Jason Lescalleet - Electronic Music (RRR, 2003) New post from docperkins:There are composers who I consider part of the spine of my fruition template, but whose legacy I enjoy more than their specific compositions, for instance, John Cage and Karlheinz Stockhausen. To a large extent, the avant-classical music that entertains me, instructs me, and catches my attention would not exist if Cage and Stockhausen had not clinched at such a high level of expertise, insight, and inspiration with strategic nodal points constitutive of hegemonic tonal rationalities. The measure of their success is still to be ascertained so immense the effects and side-effects of their musical interventions have been, at the epistemic and executing dimensions, opening up significant space in grids of intelligibility of absolutely crucial atonal music composers.Hence, even if I am not especially partial to several Cage’s compositions drawing heavily on his principles of indeterminacy, it is impossible to overestimate their impact on Morton Feldman’s aesthetics. The latter, in my view, has never ascribed directly to indeterminacy, but owes significantly to indeterminacy in several respects.The same goes to Stockhausen’s legacy, and sub-genres such as EAI and electronic, which leads us to the four works hereby gathered. Jason Lescalleet ‘s ‘Electronic Music’ would certainly not exist had it not been preceded by Stockhausen’s own ‘Elektronische Musik (Etude; Studie I; Studie II; Gesang der Jünglinge; Kontakte)’. The latter, which is an unmissable release by the way, I could only start really appreciating beyond its conceptual significance retrospectively, under the light of current electronic music and EAI productions; some of them expanding Stockhausen’s entry-points, others vulgarising his achievements, and third ones carrying out a bit of both, expanding and vulgarising.I would place Lescalleet’s release on the last group, inasmuch as it sounds like a leaflet explaining at a remarkable level of thoroughness, what Karheinz was setting out to commit when he wrote the pieces compiled in ‘Elektronische Musik’. However Jason, apparently not content in being merely didactic, risks his electro-neck in timid, but highly enjoyable patterns that unfold some of Stockhausen’s less obvious sonic devices, principally regarding treble oriented effects; the ones in charge of providing electronic pieces with a welcome (to me) false depth dimension. It is a ‘bluesy dimension’ as far as Stockhausenesque riffs go, when properly unfolded, as it is the case at stake.To try and make my verbiage shorter without corrupting my rumblings too much: Stockhausen is to Lescalleet, what Pelé is to Cristiano Ronaldo. The point is that if the album ‘Electronic’ were a soccer match, Lescalleet Ronaldo was having a bloody inspired day.

Jason Lescalleet - Electronic Music (RRR, 2003)

New post from docperkins:

There are composers who I consider part of the spine of my fruition template, but whose legacy I enjoy more than their specific compositions, for instance, John Cage and Karlheinz Stockhausen. To a large extent, the avant-classical music that entertains me, instructs me, and catches my attention would not exist if Cage and Stockhausen had not clinched at such a high level of expertise, insight, and inspiration with strategic nodal points constitutive of hegemonic tonal rationalities. The measure of their success is still to be ascertained so immense the effects and side-effects of their musical interventions have been, at the epistemic and executing dimensions, opening up significant space in grids of intelligibility of absolutely crucial atonal music composers.

Hence, even if I am not especially partial to several Cage’s compositions drawing heavily on his principles of indeterminacy, it is impossible to overestimate their impact on Morton Feldman’s aesthetics. The latter, in my view, has never ascribed directly to indeterminacy, but owes significantly to indeterminacy in several respects.

The same goes to Stockhausen’s legacy, and sub-genres such as EAI and electronic, which leads us to the four works hereby gathered. Jason Lescalleet ‘s ‘Electronic Music’ would certainly not exist had it not been preceded by Stockhausen’s own ‘Elektronische Musik (Etude; Studie I; Studie II; Gesang der Jünglinge; Kontakte)’. The latter, which is an unmissable release by the way, I could only start really appreciating beyond its conceptual significance retrospectively, under the light of current electronic music and EAI productions; some of them expanding Stockhausen’s entry-points, others vulgarising his achievements, and third ones carrying out a bit of both, expanding and vulgarising.

I would place Lescalleet’s release on the last group, inasmuch as it sounds like a leaflet explaining at a remarkable level of thoroughness, what Karheinz was setting out to commit when he wrote the pieces compiled in ‘Elektronische Musik’. However Jason, apparently not content in being merely didactic, risks his electro-neck in timid, but highly enjoyable patterns that unfold some of Stockhausen’s less obvious sonic devices, principally regarding treble oriented effects; the ones in charge of providing electronic pieces with a welcome (to me) false depth dimension. It is a ‘bluesy dimension’ as far as Stockhausenesque riffs go, when properly unfolded, as it is the case at stake.

To try and make my verbiage shorter without corrupting my rumblings too much: Stockhausen is to Lescalleet, what Pelé is to Cristiano Ronaldo. The point is that if the album ‘Electronic’ were a soccer match, Lescalleet Ronaldo was having a bloody inspired day.

