Caroline Park's newest album concerns itself with the "tensions that persist: physical frictions, muscles trying, and the body that continues to labor to survive." It's about the act of living, understanding that the many terrors of the everyday demand much of our time and energy. That we continue to press forward: a reminder of the systems that imprison us to such a life, a sign of our continued persistence, and the inevitable rendering of such terrors as quotidian.
1. The Races
2. Parking Lot
3. Driving
4. Thanksgiving Song
5. Birthday Song
6. Blouse
7. Breathing
8. Coal Train
Note: The CD and LP feature eight tracks while the digital copy combines "Breathing" and "Coal Train" into a single seventh track
Grouper’s first album in four years is eights songs long and clocks in at a hair under 22 minutes. Not just short, it’s a concise and elliptical collection of fragments that lands deeper in abstract territory while trading almost exclusively in the same piano and voice that Ruins did. But there’s no 11 minute conclusion, no disguising melody beneath layers of distortion and texture, just a healthy sustain pedal, vocal multitracking, and the keen application of harmonic color. In the spaces she might normally fill with sound, Liz Harris instead chooses silence. As a result, the lyrics and sounds we get are compressed—layered because they are ambiguous, cut from an emotional or personal background that is implied and always withheld.
Harris’s experimental disposition is clearer on Grid of Points than it has been on any of her previous albums—just don’t mistake the clarity and unembellished manner of her performances for the experiment. Stylistically and instrumentally, there’s a lot here that’s recognizable. The singer-songwriter’s toolbox, on display from Wide through The Man Who Died in His Boat, has long been a staple of the Grouper sound, and Ruins made it clear just how talented she is with a piano in the spotlight. The risk taken on Grid of Points is structural. Songs end unexpectedly and melodies—like the one that closes “Thanksgiving Day”—drift away mid-progression. Moods rise to the surface without precedent, as with the uneasiness of “Birthday Song,” and other ideas come to a halt the moment they encounter an obstacle, an effect you can hear in the repeated chords on “Parking Lot.”
These rough edges are compounded by the effect of time on the album’s shape. Grid of Points establishes a background against which these songs could be understood, but only partly. It’s tempting to picture the Wyoming room where Liz Harris recorded these pieces but there’s not enough information to complete the endeavor. At best, the picture would be a sketch: bare walls, white paint, maybe a window opaque with reflections. The specifics are hazy, even if the usual connotations of major and minor chords are present; melancholy, happiness, and relief simply don’t tell the whole story. The album, then, offers exactly what its title announces: discrete points that sit in unspecified relation to one another. The distances between them, the places where they might have traveled, come into focus even though nothing occupies the emptiness.
Ultimately, it’s absence that defines the record: a sense that what is unfinished can be as good as what is refined and worried over. The music isn’t entirely unscripted, but there’s a feeling that it didn’t turn out as originally planned. Harris’s willingness to allow brevity and innuendo into her music—her acknowledgment that these fragments stand on their own—mimics some of the unrehearsed qualities of improvised music. T. Carl Whitmer, one of many improvising musicians quoted in Derek Bailey’s Improvisation, advised performers not to concern themselves with “finished and complete” pieces, recommending instead that ideas be “kept in a state of flux.” Chipping away at song form, as Harris does, is one method of accomplishing that.
Grid of Points concludes with “Breathing” and “Coal Train,” a pairing that might as well be a single song. The former runs for a minute and a half. The latter, a field recording of a passing train, interrupts it mid-sentence. It’s unlikely such a coupling happened by accident, but the feeling is that these songs should be allowed to speed away in the same manner. The idea that a melody, a song, or an album is ever finished is an illusion anyway, all of them arbitrary stopping places better understood as temporary points on a much longer line.
1. tuning
2. prelude
3. adagio
4. soliloquy
5. returning
6. sostenuto
Note: "prelude" is not available to stream but is present on the full digital album after purchase
The general conceit of salts | adagios will not surprise anyone familiar with Jez Riley French's works. He's once again interested in capturing "audible silence," utilizing his custom contact microphones and geophones here to record the resonances of architectural spaces. The distinguishing element of this record is that he employs orchestras and ensembles, having them play "re-scored" adagios as French gathers the resulting sounds that escape into the building itself. The result is charming: a sensuous experience of architecture by way of music.
Given the context, one would presume that the album's liner notes would indicate the names of those who performed the modified adagios. It doesn't, and French hints at a possible explanation on the Bandcamp page. Recording halls were unwilling to have their names mentioned on previous recordings from the series as this risked tarnishing the highly touted "acoustic accuracy" of these spaces. As such, one may conclude that a listing of performers could spoil these specific locales, and is why their names are absent. Whatever the reason, it has the fortuitous side effect of eliminating the record's human component, directing listeners to the musical phenomena at play in these buildings.
The image of a particular architectural space devoid of any people grants the album a slightly haunting tone. It brings to mind Nikolaus Geyrhalter's Homo Sapiens and Tsai Ming-liang's Goodbye, Dragon Inn. In those films, one is subjected to static shots of abandoned places, forced to consider the humans whose imprints are destined to remain there, untouched. Likewise, the sounding of instrumentation on salts | adagios enters into the space's walls and ground as if to become enclosed in amber, the musical detritus therein waiting to be unearthed. In other words, the performers are unknown, but their impact is felt.
