Stalwart experimentalist Marc Behrens has paced himself judiciously so far, and despite its small run of 150 pieces, ‘Apparatus’ is his first in a couple years and feels like a landmark statement. Like others recently seen summering on the Greek Agxivatein label (Francisco Lopez, Z’EV), Behrens’ music is incepted in an area very consciously juxtaposing “electro-“ to “–acoustic”. Colliding organic with technology, the sound is nature recordings and western instruments – but instruments abstracted/stabbed/honked to make them alien, more alien, than the constant patterns of biomass. Each track is a rusty can filled with bugs, grains, and granules. Each track is similarly paired with an alternative recording, which is actually a complimentary recording, as these pieces were originally designed for four-channel playback. When splayed out linear like this, the processes (neither songs nor atmospheres) are prolonged by the repetition, and uncanny in reproduction, like the Xerox-machine noise which sweeps across “Hum/Bells”. Brought into relief through these bands of messy mechanical sound, the natural sounds circle back around, from therapeutic/organic to disjunctive/phony, like some sort of animatronic backdrop. The unified “Rain/Compressor” may be the best example of this, as the steady wall of striated tropical-rainfall bulges forward with a baritone burst, like battle horns and the warnings of boars; the dualism compliments itself without synthesizing something new (the dualism effectively reproduced in the cover image opposing a lush forest and an individual in the midst of something technological). Conversely there is the final pairing, “Mamori”, which calls into focus bird song and baubling timbres of indeterminate origin, effectively cancelling the work of the preceding album with its reification of natural sound and down-panning of suspect patterns congenial to a construct of ‘music’. Printed discs come with vellum sleeves and cut, color cards.
Agxivatein CDr
€7
HERE
It’s been a few beats since Hive Mind last surfaced. In fact it’s been rather quiet all around for Greh Holger (Cleanse, Black Sand Desert, Chondritic Sound boss). In spite of the austerity of Holger’s mission, it is this lapse which underscores the Hive Mind project in its newest instantiation, ‘Elemental Disgrace’. Released by new Editions Mego imprint Spectrum Spools (based in Austria though operated by fellow Midwesterner John Elliott from Emeralds), and in an edition of 600 proper LPs, the new digs do Holger no favors, where his synthesized sounds of organic ugly easily consume whatever framing is imposed by colored vinyl, glossy sleeves, or logos. Even the fidelity of this heightened production is lost on these two side-long tracks, which would likely be suited just as well to a cassette or lathe. That’s not to say that the recording’s rich colors, depth of field, and sharp separation isn’t appreciated; rather, the sound is simply the independent variable, which restructures any additions to its own totalizing force. These two sidelong tracks (parts “I” and “II”) add up to just over a half hour, begin in medias res, and end with a brief fadeout. The sound is familiar Hive Mind territory to be sure – deep, motoric churning, chirping loops, maximal vibration – the general effect that perfected impression of being swallowed into the earth. Yet ‘Elemental Disgrace’ somehow appears a little less hostile than previous recordings. Where formerly it seemed as though the sounds conspired against the listener, like they were somehow sentient (if very, very primitive), it now appears the sound is indifferent – fatal for sure, but no longer on the hunt but self-destructing. Though recorded in pieces of less than average Hive Mind length, perhaps this altered impression comes from the diversity of sounds fit into this single survey. Given the velocity of oscillation, the fly-over effect particularly of side A offers a grander, molecular/macro contrast to the former concentration on monadic figures emerging from the spinning filth. This is an overly-impressionistic listening to be sure, but perhaps the only way of wrapping one’s head around the complexities of this noise.
Che Chen is a violinist living in the Long Island of New York. Known for the high-mindedness with which he approaches art, his collaborators tend toward those playing conventional instruments in modern ways (most notably, Josef Van Wissem). The two tracks of his 7”, ‘Pulaski Wave (Violin Halo)/Newtown Creek Mirror Lag’, form a simple atonal abstract. By sawing repeating shapes out of his violin, Chen knits these repetitions to a coarse drone of pulsating electronics and tape dubs to affect something both unified and expressly figurative. Taken together, the 13 minutes of the record begins as a premise and ends in a variation, technically – but thematically, the effect is more like a figure reflected off the water, calm in time A and rippled in time B. No doubt an unusual listen for a 7” sit-down, the disc repays what it demands of your attention. What lies outside of this exchange remains unclear. Black vinyl in heavy paper sleeves. 300 copies.
Not to be outdone by the sadism of batchmate Torture Corpse who has wedged his latest cassette between two tightly-bound pieces of steel wool (the material just a little less harsh than the sounds inside), Mexico’s (((O))) offers a more subtle antipathy toward his listener by simply covering the windows of the tape. For the otherwise blank façade of the cassette this means never being certain of where one stands on this deluge of blistering drones (sonic likenesses to Sunn are also well-suited), and any memories made through astute listening are sure to be lost upon ejection. Nevertheless, ‘Fuego Somos, Fuego Seremos: Roars & Abstractions.’ is epic a narrative as the Inferno itself, and manages to outperform the grandeur of its confines: nested in a wax-stamped glossy wrap-around, the C38 comes with a bagged-n-tagged sliver of obsidian tucked in a stamped draw-string pouch. There was little doubt this would be a worthwhile listen knowing Auris Apothecary’s consistent quality. What came as a pleasant surprise was the fidelity to which this extensive package grafts on to the dark and devilish opus which (((O))) has achieved. Performed in seven parts, this eschatological vision is performed mostly with a thick growl of guitar derived distortion. It’s a white cloud lit bright by the fires beneath, not yet throwing off its soot. A warning is made in part one, a woman speaking in Spanish, sounding pre-recorded and projected off the wall of smoke. A wonderful swell of metal picking rises to one side to cut the pale with cool hues and sharp detail. A stoned religious raga like Om consumes all the loose particles in a single harmonic beam. The sonic stratosphere swirls and we dip below without warning where drums pound wildly on elevated peaks and a sudden stutter shakes the whole world in its frame, recalling the deluge now full of steel filings. Part six (“Seis”) begins the B side in all-out war, the penultimate movement of battle before the restitution, a yellow-hot cloud of shapeless attack and hum, dragging into the longhall kettledrum procession of the final verses. A blistered tone over top like horns, this purgatory opens to real horns of bone (probably conch) and a rain of cooled streaks, fine, gritty drips, and a powerful engine percussing into the darkness of the tail of the tape. The entire cassette is a terrific duel between the void of fire-elemental wash and hugely symbolic objects as final icons. Stamped to 99 copies, on chrome tapes. Highly recommended.