Pan Sonic & Keiji Haino - “Shall I Download a Blackhole and Offer It to You”: Live in Berlin 15.11.2007 (Blast First Petite, 2009) This 2009 publication probably does no justice to the 2007 live concert from the Haino-Pan Sonic collaboration at all, and yet, when heard even at medium volume, it fills your head with clashing neuro-images that constantly implode with feedback. Shall I Download a Black Hole and Offer it to You is not entirely a description, or even an action, it’s a question poised by the artists; as a question with no immediate answer (it’s too late to say ‘no’, anyway) it remains in limbo, in the realm of ideas, that platonic existence that sounds like religious ritual and applied science at the same time (Haino chants and tears his own body apart with wails as Pan Sonic mechanically, industrially forges sounds to build the backdrop). As differing yet essentially converging lines of thought, both forms of truth throw themselves against each other at every passing second; the duo constructs drones and beats full of digital interference as the soloist charges at them head-on with multi-instrumental insanity and vocal distortion. Rationality meets its contrary, and can only press on.With this fierce and forceful encounter, both forms become contaminated. Slowly, Pan Sonic’s sound becomes a bit more uncontrollable (a beat disrupted, a buzz amplified, a longer silence) and in the meantime Haino fades in and out of cosmic possession (a short, calm koto segment intervened only by a few screams, not ruled by them) in longer lapses of time. The result is that nothing sounds like it should, or rather, like it’s supposed to; the transfiguration of an astronomical “region” into kilobytes is unfathomable, unknowable and incredible just like truth itself, in platonic terms, whether a part of an incantation or an experiment. And yet it’s stuff like that what modern experiences are made of: someone puts a Hubble picture of Andromeda in a calendar, and someone else that puts that calendar on his or her refrigerator of choice “owns” a star he or she can look directly at. A priest takes a piece of bread, dips it in a cup of wine, and they become a piece of a body and its blood. Andy Warhol puts a Brillo box in a museum, and it becomes something that is not only a box of soap.I think that is the nature of such a collaboration: an arcane edge pervades method just as much as rationality pervades the arcane back, creating an eerie atmosphere of pain and revelation; Haino conducts his own sacrifice to the beat of modern electronics, to the analyzing eyes of Pan Sonic, and both seem to emerge from the digital underworld irrevocably changed (in the horror sci-fi commonplace of “That’s not my daddy!”). As listeners of this permanent clash, I guess the final question is: are we changed as well? The people at the 2007 concert are, without a doubt, a little bit madder. Will this version do the same? I hope so.False Bread

Pan Sonic & Keiji Haino - “Shall I Download a Blackhole and Offer It to You”: Live in Berlin 15.11.2007 (Blast First Petite, 2009)

This 2009 publication probably does no justice to the 2007 live concert from the Haino-Pan Sonic collaboration at all, and yet, when heard even at medium volume, it fills your head with clashing neuro-images that constantly implode with feedback. Shall I Download a Black Hole and Offer it to You is not entirely a description, or even an action, it’s a question poised by the artists; as a question with no immediate answer (it’s too late to say ‘no’, anyway) it remains in limbo, in the realm of ideas, that platonic existence that sounds like religious ritual and applied science at the same time (Haino chants and tears his own body apart with wails as Pan Sonic mechanically, industrially forges sounds to build the backdrop). As differing yet essentially converging lines of thought, both forms of truth throw themselves against each other at every passing second; the duo constructs drones and beats full of digital interference as the soloist charges at them head-on with multi-instrumental insanity and vocal distortion. Rationality meets its contrary, and can only press on.

With this fierce and forceful encounter, both forms become contaminated. Slowly, Pan Sonic’s sound becomes a bit more uncontrollable (a beat disrupted, a buzz amplified, a longer silence) and in the meantime Haino fades in and out of cosmic possession (a short, calm koto segment intervened only by a few screams, not ruled by them) in longer lapses of time. The result is that nothing sounds like it should, or rather, like it’s supposed to; the transfiguration of an astronomical “region” into kilobytes is unfathomable, unknowable and incredible just like truth itself, in platonic terms, whether a part of an incantation or an experiment. And yet it’s stuff like that what modern experiences are made of: someone puts a Hubble picture of Andromeda in a calendar, and someone else that puts that calendar on his or her refrigerator of choice “owns” a star he or she can look directly at. A priest takes a piece of bread, dips it in a cup of wine, and they become a piece of a body and its blood. Andy Warhol puts a Brillo box in a museum, and it becomes something that is not only a box of soap.

I think that is the nature of such a collaboration: an arcane edge pervades method just as much as rationality pervades the arcane back, creating an eerie atmosphere of pain and revelation; Haino conducts his own sacrifice to the beat of modern electronics, to the analyzing eyes of Pan Sonic, and both seem to emerge from the digital underworld irrevocably changed (in the horror sci-fi commonplace of “That’s not my daddy!”). As listeners of this permanent clash, I guess the final question is: are we changed as well? The people at the 2007 concert are, without a doubt, a little bit madder. Will this version do the same? I hope so.