When listening to salts | adagios, one is also likely to recall the films of Heinz Emigholz. In his recent masterwork Parabeton, Emigholz presents image after image of famous Italian structures—the Pantheon, the Baths of Caracalla, Hadrian's Villa—and the works of architect Pier Luigi Nervi. As with the large majority of his filmography, he eschews long takes despite keeping his camera still. The relatively swift succession of images wash over the viewer, allowing one to soak in the architectural work on a sensorial level. Emigholz understands that the best way to create a filmic autobiography is to have people appreciate architecture in its mediality. We may not get a complete understanding of these buildings' utility (made clear by the near-absence of people onscreen), but the emotional heft of a building's curvature, the color of concrete, or the geometric patterns utilized is deeply felt. This exact experience may not technically be what's present on salts | adagios, but the intimacy of these recordings (informed both by its techniques and the resulting sounds) feels comparable.
Ultimately, the reading of salt | adagios as haunting and intimate comes from its source material. The instrumentation, specifically refitted for "durational performances", generates diaphanous drones. These tracks bear a resemblance to similar projects, such as Jacob Kirkegaard's Conversion, but they're also not worlds away from the chilling landscapes of Thomas Köner or the saccharine ambience of artists like Christine Vantzou and Kyle Bobby Dunn. While the music is undeniably pleasant, it's primarily the process behind it that arouses intrigue. That French is still accomplishing such a feat decades into his career is a testament to two things: his fondness and ear for careful listening, and the wealth of sound that lay hidden all around us.
*Note: shortly after this review was posted, Jez Riley French posted the following note on the album's Bandcamp page:
due to the complicated issues around permission naming the ensembles would be problematic, as it would give away locations. However I can reveal that all but one involved UK based ensembles, some at Universities and that the sessions were held as part of either workshops or informal, privately arranged exploratory sessions. I am grateful to all of the musicians for their time and for allowing this release without their names appearing, for now at least.
Read Yuko Zama's feature on l’âme est sans retenue at Surround
Copies of l’âme est sans retenue I are available at Erstwhile Records
Across the six hours that comprise l'âme est sans retenue I, Jürg Frey presents a carefully considered assemblage of field recordings and silence. The organizational structure of the piece is simple and austere: field recordings fade in, are left to simply exist, and then fade out into silence. Both of these elements span approximately ten to thirty seconds and this alternation occurs until a longer period of silence emerges. In the long tradition of Wandelweiser, Frey's arrangement makes an irrefutable case for the importance of silence in composition. And as with countless other works, this privileging of silence as compositional material allows for a consideration of our listening environment as a wellspring of its own musical details.
The field recordings that appear on l'âme est sans retenue I were recorded during the final months of 1997 in a Berlin park. There’s little, if anything, that would help one identify the location or date of the source material though. This proves beneficial as it strikes down any reading of the recordings as highly personal and prevents one from viewing the composition as an aural travelogue or a snapshot of a specific place and time. To be certain, this is a composition that wants us to experience sound strictly as sound. This is obvious given that the sounds Frey recorded often have a muted quality to them, resembling white noise. The brevity of the field recordings’ appearances further crystallizes their status as unglamorized material. Consider, for example, how different the piece would sound with classical instruments. The inherent emotional quality in the timbre of strings or of pressure placed upon piano keys would dramatically alter our reception of the composition. There are no overtly emotional aspects to the recordings, and this is paramount to the piece’s success.
The decision to include a fading out of sound into silence is significant as it directs our ears from Frey’s field recordings to the silence he employs and then ultimately to our own surroundings. The result is a recognition of the expanded and reversed figure-ground relationship at play. Since the large majority of l’âme est sans retenue I is silence, we perceive this silence as the ground with which the sound acts upon. The presence of a “digital silence” is thus crucial as it pushes our understanding of the ground beyond what’s only present on the album to what’s also in our own listening environment. At the same time, one is hard-pressed to imagine how the alternative—an environment-sourced, Cageian non-silence—could have been utilized given the composition’s conceit.
The structure of l’âme est sans retenue I fosters a relationship between the listener and the piece that is in ways both predictable and not. The amount of time that both the field recordings and silence lasts is established within the first few minutes of the piece, making the pacing of this back-and-forth quickly familiar. Since l’âme est sans retenue I is spread across five discs, one is forced to remove oneself from the piece four times if rips of the CDs weren't previously made. It's a wise move, then, to have each disc start with sound; listeners can recalibrate with the composition’s sound-silence rhythm immediately upon pressing play.
The extended periods of silence, however, don't last for equal lengths of time. As such, the recognizable patterns that Frey sets up are constantly stripped away. This removal of consistency stirs a craving for the return of sound, and the fact that we as listeners are unable to foresee the precise moment it reappears makes for a lively listening experience. To be sure, one would be surprised by the reemergence of sound even if the stretches of silence were of equivalent lengths; unless one is keeping track of time, seven minutes of silence aren't particularly distinguishable from eight. Even so, it's safe to say that the varying lengths of silence subvert expectations—during the final hour, two minutes of silence are followed by one that lasts ten—and provide a much larger contrast to the other parts of the composition.
The most refreshing aspect of l’âme est sans retenue I is how its structure, overall length, and field recordings are conducive to a passive engagement with it. For dozens of listens, I treated the piece as one fit for an installation. Accordingly, I would occasionally have the tracks playing on repeat throughout all 24 hours of a day. Playing on speakers in my bedroom, the field recordings' presence would often be shocking upon my return to the room—how could I forget, again, that this was still playing? But even if I had stayed in a closed-off space where the piece was playing, I would frequently forget about the piece during its long silences. This naturally led to several bouts of laughter when the sounds surfaced.
But more than just being surprised and finding it all very humorous, I came to understand the field recordings as an immense source of comfort. This is undoubtedly related to the desire one has to hear something familiar (both of sounds and their internal structures) during the silent sections. Frey is conditioning the listener to become accustomed to silence during these six hours, something that is pivotal in allowing the field recordings to be so evocative. The true marvel of l’âme est sans retenue I is how we aren't necessarily moved by the sounds present within the field recordings, but by sound itself. As previously mentioned, it's the "unglamorized" nature of the field recordings (along with the structure and length of the piece) that confirms this to be Frey's intention.
