Category Archives: The Sound Projector

SQE: The Abyss Stares Back

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SQE, who in real life goes by the name of J Greco, has produced an album of longish, folky variations on an ambient theme. Amber Asylum’s Kris Force contributes guest vocals on “Jorinda X” and “The Wondrous Boat Ride,” emoting like a dark angel around Greco’s dreamlike soundscapes. Light touches of dulcimer and tubular bells add to the crepuscular atmosphere, evoking the more liturgical moments of Dead Can Dance.

Clocking in at around six minutes each, both songs derive considerable power from their unhurried stillness and quiet, gradual accumulation of detail. Greco draws out similarly extended moods in the instrumental tracks “Epitaph 1” and “Diamond,” but these are largely shorn of the ritualistic elements that make the songs so bewitching. As a result, they lack focus and direction. Things pick up somewhat on “Epitaph 2,” whose clammy drones are disrupted by slashing electric guitar.

Given Greco’s careful attention to detail on these pieces, it’s both surprising and unfortunate that he also chooses to include a song like “Cat” on the album. Here Danielle Hlatky’s breathy alto delivers a clunky lyric including such gems as “your heart regulates the flow of oxygen to the brain,” while the melody is sullied by a lumpen tuba accompaniment. The following “1974,” however, is excellent – propelled by bubbling organ and a racy synth groove, it brings a vertiginous, dubby edge to proceedings. In sum, the disc thankfully doesn’t attempt to live up to the grandiose promise of its title, and is an alluring if uneven collection of nocturnal moments.

(Originally published in The Sound Projector 13, 2005)

Various Artists: A Classic Guide to No Man’s Land

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This 2CD compilation presents an overview of the music of two linked German labels, No Man’s Land and Review Records. Formed in the early 80s by Juergen Koeniger and Edith Walz, and operated since 1997 by Gerhard Busse, the labels have amassed a large body of work across a number of genres from free improv to dark ambient, noisy rock and experimental songcraft. The compilation is sensibly organised by genre, with the first disc concentrating on instrumental music and the second on songs. It’s generously compiled, too – every track is previously unreleased.

The pieces on disc one are predominantly American and German in origin. David Weinstein opens the batting with ‘The Economist,’ a rather approximate mix of clunky effects, mid-tempo beats and bloopy analogue synths. Weinstein writes in the sleevenotes that the piece was made “using a variety of computers, keyboards, software and hardware both old and broken and new and confusing,” and frankly the confusion shows. Things soon pick up, however, with the rich classical sonorities of Guy Klucevsek’s ‘Glow/Hearth’ and the distressed atmospherics of Dawn’s ‘Shining.’ Inspired by Kubrick’s film of the same name, the latter is the undoubted highlight of disc one – a bewitching fusion of sinister crackles, resonant bell chimes and faint traces of a female voice.

Elsewhere, there are two vaguely ‘world’ influenced pieces featuring Werner Durand, who makes his own wind instruments out of PVC. The essential pointlessness of this activity is underscored by the pieces themselves, which meander pleasantly enough through thickets of digital delay without ever truly holding the attention. More engaging by far are two tracks by clarinettist Michael Lytle – the first an ear-splitting blast of improv, the second a loose and searching arc of freeform blowing.

Disc two is more diverse geographically, although equally variable in quality. Estonian rocker Leonid Soybelman is represented twice, once under his own name and once under that of his band Ne Zhdali. His songs recall the driven, angular moves of Wire with an irrepressible sense of fun attached. They enable one to overlook the mediocre, guitar-based funk workout by Ich Schwitze Nie that opens the disc, and the ludicrous cod-cabaret outpourings of Chris Newman that close it.

Between these dubious bookends sit a number of intriguing moments, notably Non Credo’s chilling ‘Latex Heart,’ in which singer Kira Vollman delivers a passionate invocation of obsessive desire against a backdrop of churning bass and drums. From a completely different but no less interesting angle, former Ruins member and multi-instrumentalist Tatsuya Yoshida sings (in an invented language) and also essays a range of prog rock manoeuvres from chiming electric guitar and intricate percussion to galloping keyboards that happily (for this listener, at least) recall the glories of early 70s Genesis. Other highlights include Francois Ribac and Eva Schwabe’s lovely piano ballad, ‘Die Dolomiten,’ Peter Cusack and Viv Corringham’s seductive arrangement of a traditional Greek folk song, and Frank Schulte’s inventive electronic setting of Anna Homler’s precise vocalisations.

No compilation can hope to please everyone, but this one has an impressively high strike rate and gives a good sense of the range of approaches adopted by the artists in the No Man’s Land stable. An excellent booklet with detailed and comprehensive notes on each artist rounds out the package.