False Bread

Bertrand Denzler - Tenor Solo instrumental records can be difficult to live with, but they’re often worth the effort. At their best, they give us windows into the deep, lifelong relationships many performers develop with their chosen instrument over years of multi-hour practice sessions, listening, experimenting, playing with ensembles of all kinds. They can share intimacies simply impossible through performances in group settings, private experiences that many musicians have in the walls of their practice rooms and studios that even their closest musical collaborators might never hear. And I must admit that I’m especially partial to solo sax albums. Though my “years of shedding” experiences have all been with guitars and the voice, I often feel like I was meant to play the saxophone. I love the “normal” voice of saxes, especially altos and tenors. I love the huge range in timbre that is possible, the ease of wicked vibrato, the many kinds of scale and arpeggio runs that lend themselves to nimble sheets of notes, the clarity of articulation possible, and on and on. And it’s a great instrument for extended techniques: growl tones, slap tongues, multiphonics, alternate fingerings, altissimo, reed biting—I love it all. Anthony Braxton’s “For Alto” is an all-time favorite album of mine, and I’ve been delighted to know the solo work of many others: Zorn, Abe, Lacy, Parker, Butcher, and so on. So I was delighted to receive Bertrand Denzler’s “Tenor” for review. I was not familiar with Denzler’s work before this disc, but I’ll definitely be looking for more. “Tenor” is made of three long tracks that were recorded on one day (and it sounds like they’re probably all part of one long improvisation or composition broken into three sections for tracking convenience). Presumably this is a studio recording, with close micing in a small space. There are no effects used here, and even the tracking room gives Denzler no reverbs or delays to play with or against. It’s all Tenor, all of the time. Denzler’s playing is pure patience. This is a delicate record, in effect a drone/ambient affair, and every note and extended technique is carefully executed to keep the focus on sounds produced rather than the person producing them. I don’t know if this is improvisation, but it sounds very composed. There are only a few notes used on the whole record, no vibrato, no shredding Coltrane licks, and because of this I think its appeal extends beyond fans of “saxophone music.” In fact, long passages of the album sound almost electronic in their careful realization. “Filters” opens the record on a long Bb (concert Ab) that is continually teased throughout the course of its 17+ minutes. As the title implies, Denzler manipulates the pitch by adjusting his oral cavity, through alternate fingerings, and through multiphonics, creating a series of rhythmic and melodic interjections out of his fundamental note. If you’re not familiar with these kinds of sounds, imagine solo Tuvan throat singing, making melodies out of overtones while the root continues to sound, and you’re getting somewhere near this kind of effect. To that basic sonic approach, the alternate fingerings add quick pitch/tone adjustments that also have a rhythmic component, and some of the multiphonics evoke louder, more abrasive sounds, especially in that last third of the track. While dynamics stay within a fairly consistent range in the early part of the track, there are some louder moments in the last section as well, especially in the 12-14 minute range, where multiphonics almost sound like bowed guitar feedback at times. Many of the rhythm/filter/overtone motifs repeat and oscillate throughout the piece, creating a very composed feel. Denzler does stop to breathe, reattacking his horn again and again, but this doesn’t detract from the drone music vibe for me—if anything it heightens the tension through repetition. Earlier minutes of “Signals” continue to work with some of the same materials used in “Filters,” but a few additional pitches are introduced. Occasionally tonguing effects are used to stop or flutter the pitches, sometimes while they’re also being manipulated through multiphonics. A few very high pitches appear around the 10 minute mark (the “signals?”) which reappear a few more times throughout the piece. Like “Filters,” “Airtube” is a fairly literal description of its music—this piece works with breathing and sucking sounds, sometimes with different keys depressed to change the size/resonance of the instrument, slaptongues that violently and percussively pop through the horn, overblows, etc. This piece moves away from the drone/ambient implications of the first two tracks toward a music steeped in almost industrial sounding rhythms. It also uses the widest dynamic range of the album, with incredibly loud moments and others that are almost inaudible. There are some particularly stunning moments that seem to be produced by following hard slaptongues with extended breathing sounds—I’ve never heard anything quite like it. Obviously this kind of music isn’t for everyone, but for readers of KiC who like EAI and drone music while shuddering at the potential “macho jazz” implications of a solo sax album, this album will be a pleasant surprise.

Bertrand Denzler - Tenor

Solo instrumental records can be difficult to live with, but they’re often worth the effort. At their best, they give us windows into the deep, lifelong relationships many performers develop with their chosen instrument over years of multi-hour practice sessions, listening, experimenting, playing with ensembles of all kinds. They can share intimacies simply impossible through performances in group settings, private experiences that many musicians have in the walls of their practice rooms and studios that even their closest musical collaborators might never hear.

And I must admit that I’m especially partial to solo sax albums. Though my “years of shedding” experiences have all been with guitars and the voice, I often feel like I was meant to play the saxophone. I love the “normal” voice of saxes, especially altos and tenors. I love the huge range in timbre that is possible, the ease of wicked vibrato, the many kinds of scale and arpeggio runs that lend themselves to nimble sheets of notes, the clarity of articulation possible, and on and on. And it’s a great instrument for extended techniques: growl tones, slap tongues, multiphonics, alternate fingerings, altissimo, reed biting—I love it all. Anthony Braxton’s “For Alto” is an all-time favorite album of mine, and I’ve been delighted to know the solo work of many others: Zorn, Abe, Lacy, Parker, Butcher, and so on. So I was delighted to receive Bertrand Denzler’s “Tenor” for review. I was not familiar with Denzler’s work before this disc, but I’ll definitely be looking for more.

“Tenor” is made of three long tracks that were recorded on one day (and it sounds like they’re probably all part of one long improvisation or composition broken into three sections for tracking convenience). Presumably this is a studio recording, with close micing in a small space. There are no effects used here, and even the tracking room gives Denzler no reverbs or delays to play with or against. It’s all Tenor, all of the time.

Denzler’s playing is pure patience. This is a delicate record, in effect a drone/ambient affair, and every note and extended technique is carefully executed to keep the focus on sounds produced rather than the person producing them. I don’t know if this is improvisation, but it sounds very composed. There are only a few notes used on the whole record, no vibrato, no shredding Coltrane licks, and because of this I think its appeal extends beyond fans of “saxophone music.” In fact, long passages of the album sound almost electronic in their careful realization.

“Filters” opens the record on a long Bb (concert Ab) that is continually teased throughout the course of its 17+ minutes. As the title implies, Denzler manipulates the pitch by adjusting his oral cavity, through alternate fingerings, and through multiphonics, creating a series of rhythmic and melodic interjections out of his fundamental note. If you’re not familiar with these kinds of sounds, imagine solo Tuvan throat singing, making melodies out of overtones while the root continues to sound, and you’re getting somewhere near this kind of effect. To that basic sonic approach, the alternate fingerings add quick pitch/tone adjustments that also have a rhythmic component, and some of the multiphonics evoke louder, more abrasive sounds, especially in that last third of the track. While dynamics stay within a fairly consistent range in the early part of the track, there are some louder moments in the last section as well, especially in the 12-14 minute range, where multiphonics almost sound like bowed guitar feedback at times. Many of the rhythm/filter/overtone motifs repeat and oscillate throughout the piece, creating a very composed feel. Denzler does stop to breathe, reattacking his horn again and again, but this doesn’t detract from the drone music vibe for me—if anything it heightens the tension through repetition.