None of this is to say that an active engagement with l’âme est sans retenue I proves fruitless. There are numerous intriguing sounds that are contained within these field recordings. One of the most arresting segments appears at the end of disc one and the beginning of disc two—a soft but prominent gust of wind blows as chirping birds and a melodic sound akin to bells and synth pads is heard in the distance. It registers as something pensive and wistful, bringing to mind minimal ambient music such as Kazuya Nagaya's Utsuho. Near the end of disc three, the wind blows with a gale-like force. Nestled inside it, though, is a high frequency tone that provides a point of focus and consequent sense of peace in the midst of a raging storm.
Subtle, striking moments such as these are scattered throughout the six hours that make up l’âme est sans retenue I. It brings to mind l’âme est sans retenue III, which was released on Radu Malfatti's b-boim label in 2008. That album contained much longer periods of sound and silence, allowing for a more readily immersive listening experience. Each segment of sound felt distinct and had something (usually a high-pitched ringing) to maintain interest. In a sense, l’âme est sans retenue III is the midpoint between Frey's weites land, tiefe zeit, räume 1-8 and l’âme est sans retenue I. The sounds contained within part one and three of l’âme est sans retenue are sourced from the same recordings, yes, but the long stretches of sound in part three almost diminish the utility of silence to that of a mere cleansing of the aural palette. There's an understanding of silence's role in terms of the piece's structure, but the length of the field recordings overwhelms the listening environment, as is the case for weites land, tiefe zeit, räume 1-8.
When listening to l’âme est sans retenue I, it is impossible to ignore the meticulous structuring of material on display. As previously mentioned, the sound-silence rhythm is crucial, but it's also the sequencing of field recordings that is important. Frey makes this abundantly clear within the first few minutes of the piece. Of the first eight sections of sound, all but the third and fifth are from the same field recording session. There's a recognizable continuity that's broken by these two instances. But then Frey resumes the sound on the third segment with the ninth, and does the same for the fifth segment with the tenth. This intentional reordering discreetly enlivens the field recordings and the listening process.
This juxtaposition of different sounds occurs throughout the piece, but there are also other structurally interesting decisions that Frey makes as well. Halfway into disc two, church bells can be heard and Frey decides to separate two field recordings with only a second of silence. Even so, we hear a distinct difference in the bed of sound that accompanies those bells. Near the beginning of disc four, harsh winds prevail and Frey decreases the silences here to ten seconds in order to capitalize on the ferocity of the environment. Approximately seventeen minutes into disc five, a stretch of alternating sound and silence is amusingly capped off with the sound of a ship's horn. One may not recognize all that Frey does on this record, but one can be sure that Frey has done a lot to ensure that even the ostensibly plain moments will be captivating. Granted, even the fading in and fading out of the field recordings makes the tracing of sound within each segment an enjoyable endeavor.
The l’âme est sans retenue series takes its name from a book by French writer and poet Edmond Jabès. Jabès's interest in the "unwritten word" manifests in his works in various ways, one of which being pages laden with "empty" white space. His influence on Frey is clear. One is tempted to draw additional comparisons to l’âme est sans retenue—the poetry of Mallarmé, the paintings of Fontana, numerous flicker films—but none are quite satisfactory. Visual mediums necessitate an active engagement via sight, and this results in a fundamentally different experience than what one has with this specific piece by Frey.
The strongest analogue that comes to mind is of wearing Molecule 01 by Escentric Molecules. Molecule 01 is a fragrance almost completely made up of the aroma chemical Iso E Super. Iso E Super is present in countless perfumes today and is used to enhance and soften notes, akin to how salt is used in cooking to draw out numerous flavors. Iso E Super has its own distinct smell—a peppery cedar with a tinge of antiseptic alcohol—but the most common result is that those smelling the chemical detect nothing at all. When perceptible, Molecule 01 is subtle and abstract (theoretically, it should amplify your skin's natural scent). One may catch a whiff of the fragrance but it will be intermittent and at varying degrees of strength. The simultaneously passive and active experience of wearing perfume and the quasi-blank nature of Molecule 01's scent provides for an experience that's extremely comparable to that of l’âme est sans retenue I. That I'm unable to think of anything else that provides a similar experience is a testament to how Frey is doing something incredibly unique here, even within the Wandelweiser camp.
Frey composed the l’âme est sans retenue series from 1999-2000. As such, the first part of the series marks Erstwhile Records' first archival release. It doesn't sound the least bit dated, though, and one could easily argue that it sounds refreshing compared to all the melodic compositions that have defined Frey's recent releases. To think that this may have never seen the light of day is shocking; this is the very best piece of music that Frey has ever composed, and is an undeniably essential addition to the Wandelweiser collective's catalogue.
Alec Livaditis first appeared on the scene with Clear and Cloud, an LP released on Kye Records. The titular A-side featured Livaditis's cello playing pit against a backdrop of unending chatter. What would have otherwise felt like a normal live performance was transformed into something more stately through the work of Killick Hinds' Vo-96 guitar playing. In the song's second half, the harmonics that Hinds employed filled the recording's cracks with a calming ambience that immediately turned the domestic space into one more sacred. With Hinds setting the tone, the cello's weeping legatos granted the song a sort of profundity-in-the-everyday that felt at once uplifting and wistful.
Reticulate is Livaditis's small batch, self-released CD-R follow-up. It's notable in that unlike both tracks on Clear and Cloud or the live performance on WUOG, the Athens-based musician is found here playing alone. It's also a continuation of the more austere sounds and methods explored on "Mid August, 2016", except that since this isn't a shabby live recording, there's a bit more bite to the electronics. The album is comprised of two 18-minute tracks filled with oscillating sine tones and feedback. As is commonplace for recordings of this ilk, these stretches of sound alternate with periods of silence.
