The (very welcome) shock of the new: Autechre – Quaristice

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The closest i’ve come to a solitary road trip was last year, when i drove from the cosy shelter of the Cotswolds to the exposed shelf of the east coast. Knowing that, even if i treated the speed limit with my usual agnosticism, the drive would still take at least four hours, preparation was needed in terms of music for the journey. i’ve often noticed how the music one takes on any kind of trip or trek becomes etched into the experience, as an integral part of the memories. On this occasion, i opted for a single artist: Autechre. For once, i brought nothing else for contrast, so depending on your perspective, setting off with only Amber, Draft 7.30, LP5 and Untilted for company was either foolhardy and masochistic or courageous and exciting. Actually, i think it was all of those; and it was wonderful, consolidating my love for their work.

Their new album, Quaristice (released on 3 March, but made available on bleep.com a couple of days ago), achieves the remarkable feat of sounding at once familiar and yet also alien and strange. i admit to having read the review in the latest The Wire, but—like most reviewers these days—little was given away, so i felt pleasantly able to throw myself in at the deep end. My most immediate reaction, as one track passed to the next, was of disorientation; gone are the lengthy pieces from Untilted that evolve and judder into new contortions and patterns, replaced here with a kaleidoscope of short studies that seem to capture their essence in a less expansive, but perhaps more concentrated way (stat alert: Untilted: 8 tracks, average length 8:43; Quaristice: 20 tracks, average length 3:40). If anything, this accentuates one of their strongest attributes: the ability to surprise. There’s the impression that these are mere sound “glimpses”, yet the familiar sense of evolution persists. What is most new here are the soft-edged washes of sound that appear almost nonchalantly amidst all of the bleeps and glitches. Nothing like this has featured in their work since their earliest releases (such as “Aut Riche” on Incunabula and “Nine” on Amber), but there’s not even a trace of the banal ambient electronica sound-world; this is “grown up” ambient, of a kind Richard James would be proud. Read more

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The shock of the old

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In the summer of 2001, during an 11-day tramp around Iceland, the Beloved and i took a chance and attended a baritone recital, given at the church in Egilsstaðir. It was a strange and beautiful experience; he chatted a fair bit between each song, and we did our best to laugh in the right places and look like we could make any sense of what he was saying. Not surprisingly, while the music drew us in, we nonetheless felt somewhat distanced from what was going on. But that changed, suddenly, towards the end of the recital, as he began to sing, in English, “Danny Boy”. Having heard nothing but Icelandic, Italian and German for the last hour or so, and then to be confronted with our own language, singing this amazingly lovely song—and he sang it extraordinarily beautifully—was a real jolt to the system, and by the end i had tears streaming down my face. It’s very powerful to be struck like that, and it highlighted for me how remarkable and important it can be to find something familiar amidst things obscure; and yet also, how possible it is that the familiar can still carry the power to surprise and even shock us. Fast-forward to last year, and a recording i made of something modern on Radio 3, which caught the tail-end of something sumptuous, melancholic and gorgeous, played by strings. After a couple of perplexed microseconds (beauty always perplexes first, doesn’t it?), i realised this was “Danny Boy” once again—or, rather, its original form as the Londonderry Air—arranged (as i learned at the end) by that fiendish genius, Percy Grainger. To be shocked twice by the same melody is quite something, and i can’t listen to it now without a beaming smile on my face.

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What’s In A Name? (Part Two)

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In my post Style and Idea: What’s In A Name?, i said that i’d been provoked to consider genres “and more besides”; here, then, is the more. Our determination to classify things—as a means of containing them, thereby reducing them and making them (or so we believe) more “understandable”—extends further, into quite subtle areas. What, for example, is going on in the title of a work? In the world of contemporary art music (for want of a better term), it has become de rigeur for a composition to require some kind of vaguely poetic/pithy title, preferably not a generic one (e.g. “symphony”), to avoid undesirable, often anachronistic, associations. It goes deeper though, and wider; programme notes are typically provided to supplement the title, no doubt seeking to aide the audience further in their engagement of the work. Serving a seemingly different end, the tracks on a CD nonetheless also seek to “contain” a piece (or part thereof) with the same aim of helping to reduce a work to small, “manageable” bits. Let me say immediately that i myself am a part of all this, and have never detracted from it—indeed, the title of my most recent composition, ‘unredeemed’ self-)portrait (in the form of a calf, although abstruse, could be cited as an extreme example of it—but it seems appropriate to question the practice from the perspective of both artist (in terms of intention) and audience (in terms of desire).