Earlier minutes of “Signals” continue to work with some of the same materials used in “Filters,” but a few additional pitches are introduced. Occasionally tonguing effects are used to stop or flutter the pitches, sometimes while they’re also being manipulated through multiphonics. A few very high pitches appear around the 10 minute mark (the “signals?”) which reappear a few more times throughout the piece.

Like “Filters,” “Airtube” is a fairly literal description of its music—this piece works with breathing and sucking sounds, sometimes with different keys depressed to change the size/resonance of the instrument, slaptongues that violently and percussively pop through the horn, overblows, etc. This piece moves away from the drone/ambient implications of the first two tracks toward a music steeped in almost industrial sounding rhythms. It also uses the widest dynamic range of the album, with incredibly loud moments and others that are almost inaudible. There are some particularly stunning moments that seem to be produced by following hard slaptongues with extended breathing sounds—I’ve never heard anything quite like it.

Obviously this kind of music isn’t for everyone, but for readers of KiC who like EAI and drone music while shuddering at the potential “macho jazz” implications of a solo sax album, this album will be a pleasant surprise.

Chris Watson & Marcus Davidson - Cross-Pollination Cross-Pollination collects two long-ish pieces of Chris Watson, a UK-based “environmental sound archivist” who must also be admired as a founding member of Cabaret Voltaire (“Voice of America,” anyone?).  His albums for the Touch label collect his recordings of wildlife and nature sounds into thematic narratives, sometimes featuring guest collaborators like the inimitable Z’EV.  For this effort, the first piece, Midnight At the Oasis, features Watson recordings alone, and the second, The Bee Symphony, combines Watson’s recordings of honeybees with a 5-piece choir arrangement composed by Marcus Davidson. I lean more toward the collaborations that blend compositions and field recordings, but a few words regarding “Midnight At the Oasis.”The liner notes refer to it as a “time compression” made from a dusk-to-dawn recording done in the Kalahari Desert, capturing the sounds of the mostly nocturnal creatures of the area.  It feels more like a document than an interpretive piece.  At the beginning, it is dusk, and birds dominate the soundscape.  Nightfall must be arriving by the 6:00 mark, where the buzzing of insects takes over, with occasional punctuation from monkeys.  The insect sounds occupy the center of the recording for a long time, going through several phases of complex multifrequency drones that mostly held my interest—the large quantity of insects and the depth of overtones in their collective sawing make for interesting phase shifts and addition tones when you listen to a consistent field of their sounds for five minutes at a time.  The sun begins to reemerge with roughly 8 minutes remaining, and with it birds again take control of the auditory scene.  I’m guessing that the final 2 minutes might take a compositional liberty, though, as insects are allowed to take a final unaccompanied bow. The birds arrive again to introduce “The Bee Symphony,” though they duck out after the first two minutes or so.  As the birds fade out, the choir is crossfaded in over the course of another few minutes, and the duration is comprised of bees and human voices from the 4 minute mark onward. I find Marcus Davidson’s choral scoring in and around the bees to be the most exhilarating aspect of this disc.  With only five members of his choir, he has produced an incredibly dense sound, though much of the effect is due to a liberal application of reverb.  And he takes several musical approaches with the choir that cut, blend, and morph between one another to great effect.  Closest to matching the sounds of the bees are are long sections of drones and tone clusters evoking Ligeti.  These contrast nicely with some gentler passages drawing from Renaissance counterpoint, harmonically more quartal/quintal than tertian.  But I’m especially reminded of Stockhausen’s choral writing in the way that many of the tone clusters feature eerie shifts in vowel sounds.  The different kinds of vocal approaches tend to give one another room to shift gently, but there are some more abrupt stylistic turns that are very exciting, like around the 14 minute mark when the music comes out of a warm passage outlining a major-key tonality directly into tone clusters that lead to almost horn-like glissando lamentations. I do have some reservations about the sheer volume of reverb in “The Bee Symphony,” though.  While it must be conceded that there are moments where reverb becomes a compositional tool at the level of pitch selection (like around 16:15, where reverbs emphasize different frequency ranges within the vast wall of sounds, pulling out sympathetic drones), I mostly find that the reverb creates an unnecessarily spooky atmosphere.  After all, the bee recordings are taken from “the hives of an English country garden” according to the liner notes—that description doesn’t give me expectations of copious amounts of ominous reverb.  And I think there are some really interesting sonic possibilities for a bone-dry choral arrangement made to work with bees.  Consider “The Man in Black,” a Jonathan Bepler composition from the Cremaster 2 soundtrack made of samples of 200,000 honey bees pitted against the drums of Dave Lombardo (Slayer, Fantomas) and the vocals of Steve Tucker (Morbid Angel).  Obviously Bepler’s piece is working in a completely different direction, recontextualizing the sounds of bees as guitars in a death metal composition, but the overall mix is very dry and exposes a different range of potential interactions between musical sounds and honeybee sounds.  I’d love to hear a mix of “The Bee Symphony”with the intimacy of no reverb. Finally, a mixtape recommendation: I happened to have the Hum of Gnats s/t release cued to play after “The Bee Symphony,” which turns out to be a fantastic transition on many levels: the buzz of bees to the Hum of Gnats, pastoral English gardens to a few minutes of more urban field recordings, and it opens into a pleasantly dry mix that offers some reverb relief.