"A" starts off with a low, wavering sine tone. With it comes the creation of a more subtle rumble that resembles a quickly spinning computer fan. Livaditis lays some squelching feedback on top that's sharp and unpredictable in comparison. This contrast is crucial as it helps paint the underlying sine tone as monotonous, and with it comes a looming sense of dread. When it abruptly phases into silence, the transition is like a gasping for air. Feelings of anxiety still linger, though. Because of this, there's an impression that these first five minutes could effectively soundtrack the quiet but unsettling moments of a Philippe Grandrieux film. Soon, however, comes a long section comprised of buzzing noise that's accompanied by the clatter of metal objects. This all eventually dissolves into a comforting, higher-pitched sine tone and a brief moment of silence. If the track had ended here, it would have told a rather concrete narrative. Unfortunately, it's slightly undercut by four more minutes that sound extraneous: another sine tone sequence, a half-minute of silence, and a reprisal of the buzzing and handling of metal.
"B" starts off in a similar fashion to that of the previous track—for four and a half minutes, a raucous (but still relatively controlled) stretch of noise is heard. Occasionally, Livaditis injects high-pitched, pinprick-like sine tones. When the noise disappears, the sine tones remain, and consequently feel comforting amidst the relative silence. He soon exchanges these tones for extremely brief bursts of contact mic-type sounds and feedback. This entire section spans four minutes and is rather relaxing, especially compared to what was present on "A". Its placement is effective as it manages to shed light on the meditative nature of the ensuing noise, particularly those that appear immediately thereafter. As a result, the minute of silence that comes after that feels especially calm. If I were to fault "B" of anything, it would be for how it isn't split into two separate tracks at the moment this silence ends. The eight minutes that close out the album are more of a summation of what's been heard and therefore don't necessarily seem connected to the rest of the song. Still, it's a nice piece of whirring noise that closes out Reticulate on an appropriate, albeit anticlimactic, note.
All in all, to see Livaditis release a full-length album in such a different vein is refreshing. When listening to the record, It's clear that he's confident in his ability to handle these electronics. The meshwork that adorns the cover is amusing because it points to his specific approach—the interlacing strings are as essential to the structure as the empty spaces surrounding them. And like the silence utilized on Reticulate, the burnt portion that leaves a gaping hole is significant because it highlights that exact idea by altering how the material immediately surrounding it is perceived.
Before listening to Takahiro Kawaguchi and Utah Kawasaki's Amorphous Spores, one first experiences Hirozumi Takeda's beautiful design for the album. The photographs that adorn the packaging are alluring precisely for how they draw out specific qualities from various objects—the shape of the mushrooms, the contrast in color between them and the dirt, the general form and movement of the leaves—and bring them to the forefront via thoughtful framing. These individual photographs are chosen with the gatefold packaging in mind; the leaves that flank the side interior panels act to house the CD between them. When one lifts the disc from its tray, an upside down mushroom is revealed. It's unexpected and equal parts charming and hilarious. It all captures the essence of Amorphous Spores perfectly and acts to prepare one for engaging with the music.
When "12:32" begins, a low rumbling is heard. It's deep and has an inherent rhythmic quality to it that sets up the piece as both meditative and dramatic. However, any sense of tranquility is quickly shattered with the sound of a loud, resonating horn. These horns appear frequently but in different ways; sometimes we hear small squeaks, sometimes we hear a series of short notes. A buzzing drill arrives soon thereafter and it acts to contrast the clear, crisp tone of the horns. These three sounds make up the large majority of "12:32"—it may not seem like much but Kawaguchi and Kawasaki handle the material with such meticulous precision, in both pacing and arrangement, that the piece feels grandiose and nuanced.
Even more exciting is "10:59", a whirlwind of a tune that ranks among the best pieces either artist has ever created. It's huge and cacophonous and accomplishes such a feeling through the mixing of various contorted electronics. Considering this photo of Kawasaki sporting a SOPHIE shirt, it's easy to connect the elastic and humorous sounds present on "10:59" to those SOPHIE has created in the past couple years. However, it also recalls the playful attitude of U is for Utah and some of the stuff Kawasaki has created under the youpy moniker, both in its sound and sense of humor. The horn is present again on this track but it serves a different purpose in the midst of hyperactivity. There are, in fact, isolated moments where the horns resemble that of a clown's but what's more amusing is how a constant stream of staccato notes—something present on "12:32"—can sound so terrifically deadpan. The unexpected appearances of the whirring drill are also effective and they've managed to make me burst into laughter on multiple occasions.
The following two tracks are a bit more familiar-sounding but they manage to highlight how Kawaguchi and Kawasaki are so great at contextualizing specific sounds. On "4:17", the drill is heard yet again but it blends more seamlessly with the fidgeting noise. Here, the clamor is contained and the different components amass into a thick layer of sound. When the drill finally disappears, it becomes clear just how instrumental it was in making the piece feel so dense. "10:01" performs a similar trick except with the horn, allowing its droning tone to bind the rest of the instrumentation. As its high-pitched tone eventually clears, the abrasiveness of each scrape and yelp becomes palpable.
The album ends with a reprisal-of-sorts of album opener "12:32" and it acts as a repose from the raw buzzing noise of the previous tracks. It differs from the first track, however, due to how overwhelming the looming low end is; in the final thirty seconds of the song, we hear a note that's perceptibly altered by the track's deep pulses. That exact moment ends the album on a subtle but strong note. Amorphous Spores is filled with many of these small details and it's exactly why it feels like such an accomplishment; the level of craftsmanship that appears in every track allows each revisit to feel incredibly satisfying. It's a real testament to how astute both musicians are in utilizing and organizing their source material, and it's at the core of what makes Amorphous Spores one of the best albums of 2015.