(Originally published in The Sound Projector 13, 2005)

Margareth Kammerer: To Be an Animal of Real Flesh

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On this, her first solo album, Margareth Kammerer has surrounded herself with a distinguished cast of collaborators and remixers, as well as proving herself to be a talented singer and guitarist in her own right. Kammerer takes as her source material work from a number of modernist poets, including E.E. Cummings, Anne Carson and Paul Celan. These texts share an emotional and lyrical honesty that Kammerer unerringly exploits in her singing and playing. Five of the fourteen tracks here are solo acoustic recordings, on which Kammerer’s fluid and confident guitar work is matched by the arresting qualities of her voice, a bewitching instrument drenched in sustain and vibrato.

The fun really begins when Kammerer invites others to rework and add to the acoustic songs. Of the collaborations, Axel Dorner delights with the jazzy, querulous tone of his trumpet on “I Carry Your Heart With Me,” delivering a soft, breathy lyricism that is wholly in keeping with the romantic bravery of Cummings’ poem. Elsewhere, Yoshida Tatsuya (of Ruins) drums with powerful, effective restraint on “Willow C’Est Que J’Aime,” while the Necks’ Chris Abrahams adds spare, ghostly piano to “As Your Nightly Dreams.”

As one might expect, the remixes are a mixed bag sonically. Highlights include Nicholas Bussmann’s creatively noisy take on “Open His Head Baby,” which is nudged along by a barrage of whooshes, hums and whizzes on a bed of spidery percussion. Philip Jeck impresses, too, with a fleeting vignette of shimmer and distortion that does full justice to the imagistic density of Celan’s “The Bright Stones.” Olivier Lamm, meanwhile, wickedly transforms Yusef Komunyakaa’s somewhat rambling poem “Facing It” into a whirl of electronic playfulness and delirious free drumming.

Surprisingly, it is Fred Frith who most disappoints with his remix of “Somewhere I Have Never Travelled.” His tasteful washes of electric guitar are pleasant enough, but the accompanying drum machine patterns sound tacked-on and misplaced. Christof Kurzmann, too, seems to lose sight of the original with his insistent deconstruction of Kammerer’s voice on his version of “I Carry Your Heart With Me.” Otherwise the collaborators and remixes do a fine job, giving alternate readings of the source poems and providing stimulating contrasts to Kammerer’s unadorned solo approach.

(originally published in The Sound Projector 13, 2005)

Jon Rose: The People’s Music

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The People’s Music springs from an outrageous flight of fancy. English-born, Australia-based violinist Rose kept coming across cheap, Chinese-made violins in Sydney junk shops, and imagined the factories full of workers where they must have been produced. Rose was attracted to these models by their unusually shrill timbre. Similar to that of the traditional Chinese two-string violin, the erhu, it was far removed from the deeper, more resonant sound of violins in the west.

Rose uses the image of the violin factory workers as the basis for this delirious fantasia for string orchestra. It’s unclear from the sleevenotes, however, whether any of his cheap Chinese violins were actually used in the recording of the piece, or in its live premiere. This sounds to have been an awesome event; staged in a remote outback town in Western Australia, it featured Rose performing live sampling of the orchestra alongside back-projected images of modern China and the factory workers.

In thirteen mostly short, hyperactive blasts of kinetic energy, Rose and his People’s String Orchestra (conducted by Lindsay Vickery) set off on a whirlwind tour of the violn factory. Each track contains the word ‘people’ in its title. Together they form a day in the life of the factory and its workers, from “Start the People” and “Wake Up People” through to “Busy People” and “The People’s End.” The relative calm and quiet of the opening piece are rudely shattered by a stentorian female voice, accompanied by Rose on twisting solo violin. “Working People” settles down into a simple, quotidian melody, but this is soon interrupted by the convulsive pummelling of a three-piece percussion ensemble. These vocal and percussive interjections recur at several points during the album. Their effect is to problematise the music: to disrupt the well-turned progress of the string orchestra, and to highlight the material conditions that led to its production.

This may make the album sound like some kind of dreary communist tract; nothing could be further from the truth, since Rose takes evident delight in the sonorities of the classical orchestra. Whether these take the form of the gorgeous swoon of “Big People” or the dissonant chromaticism of “Odd People,” the strings are vibrant and exciting throughout. Despite the piece’s history as part of a multimedia work, the listener never feels short-changed; the music is strong enough to exist as a composition in its own right.

(Originally published in The Sound Projector 13, 2005)

The Hafler Trio: A House Waiting for its Master

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Andrew McKenzie is on a roll. Suffering from a life-threatening combination of illnesses, and prevented by Kafkaesque bureaucracy from being treated for them, he has thrown himself headlong into his work. His first album as the Hafler Trio in some years, Whistling About Chickens, has been followed by a slew of limited edition CD and vinyl releases on a bewildering variety of labels. In a crisis such as this you find out who your friends are, and McKenzie’s renewed burst of activity has been aided not only by the labels that have released this material, but by the artists such as Autechre, Michael Gira and Bruce Gilbert who have collaborated with him on many of them. Eccentric but fascinating live events in London and Preston have also contributed to McKenzie’s heightened public profile.