Chris Watson & Marcus Davidson - Cross-Pollination

Cross-Pollination collects two long-ish pieces of Chris Watson, a UK-based “environmental sound archivist” who must also be admired as a founding member of Cabaret Voltaire (“Voice of America,” anyone?).  His albums for the Touch label collect his recordings of wildlife and nature sounds into thematic narratives, sometimes featuring guest collaborators like the inimitable Z’EV.  For this effort, the first piece, Midnight At the Oasis, features Watson recordings alone, and the second, The Bee Symphony, combines Watson’s recordings of honeybees with a 5-piece choir arrangement composed by Marcus Davidson.

I lean more toward the collaborations that blend compositions and field recordings, but a few words regarding “Midnight At the Oasis.”The liner notes refer to it as a “time compression” made from a dusk-to-dawn recording done in the Kalahari Desert, capturing the sounds of the mostly nocturnal creatures of the area.  It feels more like a document than an interpretive piece.  At the beginning, it is dusk, and birds dominate the soundscape.  Nightfall must be arriving by the 6:00 mark, where the buzzing of insects takes over, with occasional punctuation from monkeys.  The insect sounds occupy the center of the recording for a long time, going through several phases of complex multifrequency drones that mostly held my interest—the large quantity of insects and the depth of overtones in their collective sawing make for interesting phase shifts and addition tones when you listen to a consistent field of their sounds for five minutes at a time.  The sun begins to reemerge with roughly 8 minutes remaining, and with it birds again take control of the auditory scene.  I’m guessing that the final 2 minutes might take a compositional liberty, though, as insects are allowed to take a final unaccompanied bow.

The birds arrive again to introduce “The Bee Symphony,” though they duck out after the first two minutes or so.  As the birds fade out, the choir is crossfaded in over the course of another few minutes, and the duration is comprised of bees and human voices from the 4 minute mark onward.

I find Marcus Davidson’s choral scoring in and around the bees to be the most exhilarating aspect of this disc.  With only five members of his choir, he has produced an incredibly dense sound, though much of the effect is due to a liberal application of reverb.  And he takes several musical approaches with the choir that cut, blend, and morph between one another to great effect.  Closest to matching the sounds of the bees are are long sections of drones and tone clusters evoking Ligeti.  These contrast nicely with some gentler passages drawing from Renaissance counterpoint, harmonically more quartal/quintal than tertian.  But I’m especially reminded of Stockhausen’s choral writing in the way that many of the tone clusters feature eerie shifts in vowel sounds.  The different kinds of vocal approaches tend to give one another room to shift gently, but there are some more abrupt stylistic turns that are very exciting, like around the 14 minute mark when the music comes out of a warm passage outlining a major-key tonality directly into tone clusters that lead to almost horn-like glissando lamentations.

I do have some reservations about the sheer volume of reverb in “The Bee Symphony,” though.  While it must be conceded that there are moments where reverb becomes a compositional tool at the level of pitch selection (like around 16:15, where reverbs emphasize different frequency ranges within the vast wall of sounds, pulling out sympathetic drones), I mostly find that the reverb creates an unnecessarily spooky atmosphere.  After all, the bee recordings are taken from “the hives of an English country garden” according to the liner notes—that description doesn’t give me expectations of copious amounts of ominous reverb.  And I think there are some really interesting sonic possibilities for a bone-dry choral arrangement made to work with bees.  Consider “The Man in Black,” a Jonathan Bepler composition from the Cremaster 2 soundtrack made of samples of 200,000 honey bees pitted against the drums of Dave Lombardo (Slayer, Fantomas) and the vocals of Steve Tucker (Morbid Angel).  Obviously Bepler’s piece is working in a completely different direction, recontextualizing the sounds of bees as guitars in a death metal composition, but the overall mix is very dry and exposes a different range of potential interactions between musical sounds and honeybee sounds.  I’d love to hear a mix of “The Bee Symphony”with the intimacy of no reverb.

Finally, a mixtape recommendation: I happened to have the Hum of Gnats s/t release cued to play after “The Bee Symphony,” which turns out to be a fantastic transition on many levels: the buzz of bees to the Hum of Gnats, pastoral English gardens to a few minutes of more urban field recordings, and it opens into a pleasantly dry mix that offers some reverb relief.