Busman's Holiday opens with audio taken from an iconic scene in John Boorman's Point Blank. Walker, played by Lee Marvin, has just been betrayed and left for dead by his accomplice Reese and his wife Lynne. Having survived the incident, he makes his way to Los Angeles with the intention of getting revenge. As the scene plays out, Walker's footsteps reverberate loudly, juxtaposing the calmness of Lynne's morning routine. Interestingly, these footsteps continue and become non-diegetic sound for images of Walker himself. It's effective as a means to build tension but also as a way to establish the unwavering one-track mind that defines Walker throughout the film. As a result, there seems no better way to start off Busman's Holiday. This record definitely sounds like the collaborative work of Kevin Drumm and Jason Lescalleet but it's even more uniform in style and mood than The Abyss. It's a bit surprising considering the variety of sounds that both Drumm and Lescalleet have explored within the past year, let alone their entire careers, but these six tracks are far more potent for it. The result is a cohesive and ultimately better album, and Busman's Holiday ends up being an incredibly strong statement for both of these highly accomplished artists.
When the footsteps and film soundtrack that introduce the album cease, "The Hunt" explodes into electrifying noise. The reason this piece feels so powerful is the perceptible movement of these sounds in the mix. In albums like Purge, Sheer Hellish Miasma, and The Pilgrim, passages of harsh noise feel domineering because of their huge monolithic presence. Numerous components may contribute to an overall structure but the main effect is less a frenetic assault on the senses (as with the second track on Land of Lurches) and more an all-encompassing wall of sound that completely envelops the listener. From its moment of impact, "The Hunt" does very much the same thing. The general shape of its screeches and howls keeps the listener trapped inside but what makes the track particularly oppressive is its refusal to stay motionless. These buzzing drones move around the listener at a moderately slow pace, circling them like prey, and it adds greatly to the piece's ominous ambiance.
There are approximately ten seconds of silence before "The Hunt" ends and "Powerless" begins. Those ten seconds act as a chance to catch one's breath, and when the piece starts with a loud tone, one may assume that it'll rupture into something as equally raucous as the last track. But what starts shrill soon crumbles through fuzzy noise and into a static drone. The album's liner notes state that the record is "a meditation on the inner mental environments that one encounters and endures during times of work-related travel." I've consequently listened to this album numerous times while driving to work and "Powerless" has felt particularly effective in accomplishing that feeling. Through my car stereo, the smears of high-pitched tones overhead are the primary sounds that catch my ear. Aside from adding textural interest, they act to stimulate and direct my attention towards the stillness of the drone and the repetitive mechanical rhythms heard underneath. In turn, this makes me aware of the blankness of my thoughts during these periods of travel. It's something that presumably occurs as a way to distract myself from the banality of such an everyday event as well as the equally familiar workday that's to follow. Before long. the song gradually builds into something comfortably noisy and it slowly ushers me back into that empty state of mind.
"The Wait" bears a similar structure to "Powerless"—it first descends into a dark pit before clawing its way back out. It's the longest track on Busman's Holiday but its length feels justified as it allows the listener to feel the physicality of its rattling machines. Here, the clatter is at the forefront while the subtly shifting drones are in the service of accentuating its deep reverberations. This relationship is key as it magnifies how eerie these noises actually are. It's comparable to "Asking for the Initial Thing" from the eighth edition of This Is What I Do but more dynamic, nuanced, and dramatic. As a result, when the piece ends with a more prominent drone, it feels like a natural extension of the mood evoked by what came beforehand.
This eventually leads into "The Push", a track whose title presumably refers to the perceived stasis of the cacophony here. The piece consists of three large blocks of noise, the first of which is the longest and highest-pitched. This section also evolves the most elegantly; it's difficult to pinpoint the exact development of these noises unless one hears the beginning and end of this passage right after one another. The following sections are just as noisy but their individual components are "livelier" and less homogeneous. The sequencing here is important and it, along with other factors—the general sounds used in each part of the song, the decision to have complete silence before the final passage, the relative lengths of these three sections—all contribute to the effectiveness of the piece as a whole.
"Belligerence" comes next and it's most interesting for its spontaneity. While not exactly high-energy, there's a fierce unpredictability to how this piece progresses and it grants the song some intensity. Near the beginning of the track, a high frequency tone appears unopposed and it pierces the ear. Considering the sound palette of the previous tracks and the general density of their structures, it feels particularly refreshing at this point in the album. This tone pops up frequently throughout the song, juxtaposing roaring electronics at one point and low rumbles at others. At around the six minute mark, a buzzing noise starts to pan back and forth across both channels before abruptly halting. A burst of cloudy noise emerges, as if snapping all the previous sounds into place. The surrounding fog dissipates and the track soon ends.
Busman's Holiday concludes with what's perhaps its most surprising track. Both Drumm and Lescalleet have made incredibly "pretty" pieces before, both individually (Imperial Distortion, Shut In, Archaic Architecture) and together ("The Abyss"), but it's accomplished here in a way that's far more affecting. "Honest Toil" consists of a high-pitched tone, a shifting drone, and the sounds of various objects and machinery. It's all incredibly delicate and all these specific sounds—light tapping, miniature squeaks, the flipping of switches—are carefully organized as to sustain the track's child-like essence. These small sounds brings to mind moments in Keith Rowe and Graham Lambkin's Making A, though with a much sweeter tone (alternatively, a less saccharine Four Forms). One such example is an incredibly delightful moment at 2:54, when a tiny beep and ticking sound play harmoniously. Even when the rattling gets a bit noisy, the sustained sound of the other instruments help to maintain the piece's calming mood. A looping melody eventually appears and closes out the album on a nostalgic note. It may be too romantic for some but it feels appropriate both as a musical contrast to the previous tracks and as a final statement regarding the album's theme. Work is tiring and overwhelming but in the warmth of this final track comes encouragement from Drumm and Lescalleet to persevere.
