but it is always great to hear the final results and confirming that yes indeed, they have spent our investments well. How a similar model would work for a less established artist is unclear (a fan base is undeniably necessary) but it is still a forthright middle finger displayed proudly in the direction of the record industry.
Everything may be open again but not everything is completely new. Like the Kurt Schwitters- esque collage that graces the album's cover, many of the songs take bits and pieces from Neubauten's past and superimposes them on the new material. Musical and lyrical elements from older songs like "Sehnsucht" and "Redukt" make appearances in new guises. Out of the ten songs on Alles Wieder Offen, two will be familiar to anyone who has been following their subscription only releases. The opening track, "Die Wellen," was first released on the piano only album Klaviermusik. Here the vocals and piano are supplemented with a throbbing bass and percussion rhythm, propelling the song on and on until it topples over a precipice and ends suddenly and dramatically.
This is followed by the second familiar song which is also one of the finest songs to come out of Neubauten's bunker since the band's inception. "Nagorny Karabach" was originally performed and recorded at a concert for neubauten.org supporters in Berlin three years ago. Taking the original live take from that night, the band have added some very slight overdubs and Bargeld has finished the lyrics. The finally completed song is beautiful; a tender bass line by Alex Hacke provides a canvas for Bargeld's new and improved lyrics. E-bow guitar and a stripped jet engine played with brushes complete the magical sound.
I could go through the album track by track as each song has enough ideas to it to warrant a paragraph of its own but I will rein myself in. Only one of the songs disappoints: the music to "Ich Hatte ein Wort" sounds a little like something from The Lion King, I cannot help but imagine antelope galloping across the Savannah in time to this song. Aside from that, Alles Wieder Offen is faultless. Those expecting any return to the confrontational Neubauten of old will of course be disappointed, this should be obvious but there still seems to be a core group of people out there who expect the group to revert to their older, wilder style. To those with open ears, it is clear that Neubauten are still as cathartic and evocative as they have always been; "Weil Weil Weil" and "Let's Do it a Dada" are their big 'hits' like "Feurio!" and "Yü Gung" of yesteryear, "Unvollständigkeit" and "Ich Warte" are the sounds of the band looking forward again. As much as I am enjoying this present work, I too continue to look forward to what the future will bring.
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Fernando Corona is back with another Murcof record, and this time he's tackling nothing less than the entire cosmos. In terms of creative process, Murcof leans further away from his previous micro-programmed pieces with Cosmos, and relies more on sounds derived almost entirely from recordings of classical instruments. He has not, however, abandoned the idiosyncratic precision or faith in structure that have served him so well.
Leaf
Both "Cielo" and "Cometa" recall the blip-vertiginous swinging rhythms of earlier Murcof tracks like "Memoria" and show just how little is needed to get down with one's bad molecules. If the progressive music show from BBC2, Old Grey Whistle Test, were to be reborn in the year 2525, either piece would be perfect for the opening credits (where the stars took human form and jigged around). Murcof's work usually adheres to an increasing pleasure per play ratio so I fully expect to like Cosmos more than I currently do. For now, though, when listening to some sections of this record, I felt as simultaneously impressed and unengaged as when I went to the rim of the Grand Canyon. Gazing down and wondering when I would be able to articulate my feelings, before realizing that either the ones I briefly held had dissipated like dust in the wind, or that I didn't really have any. (In the end, "Wow, it's really big" is not saying much.)
The pieces "Cosmos I" and "Cosmos II" (which I like to call "Max Richter v. Blade Runner") are appropriately huge, dense edifices. They remind me of spectacular giant glass skyscrapers: places you can admire without wanting to live in (or opposite). Of course, we all do live in the cosmos, it's pretty great, and maybe this recording will make more sense when heard in the planetarium gigs that are mooted. I hope so, because on headphones and in the car, Murcof's portrayal of the cosmos seems pretty uninviting.
By the end of the album I felt as removed from the action as the Squire's under-gardener Percy Cullerne from Adam Thorpe's miraculous novel Ulverton. At the outbreak of the First World War, despite 32 other young men of Ulverton accepting the Squire's bidding to join up and fight, Cullerne declines, simply stating that he would "rather bide at home." The Squire is absolutely livid, Cullurne becomes an outsider (mocked and avoided) but slowly and surely the death notices arrive. In 1923, overcome by guilt, the Squire kills himself. There's no reason for Murcof to be anything other than proud of his work, but, while Cosmos is undeniably impressive, for now I'll "bide at home," thanks.
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