During my first degree (a very worrying 11 years ago), i wrote a paper entitled Extra-Musical Facets of the Complete Work of Art, which examined, among other things, the rôle of a title and programme notes, emphasising their importance and value for the artist. This was something of a reaction to seeing composers presenting works with absolutely nothing to say (a fact they seemed to celebrate), which i found deeply irritating. Perhaps i thought that encouraging composers to use these “facets” would cause them, de facto, to have something to say in their work. But i saw the relationship between artist and audience very differently back then, in terms—dare i admit it—of telling the audience what they should be listening to/for in my work. i now wonder whether facets like a title and notes do the work—and the audience—a disservice. Read more

Why don’t you just switch off your CD player and listen to something less boring instead? : Onetwo – Instead

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There’s something inherently exciting about the collaboration, particularly when each protagonist has a well-known and established career. The idea of two individually interesting artists producing something new and unexpected together is more than enough to whet the appetite. i’ve been spending time with a comparitively recent example, teaming two names that are somewhat significant from my musical past. Player 1: Claudia Brücken, singer from 80s group Propaganda, whose slightly plummy voice could cut through all the surreal and industrial sounds the other band members could throw at her. Player 2: Paul Humphreys, non-singer from 80s group Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, whose slightly corny melodies became roaringly popular as synthesisers took over mainstream pop. ’Tis an intriguing idea, two such luminaries teaming up, no? So the mind goes into overdrive, predicting what the emergent sound could be like: probably pop songs (OMD), but maybe with a twist in terms of structure (Propaganda); could be either soft and mellow (OMD) or hard and penetrating (Propaganda). Together they call themselves Onetwo, and i was sufficiently intrigued to spend time with their first album, Instead. Now, while i stick to what i said last time, about expectations being best when minimised, it’s difficult when you’re confronting two musicians whose music has meant something to you in the past. Admittedly, i was more of a Human League fan than OMD (possibly they sounded more ‘real’ and gritty, when OMD were all fun and larks—hmm, rather like what i said about The Cure a few days ago; probably it’s the Sheffield connection, which produced some remarkable acts in the late 70s/early 80s), but Propaganda i really, really liked. So hurl your abuse, i had expectations, and reasonably high ones, if i’m honest. Read more

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Style and Idea: What’s In A Name?

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A few days ago, i listened to an album described by its label as “ritual ambient”, which i found an intriguing idea for a genre; yesterday, i spent time with another release on the same label, listed as “ceramic IDM”. i’m not sure i can even begin to unpack quite what that description is driving at (can “ceramic” be an adjective in this context?), but it got me reflecting on the nature of musical genres and subgenres, and more besides. i believe the present practice has its origin in four deeply significant developments from the 20th century.

The first is the deeper and more authentic understanding of music from past generations. It’s interesting to reflect that, until the early 20th century, even a composer as significant as Mozart was rarely performed. The increase of scholarship—no doubt aided by the development of easy international travel—brought a huge wave of understanding of earlier musics, and a corollary of that was the classification of discoveries. Prior to this, the musical period from Bach to Beethoven was referred to by the simple term, “classical music”, invented around the 1820s. Now, music of this period was re-classified under the well-known “Baroque” and “Classical” headings, and the century just past was judged to have been a “Romantic” period, all of these in part borrowing from architectural and literary terms. This is the origin of music’s division into genres.

The second, to some extent contemporaneous with the first, is the point of crisis in the development of classical music. When tonality fell apart, composers became similarly fragmented, going in all sorts of directions in the quest for new ways to shape and structure their music. The earliest experiments were given the lame description, “Free Atonal”, before giving way to Schoenberg’s curious invention, “Serialism” (not that he tended to call it that), which, in its extreme form became “Integral Serialism”. But since not everyone wanted their music to be like this, composers seeking to continue strands from Romantic music were branded “Post-Tonal” or “Neo-Romantic”; others, looking to earlier models were “Neo-Classical”. Suddenly, it seemed, there were numerous styles, when hitherto there had been a single, broadly recognisable style that had had considerable momentum. This is the origin of the proliferation of musical styles. Read more

Into the “other”: Pan Sonic – Kesto (234.48:4)

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i’m a sucker for series and cycles, from collections of compositions into a larger whole (such as Richard Barrett‘s Opening of the Mouth and Charles Tournemire‘s L’Orgue Mystique) to multiple-CD albums and box sets. i love them; perhaps it’s something to do with the sheer effort required to engage with something on so large a scale. Plus, of course, there’s the pleasure of allowing yourself to be taken on a journey in the hands of one who’s seeking to present something new and unfamiliar and exciting and strange. A fair bit of music’s like that, of course, and you could even argue a single song or small-scale composition is a “journey” of sorts; but expand that to a cycle of pieces that lasts an hour, or three, or more, and you’re into something epic, an odyssey.