On stilllife's debut album Yoru No Katarogu, Takashi Tsuda and Hiroki Sasajima highlighted a different sound on each of its ten tracks. Some pieces were straightforward field recordings that pointed listeners to the general form of an ecosystem while others were intimate portraits of a single material or instrument. Similarly, the duo's sophomore album archipelago is comprised of sparse instrumentation and field recordings taken in various locations. The primary difference here is the decision to present the record as a single sixty minute track. Periods of silence separate passages of sound but there's a cohesiveness to this piece that the two constantly maintain. On the surface, this may not seem like a particularly noteworthy feature to point out; Takashi Tsuda and Hiroki Sasajima recorded this album in areas where certain sounds—namely wind, waves, and birds—are prevalent. A sense of continuity is therefore expected. None of this would be as effective though if it weren't for Tsuda and Sasajima's thoughtful performances. The very lifeblood of archipelago, and the precise reason it's a successful recording, is that their instrumentation always occupies the same tonal, timbral, and emotional range as those of the fields they're recorded in.
As archipelago opens up, we're introduced to periodic tapping, a wind instrument, and the natural sounds of the environment. Tsuda and Sasajima's contributions are distinct but the weight of their presence is never overbearing. For example, the wind instrument is airy and light. Its childlike melody and high register are appropriate alongside the busy chirping and distant waves. Conversely, the tapping is dense and always plays a consistent beat. It's an effective addition as It works to contrast the delicate textures of the piece whilst pairing nicely with some of the louder and robust bird calls and songs. Everything coalesces smoothly and the setting's musical qualities are never attenuated by what exists in the foreground. In other words, Tsuda and Sasajima aren't injecting the piece with a meditative and whimsical ambiance, they're bringing it into view and amplifying it.
The piece quickly transitions into a passage dominated by birds. Here, the chirps and squawks all amass into a dense cloud of sound. A synthesized tone occasionally appears and with its unwavering pitch, acts to counterbalance the vibrancy and energy of the bird calls and songs. Interestingly, this consolidates the bird sounds further and tapers any notion of their collective unruliness. The noises that deviate from this section's average rhythm, texture, and volume are the most captivating, naturally. However, I've found that the tones Tsuda and Sasajima play redirect my attention to the swarm of chirping that defines this 'average' and I'm left examining how these individual units interact and form something more concrete.
This carefully considered interplay continues throughout the rest of archipelago. In the following section, a string instrument is plucked and it's the most emotionally charged component of the entire record. One could make a case that the musicians are being 'manipulative' here but when considering everything they've played up to this point, it still feels in line with how they view this environment—contemplative, calming, and filled with life. A long stretch of silence bookends the next segment, and it's purposefully done as to ease the listener into, and out of, its more private and personal recording space. Here, Tsuda and Sasajima are relatively removed from the shore—we can now hear automobiles and a Westminster Chime close by while the sounds of waves and birds lie further in the distance. It's relatively quiet and the two try to capture the intimacy of this solitary space through their instrumentation. While there doesn't seem to be a direct link between their playing and the various external sounds, they all harmoniously evoke the same mood.
When archipelago ends, it does so with a passage that's centered around roaring waves and winds. It's considerably different than the previous segment yet there's an introspective quality to it that links the two together. This is, in part, a result of the synthesized tone that's laid on top of the waves; it ebbs and flows like the water, making it seem less threatening. And as the piece slowly fades into silence, archipelago concludes with a feeling that we've explored the very essence of these various locations. Each section of this record is characterized by something distinct yet is part of a greater whole. Using the same instruments helps to sustain a sense of continuity but it's ultimately the way Tsuda and Sasajima play—constantly drawing out the tranquil nature of various places and elements—that makes archipelago feel completely immersive.
1. shizuka ni furu ame
Radu Malfatti - composer
Cristián Alvear - guitar
Purchase shizuka ni furu ame by contacting Malfatti at radu.malfatti@chello.at
shizuka ni furu ame marks the first time that composer Radu Malfatti has written a piece for Chilean guitarist Cristián Alvear. That this is the first time Malfatti has composed something for solo guitar since 2003 (though, that was for electric guitar) is perhaps telling. On Alvear's previous recordings, it was clear that he very much understood the spirit of the Wandelweiser collective and on shizuka, it's very apparent that he still does. Across these 54 minutes, Alvear performs in a delicate but firm manner, realizing Malfatti's score in a way that highlights the potency of silence. I've listened to this record every day for the past month and throughout the many contexts I've heard it in, one thing remains constant: the use of silence on shizuka ni furu ame is the most affecting I've heard on any album all year.
shizuka will sound familiar to those who have heard Malfatti's works but as with all of his compositions, there are enough differences here that allow for the piece to stand on its own. The most obvious difference is, of course, the use of classical guitar. Its timbre is warmer than the strings, electronics, and trombone that have characterized previous b-boim releases. Malfatti takes advantage of this by having Alvear play dyads. As they're plucked and allowed to resonate, the weight of their relative consonance and dissonance is perceptible. Throughout the record, these dyads are repeated multiple times. Periodically, a single note is plucked after one of these chords, signaling an ensuing change in the dyad that will be played. The new chord is always similar to the last: one of its notes shift one semitone while the other stays the same.