Jeremiah Cymerman - Fire Sign With Fire Sign, Jeremiah Cymerman returns to the intricate microediting approach of his previous Tzadik release, In Memory of the Labyrinth System, one of my favorite albums of 2008.  For Labyrinth, Cymerman made recordings of his own extended-technique clarinet vocabulary and then reworked them in ProTools into a new kind of electroacoustic music where some passages are allowed to sound as recorded, more or less, but they’re also turned into orchestrations and reinterpretations of themselves through intense editing.  Fire Sign expands on this idea by introducing a variety of other source materials: trumpet, contrabass, cello, drum improvisations, and a small ensemble passage from a live performance. Tiny samples of sound, often small fractions of a second in length, are assembled in new combinations and re-deployed as rhythmic elements and textural spaces.  Even new pitches can be created this way: imagine taking a wisp of sound, a tiny “click,” and running it against itself 200 times in a second: instant bass tone, oscillation through microediting!  Cymerman’s samples are at times so small that one can imagine them behaving like particulate matter, adrift in Brownian motion if left alone, but his careful hand puts them back into the mixes in fascinating ways that enable his source materials to have musical conversations with the audio equivalent of their own homeopathic essences.  At times, the less-manipulated source passages often taking “lead instrument” roles in Fire Sign compositions are also given gentle tweaks through microediting: timbral changes can be effected through removal of tiny moments of sound that alter the waveforms or front-end articulations of notes, and delays can be made by pasting small reiterations of note tails at the ends of phrases.  Overall, Fire Sign isn’t as dense-sounding with microedits as In Memory of the Labyrinth System, but instead makes more use of that conversational potential between source and sample. While there isn’t any sonic similarity, Cymerman’s microediting compositions remind me of the hermetic devotion of Conlon Nancarrow’s player piano pieces.  Both composers have worked with technologies designed primarily to reproduce familiar sounds, and both aimed for transcendence instead, creating anfractuous and personal worlds through new potentials of technology and a lot of detail-oriented hard work. Cymerman suggests listening to Fire Sign with headphones, and I’d agree (though I’ve been enjoying it tearing up the air in my living room, too).  There are a lot of subtle sounds that are hard to catch without headphones, but they really enrich the listening experience: in “Collapsed Eustachian,” for example, there are many subtle sounds in both the source material (Wooley and Evans breathing through their trumpets and light tapping on valves) and in the microedits (soft, high frequency electronic-sounding blips, low-end rumbles, and granular effects occasionally coalescing in the midrange with an ambience of static or vinyl surface noise).  The mixes also feature lots of interesting panning to give the music space from left to right, and gradations of reverb to create some front-to-back room as well, creating a 3-dimensional sound that seems to translate best with headphones. My favorite piece on Fire Sign is “Touched With Fire,” made of in-studio guided improvisations from Christopher Hoffman (cello) and Brian Chase (drums).  This is a high-contrast piece, pitting high density, fast sections, with gentle slow/rubato/ambient scenes.  Cymerman shows here how he can balance highly agitated passages with the need to let the piece breathe, sometimes becoming enveloped in the near-stillness of catatonia.  Long tones contrast with staccato, and there are plaintive passages with relatively traditional harmonic/melodic motion (occasionally interrupted with moments of glitched decay).   For those looking for even more tonality, the album’s closer “Burned Across the Sky” is built on a gentle loop from a live show, over which Cymerman records a solo that mixes his bag of extended techniques with fleeting moments of more traditional playing (there are a few chromatic clusters in there) and some microedits, and the whole gradually fades away instrument by instrument to a melancholy effect somewhere in the ballpark of Gavin Bryars’ “Jesus Blood Never Failed Me Yet.”  It’s a moving end to a stimulating album. For anyone interested in more details regarding Cymerman’s editing techniques, he published a great article about the making of Labyrinth in the March/April 2008 issue of TapeOp.  Unfortunately, TapeOp is incredibly behind in making back issues available online, but Cymerman was kind enough to put a scan of the article on his website.  It’s an inspiring read if you’re interested in creative ways to integrate the recording/engineering process into the act of composition itself.  You can read it toward the bottom of this page: http://www.jeremiahcymerman.com/interviews

Jeremiah Cymerman - Fire Sign

With Fire Sign, Jeremiah Cymerman returns to the intricate microediting approach of his previous Tzadik release, In Memory of the Labyrinth System, one of my favorite albums of 2008.  For Labyrinth, Cymerman made recordings of his own extended-technique clarinet vocabulary and then reworked them in ProTools into a new kind of electroacoustic music where some passages are allowed to sound as recorded, more or less, but they’re also turned into orchestrations and reinterpretations of themselves through intense editing.  Fire Sign expands on this idea by introducing a variety of other source materials: trumpet, contrabass, cello, drum improvisations, and a small ensemble passage from a live performance.

Tiny samples of sound, often small fractions of a second in length, are assembled in new combinations and re-deployed as rhythmic elements and textural spaces.  Even new pitches can be created this way: imagine taking a wisp of sound, a tiny “click,” and running it against itself 200 times in a second: instant bass tone, oscillation through microediting!  Cymerman’s samples are at times so small that one can imagine them behaving like particulate matter, adrift in Brownian motion if left alone, but his careful hand puts them back into the mixes in fascinating ways that enable his source materials to have musical conversations with the audio equivalent of their own homeopathic essences.  At times, the less-manipulated source passages often taking “lead instrument” roles in Fire Sign compositions are also given gentle tweaks through microediting: timbral changes can be effected through removal of tiny moments of sound that alter the waveforms or front-end articulations of notes, and delays can be made by pasting small reiterations of note tails at the ends of phrases.  Overall, Fire Sign isn’t as dense-sounding with microedits as In Memory of the Labyrinth System, but instead makes more use of that conversational potential between source and sample.

While there isn’t any sonic similarity, Cymerman’s microediting compositions remind me of the hermetic devotion of Conlon Nancarrow’s player piano pieces.  Both composers have worked with technologies designed primarily to reproduce familiar sounds, and both aimed for transcendence instead, creating anfractuous and personal worlds through new potentials of technology and a lot of detail-oriented hard work.

Cymerman suggests listening to Fire Sign with headphones, and I’d agree (though I’ve been enjoying it tearing up the air in my living room, too).  There are a lot of subtle sounds that are hard to catch without headphones, but they really enrich the listening experience: in “Collapsed Eustachian,” for example, there are many subtle sounds in both the source material (Wooley and Evans breathing through their trumpets and light tapping on valves) and in the microedits (soft, high frequency electronic-sounding blips, low-end rumbles, and granular effects occasionally coalescing in the midrange with an ambience of static or vinyl surface noise).  The mixes also feature lots of interesting panning to give the music space from left to right, and gradations of reverb to create some front-to-back room as well, creating a 3-dimensional sound that seems to translate best with headphones.

My favorite piece on Fire Sign is “Touched With Fire,” made of in-studio guided improvisations from Christopher Hoffman (cello) and Brian Chase (drums).  This is a high-contrast piece, pitting high density, fast sections, with gentle slow/rubato/ambient scenes.  Cymerman shows here how he can balance highly agitated passages with the need to let the piece breathe, sometimes becoming enveloped in the near-stillness of catatonia.  Long tones contrast with staccato, and there are plaintive passages with relatively traditional harmonic/melodic motion (occasionally interrupted with moments of glitched decay).  