Former Chicago quartet Tiny Music manage nearly all of what is good in improvised music. Playing exclusively acoustic, they gather a wide array of sound-making instruments and non-instruments, and given the manpower, eke carefully out a delicate yet sporadic sound. They sync. Yet they move fluidly. And still they do so without rubbing our ears in the improv-ness of it all. The ‘Epitaph’ C30 is two side-long pieces which personify an abandoned home (home, not house). To say “haunted” would be a bit strong as there is nothing frightening about it. Rather, “animated”, the structures creaks and wheezes, as if cluttered and struck by a zephyr. The A side sustains a selection of long draws which create a sleepy rhythm pecked at by bright metal tinkles and the screech of fingered surfaces, or what would seem to be the band’s default composite material. Side B boasts nearly thirty instruments in half as many minutes, and one can certainly sense the arcade dynamics of so many unconventional instruments fussing for attention: including a number of stringed instruments, accordion, whistles and containers of all sort, it’s as though the musicians are thumbing through a table full of contraptions, playing a few notes on each but not selecting any. A big gap follows like a reassessment, and the swell of strings and accordion rise gracefully from the quiet, filling even the rusty scree of chains with a musicality which renewed by the multi-part banjo music of the second third. The tape is quite literally deflated to the sound of balloons seeping their last gasps. 100 copies on pro tapes with heavy, screened inserts.
Coming rather literally out of Leftfield, Ricardo Donoso unveils a startling new mode with ‘Progress Chance’. Much like the recent coups of style exhibited in Giffoni’s take on House and Lopatin’s move toward Freestyle (and bearing much resemblance to the Techno-philia of the recent William Bowers disc), Donoso has foregone the figurative distortion for a swelling ground of retrospective techno and downbeat electronica, modified with a craftsman’s ear to make energetic “morning dance music”. “Dance music” is a placeholder here, as the rhythmic deconstruction of these tracks permits at best a swaying-in-place, and serve better as a vibrant rice paper through which one might partition the world in the delicate states of morning (be they rising or collapsing). Each track is marked by a distinct, binaural channel-skipping which can be tough on the stomach when heard through headphones, but which create an effervescent and terrifically light-weight emanation when passed through the background of a room. Tracks like two and four, “Klatu” and “The Deck of an Ancient Ship”, have a respiratory quality to them, at once therapeutic and precarious, the former even layered over a thin radio chatter to simulate the thin line between waking life and induced evaporation. Röyksopp and Alp come to mind for the living room feel and personal effacement of the music – not nihilism, but something verging on regret always lingering heavily as an aftertaste. On the B-side a different program, where optimism is extinguished and sensible connections are made to recent forms of synthesizer ambients, linking “Morning Criminal” and “The North Quadrant” to Oneohtrix Point Never and Gatekeeper in thematic tint and attentive anxiety. There is a stalking exhilaration which threads through the entire album, taking on merely different shades between sides, and which makes this already quite-compact disc flutter by so much quicker.
‘Freedom of Noise’ is latest from the sometimes project of Hanno Leichtmann called Static. “Sometimes” because it’s been about 6 years since a Static release, despite a solid run on former label Center City Offices (a first indicator of the sort of sound going on here). Composing almost entirely in loops, Leichtmann extends the pop minimalism of Terry Riley to achieve a similar ecstasy and overt timbre of technology. Though the Introduction establishes the method in bare demonstration, there is not a track that follows which doesn’t add a layer or 3 of human voice or solo instrument, to break the endless patterns which otherwise paper the stereofield. Looping strings, brass, winds and voice, the sounds are naturally soft and harmony comes so easy as to require regular surface abrasions (by most definitions, the only “noise” from which freedom is regulated in relation to). Icy “Stubby Fingers” mixes minor-keys and scratches to achieve a Hood-like IDM, this juxtaposed hard against the proggishness of the title-track, a manifesto of sorts transmitted through the new wave of Thomas Dolby. “The Boy Who Ran into the Sun” is a definite glimpse into what Bowie would be up to had he offset his career ahead 3 decades: marked-up distinctly with warm earth tones and metallic precision, the track threads saxophone through beads of percussion, electronic points and backing tweets to achieve a sedate, afro-downbeat with suitably spirited story-telling. A nearly danceable beat develops over the following ornamental pairing “Sad Rocket” and “Sister Pain”, which gets interrupted rather aggressively by the noise/sublime/noise collage “Collage, Holz, Papier 2”, something of an overstated manifest on methods which will likely shake loose more fans of the pop inflection than gain adherents wishing for a rougher edge. Waiting to be filed between Matmos and TV on the Radio, the Booksish “Corazon, Cristal” combines glitch with nouveau tribalism to achieve a very pleasing, resonant yet clean pop sound which doesn’t cut costs on the rhythmic scaffolding.