This gradual transformation may seem tedious but the extended silences that bookend each dyad grant a freshness and vigor to each chord Alvear plays. As a result, the most crucial element of his performance is not what chords he plays but when he plays them. Alvear plucks his guitar frequently enough to set expectations of his continued playing. However, he appears at irregular intervals, creating tension during periods of silence. He strikes a perfect balance between consistency and unpredictability, and it's what makes shizuka so enthralling. This phenomenon is easily understood when looking at the waveforms of various Malfatti recordings.
die temperatur der bedeutung (EWR, 1997)
zeitschatten (b-boim, 2007)
friedrichshofquartett (b-boim, 2007)
l'effaçage (b-boim, 2008)
nonostante II (b-boim, 2007)
shizuka ni furu ame (b-boim, 2015)
These waveforms come from pieces that are all characterized by an interplay between instrumentation and silence. The first fifteen minutes of each piece are presented here and are representative of the entire recording. All waveforms are on the same scale for both time and amplitude.
When listening to zeitschatten and friedrichscofquartett, one can figure out the structure of the composition as it progress. If one listen isn't enough, one will know the grouping pattern of both pieces upon subsequent revisits. Conversely, the rate at which instrumentation appears on die temperatur der bedeutung, l'effaçage, and nonostane II doesn't lend itself to a specific and recognizable pattern. One engages with those pieces without foreknowledge of when silence ends and instrumentation begins. Consequently, there isn't a large sense of anticipation that one feels when listening to them.
When Alvear plays a consonant chord on shizuka, it feels like a warm and inviting embrace. That one could be waiting anywhere between 20 and 110 seconds for its return is the key to the album's success and replay value. I've found that when listening to this album in a quiet location, these passages of silence have an incredible sense of urgency. This is true even when relatively dissonant chords are played since one is still awaiting, albeit long-term, the arrival of more consonant ones.
When listening to shizuka in a more active setting, Alvear's entrances are still surprising and effective. When he plays a chord, one is likely to trace the event of it slowly fading into the environment. We as listeners are led into these 'external' sounds and are encouraged to interact with them. It's a clever move because I've found myself forgetting an album is even being played during these silent passages. Hearing Alvear's guitar has, on a surpiringly large number of occasions, left me dumbfounded as to how such a thing could happen. It's a bizarre but fascinating occurrence, and Malfatti's instruction to play the piece quietly helps to make it a regular one.
There's a lot more to shizuka ni furu ame than one would expect. Considering how minor the differences are between this album and other Malfatti records, I'm left astounded by how singular this record feels in his entire catalogue. Simply put, it's fantastic. Malfatti's compositional ingenuity is unmistakable here and Alvear's realization is extraordinary. It is, undoubtedly, one of the best releases from either artist and one can only hope that these two collaborate more in the future.
1. Fires & Conifers
2. Memoire de Cezanne
3. This has already had a history (2b)
4. 360 Sounds
5. you have not been paying attention (again)
6. for six
Patrick Farmer: open cd players, loudspeakers, objects, dried mango
Bruno Guastalla: cello, carrot
Sarah Hughes: zither, yo yo bear for kids
Dominic Lash: contrabass, banana
Samuel Rodgers: piano, electronics, apple
David Stent: guitar, banana
Paul Whitty: electronics, crisps
Sarah Hughes - Fires & Conifers
Bruno Guastalla - Memoire de Cezanne
Patrick Farmer - This has already had a history (2b)
Paul Whitty - you have not been paying attention (again)
Dominic Lash - for six
Purchase stopcock here
Since forming in 2010, The Set Ensemble have tackled works by composers such as Antoine Beuger, Manfred Werder, and Michael Pisaro. In 2012, they contributed five tracks to the fantasticWandelweiser und so weiter box set released on Another Timbre. But it's with stopcock that they make their first grand statement as a group. This isn't to say that their contributions to Wandelweiser were poor (they weren't) but this record is particularly special because each of its six tracks were composed by members of the group themselves. And considering that all of its musicians are also composers, stopcock proves valuable for its presentation of the synergy and creativity of all its members—both on a performance level and a compositional one.
In interviews with Seth Cooke and Jennie Gottschalk, Sarah Hughes expressed how she tries to find a balance between improvisation and composition with all of her works. This is achieved by setting up a basic framework for performers that still allows for variability. "Fires & Conifers", the first track on stopcock, does this by providing each of its six performers with two different actions they can take. One or both options can be taken but there's often an overlap in theme or idea for each person. Player one, for example, contributes short sounds regardless of the route they take. One of player three's options involves "making a continuous sound that creates an indent to the space." However, the other choice would provide a similarly noticeable effect on the overall piece. Because of these connected actions, each person is essentially designated a role that helps to maintain a consistency in the song's mood and texture.
The cohesiveness of "Fires & Conifers" is surprising, though. Players five and six are tasked with reacting to the other four in a way that would presumably impede harmonious interplay. But because of the way Hughes has arranged this composition, their actions never feel at odds with the rest of the instrumentation and the title feels incredibly appropriate. Player five has to make loud, prominent attacks and the plucked cello near the beginning of the performance is one of them. However, it functions much like player one's handclaps and, near the end of the performance, player two's piano chords. Likewise, the generally meditative tone of the piece—a result of the soft pulses from player one, the sparse piano notes from player two, and the contrasting sustained notes from players three and four—allows for player five's enforced periods of silence at 7:40 and 14:45 to feel like natural extensions of what the group is playing. That these passages may not actually be the result of player five's mandates only attests to how thoughtfully this piece was composed.