For those looking for even more tonality, the album’s closer “Burned Across the Sky” is built on a gentle loop from a live show, over which Cymerman records a solo that mixes his bag of extended techniques with fleeting moments of more traditional playing (there are a few chromatic clusters in there) and some microedits, and the whole gradually fades away instrument by instrument to a melancholy effect somewhere in the ballpark of Gavin Bryars’ “Jesus Blood Never Failed Me Yet.”  It’s a moving end to a stimulating album.

For anyone interested in more details regarding Cymerman’s editing techniques, he published a great article about the making of Labyrinth in the March/April 2008 issue of TapeOp.  Unfortunately, TapeOp is incredibly behind in making back issues available online, but Cymerman was kind enough to put a scan of the article on his website.  It’s an inspiring read if you’re interested in creative ways to integrate the recording/engineering process into the act of composition itself.  You can read it toward the bottom of this page: http://www.jeremiahcymerman.com/interviews

Jason Lescalleet - This Is What I Do - Volume One For the past several weeks, a certain musical malaise has overcome me. I believe I am coming out of it, but still, it’s disconcerting how little I’ve been interested in exploring new sounds and old haunting grounds. At about the same time, I received This Is What I Do in the mail, and, for that duration, it has been one of the few albums I’ve been able to listen to (with any regularity); it’s practically been on repeat.I’m not sure exactly why this Lescalleet compilation has fared so well. Partly, I fear that I am getting too old (whatever I’m 24) and settling into my tastes, which favor Jason’s music mightily. But I hope, believe that the former is not (entirely) the case, that the peculiarities of This Is What I Do appeal strongly to my current self, so much so that this release has drowned out its competition.Because This Is What I Do is as idiosyncratic as they come, really. Miraculously, despite the fact that it is a long-spanning compilation, the disc manages a cohesion seldom found in single session recordings. The transitions between each track are perfect, in no way representing the six year gap between some of their origin; however, what I truly marvel in is the album’s aesthetic consistency. I sense a persistent, impalpable ghastly mood, which is introduced with the meandering drone of “un peu de neige sans raison,” exacerbated by the detached waves of “untitled,” and nearly dissolved by the initial outburst of “Put ‘em on the Glass.”And This Is What I Do exhibits a diversity beyond its temporal range. The clicks of “Needles” offer reprieve from the its predecessor’s drone, while also delightfully juxtaposing its fuller cousin “A Broken Mirror.” This Is What I Do is as accomplished—as both a singular item and a mass of single items—as Lescalleet’s recent collaboration with Graham Lambkin Air Supply, and of similar aesthetic constitution.This Is What I Do is a personal album, both one grafted onto my experiences and revealing of Jason’s. This dual resonance then manifests as a dialogue between what I am experiencing lately and where Jason was ten years ago—a perceived mutual, though in actuality one-way, empathy.Okay, I’m still young at heart.*Here is another great piece on this record, by Howard Stelzer.

Jason Lescalleet - This Is What I Do - Volume One

For the past several weeks, a certain musical malaise has overcome me. I believe I am coming out of it, but still, it’s disconcerting how little I’ve been interested in exploring new sounds and old haunting grounds. At about the same time, I received This Is What I Do in the mail, and, for that duration, it has been one of the few albums I’ve been able to listen to (with any regularity); it’s practically been on repeat.

I’m not sure exactly why this Lescalleet compilation has fared so well. Partly, I fear that I am getting too old (whatever I’m 24) and settling into my tastes, which favor Jason’s music mightily. But I hope, believe that the former is not (entirely) the case, that the peculiarities of This Is What I Do appeal strongly to my current self, so much so that this release has drowned out its competition.

Because This Is What I Do is as idiosyncratic as they come, really. Miraculously, despite the fact that it is a long-spanning compilation, the disc manages a cohesion seldom found in single session recordings. The transitions between each track are perfect, in no way representing the six year gap between some of their origin; however, what I truly marvel in is the album’s aesthetic consistency. I sense a persistent, impalpable ghastly mood, which is introduced with the meandering drone of “un peu de neige sans raison,” exacerbated by the detached waves of “untitled,” and nearly dissolved by the initial outburst of “Put ‘em on the Glass.”

And This Is What I Do exhibits a diversity beyond its temporal range. The clicks of “Needles” offer reprieve from the its predecessor’s drone, while also delightfully juxtaposing its fuller cousin “A Broken Mirror.” This Is What I Do is as accomplished—as both a singular item and a mass of single items—as Lescalleet’s recent collaboration with Graham Lambkin Air Supply, and of similar aesthetic constitution.

This Is What I Do is a personal album, both one grafted onto my experiences and revealing of Jason’s. This dual resonance then manifests as a dialogue between what I am experiencing lately and where Jason was ten years ago—a perceived mutual, though in actuality one-way, empathy.

Okay, I’m still young at heart.

*Here is another great piece on this record, by Howard Stelzer.