My first this year is Pan Sonic‘s Kesto (234.48:4), the parentheses testifying to the duration of the album in minutes. i started a week ago, and finished yesterday evening; no journey of this scope can be tackled in a single stage, and i wanted to give each disc its own space to speak. The first two CDs represent the Pan Sonic that i recognise: raw, abrasive, oscillating glitch beats shot through with sheets of noise and the occasional glimpse of an ambient cloud—Autechre meets Merzbow while Eno looks on (or something like that). While similar in content, there’s a perceptible shift on CD2 away from the dirty IDM to something more pensive and abstract, the sounds still evolving but without such a strong sense of cycle and repetition. By the third disc, little remains of the synthetic drum sounds, presenting instead slabs of etherea that shift and confuse (one of the track titles translates as “Inexplicable”), appearing to pose questions rather than postulate solutions. Nonetheless, there’s a palpable air of assurance in the music; these are confident questions. All of which leads to the final, confounding, uplifting, disorienting, compelling disc, where a continual onslaught of sliding layers of sound—broad strokes with flashes of filigree—bathes, no floods the ears and engulfs the mind. i have no idea what thoughts, if any, passed during this overload. Not that the experience is a harsh one—far from it; the music came down on me like a ton of cushions; like zooming in on a Hafler Trio drone, mellifluous, sublime, entrancing, and never ever dull. But powerfully present; indeed, my ears were ringing for a long time after the single 61-minute track had expired.

Four CDs of sounds that sit somewhere in a no man’s land betwixt IDM, japanoise and something ineffable, jarring the eardrums, mangling the brain, shivering the soul. It’s tempting to suggest that this album had such a profound effect based on the strength of (especially) the last 2 CDs, and while it’s true to say i found those the most engaging (disc 4 is simply superb), i find it hard to separate any of them from the 4-disc journey which together they comprise. After all, the summit of a mountain only means something relative to the base and all that lies between. The nature of this journey is not something i have yet understood, but there’s a connotation of moving away from one “thing”—be it familiar or organised or layered, or whatever—toward something “other”, something subtle and beautiful and bright and dense and deep and everywhere. i have no idea where it’ll take me next time; and i can’t wait.

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Beautiful angst: The Cure

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Back when life was all of a teenage, when the concept of “family” still held some substance for me, i was taken to spend a few days in the company of my “cousins” in London. There wasn’t much to do there, and i recall one particular day when i and “cousin-minor” were mooching in his room, reading, chatting, random stuff (mum, “aunt” and “cousin-major” were out, probably). All day, over and over, he played a single album, the music of which, at first, really chafed my ears (songs about arabs?). But as the hours trudged, i found myself listening more and more to the songs, looking forward to some, continuing to be irritated by others (enough with the arabs!), and i found myself really drawn to what this music—now fluffy and boistrous, now dark and brooding, filled with melancholy—could be.

The clues are there for sharp-witted readers: and i was to learn that this was The Cure, whose music i had hitherto only ever heard occasionally on the radio or in tapes swapped with friends. The album was Staring at the Sea, the compilation of all their earliest singles (and it was “Killing An Arab” that kept bugging me). It would be pushing it to say that this experience began a love affair with The Cure’s music; with virtually every other band (like every girl i’ve fallen for), this is what would have ensued (hmm, now there’s something to explore: how my relationships with different musics are similar to my relationships with the women i’ve loved). But it didn’t happen, and i still don’t know why; all i can think of is that i found something off-putting in the way their songs are so dichotomous, either incredibly up-beat and delirious, all popcorn and laughter (irritating) or deliciously dark and mellow, all velvet and bedrooms (wonderful). Perhaps i felt this to be too much at odds with how i felt within myself (hmm, now there’s something to explore: how my relationships with different musics relate to how i see myself), although it is actually rather like how i was in those ghastly 80s. More likely, i felt the darkest songs were so powerful, so true to what i thought and felt and knew, that i couldn’t stand to hear them do anything that seemed to go against that. Strangely, i have only ever acquired a single album by The Cure, Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me, and my ambivalence remains. For me, it is stopped from being one of the finest albums of all time by the (dareisayit) “happy” songs that crop up at intervals; aside from those, it contains some of the most mesmerisingly beautiful songs i’ve ever heard, and which continue to move me as much as ever; “If Only Tonight We Could Sleep” is perhaps the most gorgeous song ever, while in “One More Time”, Robert Smith’s heart-breaking singing still brings tears to my eyes.

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