Bruno Guastalla's "Memoire de Cezanne" follows and its score is comparatively straightforward. It's split into three sections—the second passage contrasts the first while the third is similar but 'slightly different' to that same first passage. This structure is not dissimilar to basic sonata form but it seems more appropriate, given Guastalla's interests, to say that it resembles a minimal superpermutation. In a nutshell, a 'minimal superpermutation' of a number 'n' is the shortest string of numbers such that all possible sequences of positive integers up to and including that number would be listed. Therefore, if n=2, one such minimal superpermutation would be 121 (which is analogous to the structure of "Memoire de Cezanne") since the sequences 1,2 and 2,1 are present. If n=3, one minimal superpermutation would be 123121321 since all available sequences (123, 231, 312, 213, 132, 321) are listed in the shortest possible manner.
Like Paul Cézanne himself—a painter who understood the function and elegance of basic geometric forms—Guastalla sees the importance and potential of mathematical applications in art. In the recent issue of Wolf Notes, we're given insight into how incorporating superpermutations into his scores reflects his interests:
I am a bit ambivalent towards the beauty of sound, cherry-picked-slice-of-life. In my work on instruments, doing daily sound adjustments for players, what seems desirable, rather than the beauty or character of a sound, is a sort of grace, and ease (or sometimes unease) in the movement from one quality to another.
When a piece is played, the chaos of sound, of life, is soon enough full of infinite precision.
While later scores are considerably more complex, "Memoire de Cezanne" is appealing in its simplicity and manages to display that exact beauty in movement. It's a long-form, textural piece that neatly transitions between its three sections. And it's in this palindromic structure that each individual passage is recognizably colored by what precedes and/or follows it. The instruments all coalesce into an impressionistic blur and an overarching mood develops linearly across its ten minutes, feeling both tense and introspective throughout; it's a truly enjoyable realization of Guastalla's score.
The most peculiar track on stopcock appears next with Patrick Farmer's "This has already had a history (2b)". In Farmer's score, he asks that each performer "initiate[s] the decay/transformation/disintegration" of a particular object and "must not stop until the end result is achieved". Amusingly, The Set Ensemble explore this 'decay' by eating various foods. "history (2b)" brings to mind Christian Wolff's "Drinks, 1969", a piece comprised of performers pouring, sipping, and slurping drinks. It's a humorous piece that explores the whimsy in bubbles popping and the tapping of glassware. In comparison to Farmer's piece, it has a decidedly theatrical bent, a knowingly 'unnatural' presentation of its quotidian sounds.
The sounds on "history (2b)" are similarly familiar—we know the hard crunch that comes with eating a carrot, or the crisp bite of an apple—but The Set Ensemble don't try to embellish them in any major way. And perhaps unexpectedly, the recording proves consistently engaging. This is accomplished, in part, by the intimate nature of the recording. We're up close with these performers and we hear the different timbres of the foods being eaten and the rhythms with which they're chewed. And along with that, small details—the sound of food being swallowed, the tiny exhalations thereafter, and the ensuing gurgle of stomachs digesting—ornament the primary chewing process.
The delightful "360 sounds" comes afterwards. In it, Dominic Lash asks six players to play one sound per second for sixty seconds. The catch is that that they must play "without exactly synchronising the beginning." Because of this imprecise matching of sounds, the piece has a charming, child-like quality to it that contrasts the rest of stopcock. Each noise occupies its own space in the mix, allowing one to shift his or her attention from one instrument to the next. But when engaged with plainly, they all converge as an amorphous mesh of constant pulses. It's a simple conceit that's slickly executed. Despite how short the piece is, it happens to be incredibly memorable.
The vibrancy of "360 sounds" quickly contrasts with the bleak "you have not been paying attention (again)". Paul Whitty's score requires performers to provide an array of sounds that are "extremely quiet" yet "as abrasive as possible". These sounds are separated into two distinct categories defined by length. One involves shorter sounds between 1 and 7 seconds that can be played multiple times but not consecutively. The other involves longer sounds between 28 and 73 seconds that can only be played once. This framework distributes the weight of each sound's 'abrasiveness' somewhat equally and allows for a sense of constantly renewed stimulation. But even more, there's a perceptible distance between these individual sounds that allows for each action to feel distinct. Consequently, the sonic qualities of these noises are capitalized on without diminishing the effects of others, all of which ultimately combines into a layered whole.
stopcock concludes with Dominic Lash's "for six", a composition that displays the ingenuity of Lash himself as well as the cohesiveness of The Set Ensemble. Three pairs are formed, two of which are based on pitch (Guastalla's cello and Lash's contrabass, Hughes' zither and Stent's guitar) while the third finds both Whitty and Farmer working with electronics. Each person has three possible behaviors: be in silence, play a continuous sound, or play an irregular sound. Based on what one person plays, the other member in the pair reacts according to the unique score he or she has. With this set-up, there are essentially three separate duos simultaneously performing in their own respective space. The decision to tune the instruments to their corresponding extremes (e.g. the cello and contrabass are tuned to the lowest playable pitch) grants a vastness to the entire piece. This is valuable as it makes the interplay between the individual pairings, as well as the entire group, discernible.
In Wolf Notes #8, Dominic Lash describes the score for a composition he wrote entitled "for four". It's a significant piece for Lash in many ways, but perhaps most interesting is that through it, he became comfortable with the idea of writing scores for specific people. It led to a freedom from self-imposed notions of what scores "should be" and he expresses deep gratitude of this realization in writing. He states that composing scores with people in mind should be seen as opportunities in which one tries to get the most out of a collaboration. "for six" was composed two years after this understanding and it contains the names of the six people who perform it here. As the final track on the album, it's a beautiful representation of The Set Ensemble's strength as a group. Which brings to mind how the title of this record feels incredibly appropriate. A stopcock is a valve with a binary functionality—it either prevents or allows water from flowing through pipes. When The Set Ensemble come together, it's like a stopcock has opened and the ideas, compositions, and performances of each member converge harmoniously.