I often dread writing about albums I like. I think it’s because they’re the hardest ones to summon words for. My affinity for such records is just because, and to explain why means unpacking that because. And when that because is so autonomous and stubborn, I end up frustrated with my own enthusiasm. Records that are subtle and unpredictable and mysterious only compound the issue.Nevertheless, Æthenor’s En Form for Blå is a record worth writing and getting excited about. Even though I heard it early in the year it remains at the top of my list. Boasting members of bands such as Sunn O))), Ulver, Khanate, and Guapo, Æthenor could well be called a super group. On En Form for Blå (a live document compiled from a series of Oslo gigs in 2010) they add the dexterous drumming of Steve Noble, known for his work with Derek Bailey among many others, and as a result sound better than ever.It’s difficult to describe what Æthenor was up to on their first three albums. I guess I’d liken it to a free improv take on soundtracking a haunted house or Miasmah Recordings releasing an AMM album. But Æthenor’s closest contemporary would be Supersilent, another band notoriously difficult to describe; both bands share a penchant for unnerving, ghostly electroacoustic soundscapes. While Æthenor’s arsenal of gloom and doom includes instruments like organ, electronics, Rhodes, and guitar, it’s more likely to evoke doors creaking shut or ladders being raised and lowered and then suddenly clattering to the ground. Even sonic moments that take you out of the specter-thick architecture and wash you with invisible waves that seem to have no source. Although Æthenor’s prior three full-lengths had plenty to offer, the songs themselves never quite matched the ostensible aesthetic pursuit or talent of the band members; they often sounded like sketches rather than fully formed songs.But En Form for Blå hums with a newfound confidence. Its mood is mercurial and it knows it. Its hunger for the ether is palpable. On records such as these, knowing what instrument produces what sound (and how) becomes of little importance. To parse is to splinter instrumentation that’s already shattered. Instead, the salient part is the cumulative, oceanic effect.Some reviews I’ve read have likened En Form for Blå to fusion-era Miles Davis and I guess that comparison is pretty apt. The album centers on the first two tracks; two slabs of graceful yet explosive improv esoterica. Thankfully, the band has jettisoned what didn’t work on previous records, especially (in my opinion) the goofy vocals on Faking Gold & Murder. What’s left is simultaneously more spacious and detailed than ever before—a veritable cornucopia of sound art. The lurking menace found on their first three albums is now suffused with a pointilism of ice crystals. As competent as the other players are (and are they ever, having wrought a sea of echoing, swirling beauty), the addition of Noble has given their rich vocabulary a new tenor; his playing approaches the grace and power of a celestial body. He maneuvers with a sense of curiosity at his own mobility and voice. Beneath, around, and from within the sonic blasts he chatters away, vocalizing apprehension, wonder, and sentiment. It’s cliche to call an album a journey, but each time I leave En Form for Blå I feel like I’ve been taken somewhere.While Æthenor has always been a vehicle for improvisation, their first three full-lengths seemed like they could have benefited from more songwriting. Even the songs were given numbers rather than names. That changes with En Form for Blå and it’s fitting that here, in a setting predisposed for experimentation, Æthenor finally sounds like a super group, treating us to eight segments that actually sound written.

I often dread writing about albums I like. I think it’s because they’re the hardest ones to summon words for. My affinity for such records is just because, and to explain why means unpacking that because. And when that because is so autonomous and stubborn, I end up frustrated with my own enthusiasm. Records that are subtle and unpredictable and mysterious only compound the issue.

Nevertheless, Æthenor’s En Form for Blå is a record worth writing and getting excited about. Even though I heard it early in the year it remains at the top of my list. Boasting members of bands such as Sunn O))), Ulver, Khanate, and Guapo, Æthenor could well be called a super group. On En Form for Blå (a live document compiled from a series of Oslo gigs in 2010) they add the dexterous drumming of Steve Noble, known for his work with Derek Bailey among many others, and as a result sound better than ever.

It’s difficult to describe what Æthenor was up to on their first three albums. I guess I’d liken it to a free improv take on soundtracking a haunted house or Miasmah Recordings releasing an AMM album. But Æthenor’s closest contemporary would be Supersilent, another band notoriously difficult to describe; both bands share a penchant for unnerving, ghostly electroacoustic soundscapes. While Æthenor’s arsenal of gloom and doom includes instruments like organ, electronics, Rhodes, and guitar, it’s more likely to evoke doors creaking shut or ladders being raised and lowered and then suddenly clattering to the ground. Even sonic moments that take you out of the specter-thick architecture and wash you with invisible waves that seem to have no source. Although Æthenor’s prior three full-lengths had plenty to offer, the songs themselves never quite matched the ostensible aesthetic pursuit or talent of the band members; they often sounded like sketches rather than fully formed songs.

But En Form for Blå hums with a newfound confidence. Its mood is mercurial and it knows it. Its hunger for the ether is palpable. On records such as these, knowing what instrument produces what sound (and how) becomes of little importance. To parse is to splinter instrumentation that’s already shattered. Instead, the salient part is the cumulative, oceanic effect.

Some reviews I’ve read have likened En Form for Blå to fusion-era Miles Davis and I guess that comparison is pretty apt. The album centers on the first two tracks; two slabs of graceful yet explosive improv esoterica. Thankfully, the band has jettisoned what didn’t work on previous records, especially (in my opinion) the goofy vocals on Faking Gold & Murder. What’s left is simultaneously more spacious and detailed than ever before—a veritable cornucopia of sound art. The lurking menace found on their first three albums is now suffused with a pointilism of ice crystals. As competent as the other players are (and are they ever, having wrought a sea of echoing, swirling beauty), the addition of Noble has given their rich vocabulary a new tenor; his playing approaches the grace and power of a celestial body. He maneuvers with a sense of curiosity at his own mobility and voice. Beneath, around, and from within the sonic blasts he chatters away, vocalizing apprehension, wonder, and sentiment. It’s cliche to call an album a journey, but each time I leave En Form for Blå I feel like I’ve been taken somewhere.

While Æthenor has always been a vehicle for improvisation, their first three full-lengths seemed like they could have benefited from more songwriting. Even the songs were given numbers rather than names. That changes with En Form for Blå and it’s fitting that here, in a setting predisposed for experimentation, Æthenor finally sounds like a super group, treating us to eight segments that actually sound written.