A House Waiting For Its Master is a 10” EP comprising three beautiful, drone-based pieces. Occupying the whole of side one, “Everything That Stops You Becomes Your Idol” is the densest of the three – a shape-shifting zone of phased frequencies that pulsate with an uncanny energy. On side two, “Nobody Had Come In, But Someone Had Arrived” hoevers with unearthly grace, its shimmering drone sounding like a reverberant cathedral organ.

McKenzie twists the knife, however, on the final track, “The Tragedy of the Loss of Inaccessibility.” Here a harsher, more discordant drone increases dangerously in volume, paralleled by an infernal rhythm. These suddenly cut out and, as the listener breaks out in a cold sweat, a malfunctioning machine crackles and spits. A moment of quiet is broken by an uneasy frequency and a final, sinister drone.

The record is pressed on thick, translucent vinyl, and comes with a four-page leaflet containing McKenzie’s usual cryptic texts. The news that he has now resolved his residency issues, and is finally able to receive treatment for his illnesses, is incalculably welcome.

(Originally published in The Sound Projector 13, 2005)

The Hafler Trio: Whistling About Chickens

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I’m asking for trouble by reviewing this. The title may come from the observation that “writing about music is like whistling about chickens” (although it’s never clear who first said this, and I always thought it was “dancing about architecture” anyway). And this music is particularly difficult to write about. It’s deliberately, wilfully obscure; it appears to follow some kind of system or code, the key to which is kept tantalisingly out of reach. And, while frequently striking and beautiful, it’s for the most part extremely minimal, requiring great effort and concentration on the part of the listener.

First, some facts. The Hafler Trio are not a trio; they have had other members, but this is essentially the project of one man, Andrew McKenzie. McKenzie has been active in the fields of music and sound art for twenty years, collaborating along the way with many luminaries of the underground. His own body of work as the Hafler Trio has been characterised by a serious, scientific mode of enquiry into the nature and application of acoustic phenomena. Often accompanied by extensive written documentation, and housed in unusual and attractive packaging, the Hafler Trio’s releases have always been about more than just the music.

Whistling About Chickens is the first Hafler Trio release for some years, and consists of recordings made between 1995 and 2001. McKenzie’s public silence during this time is due to a number of factors, most notably – and sadly – his ongoing battle with hepatitis, and associated struggles with medical treatment and residency status in his adopted country of Iceland (for details, see http://www.brainwashed.com/h3o). It’s a double CD packaged in an outsize wallet, with a text-heavy 24-page booklet.

Disc one, ‘The whole hog, including the postage’, consists of eleven tracks which vary in length from two to twenty minutes. The prevailing mood is one of stark electronic minimalism, with occasional rhythmic interventions. Several of the pieces begin almost imperceptibly, before introducing activity into the soundfield; but this activity is hardly ever intrusive or aggressive. Instead, phased drone patterns slip and fold into networks of hazy frequencies and layered, undulant feedback. ‘One Other Vantage Point’ introduces a stepping metallic figure and ends with the jolt of a processed female voice, while ‘Restriction of Movement’ flits by on a seductive rhythmic pulse and liquid textures reminiscent of classic 70s Tangerine Dream. Best of all is the lengthy – and, relatively speaking, appropriately titled – ‘Marvellous Vitality’. A skeletal, attenuated rhythm occupies the last ten minutes of this twenty-minute piece, coiling elegantly around alien sounds and frequencies.

Things get heavier only on ‘Illegal Admiration and Contemplation’, with its scorching burst of feedback. Frustratingly, however, this gets cut off after only two minutes, when a more sustained period of dissonance would have been welcome. It’s a rare lapse of judgement in an otherwise utterly convincing disc.

The second disc, which rejoices in the title ‘Arguing with pigs about the quality of oranges’, is even more minimal than the first. Supposedly divided into three tracks, there is only one index point, and it’s impossible to tell where one track ends and the next begins. The drones and frequencies hover uneasily around bell chimes and long periods of silence.

What the music doesn’t quite convey is the sense of playful mischief brought to the enterprise by the packaging and documentation. McKenzie teases us with hints that there is an overall theme or concept to the album, from the references to animals and birds in the titles to the opaque texts printed in the booklet. But the Hafler Trio don’t give up their secrets easily, and the sense of mystery endures.

(Originally published in The Sound Projector 12, 2004)

Spring Heel Jack: Amassed, Live

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On these two excellent discs, a live and a studio set, Spring Heel Jack demonstrate how far they have come from their origins as a drum and bass outfit to the mind-melting landscapes of free improvisation. The duo of John Coxon and Ashley Wales have assembled two veritable supergroups of Improv talent, based around the core presence of Evan Parker (saxophone), Matthew Shipp (electric piano) and Han Bennink (drums). More surprising, perhaps, is the presence of Spiritualized’s J Spaceman (aka Jason Pierce) on guitar. Yet, like SHJ’s own odyssey, Pierce’s presence illustrates the ever-increasing cross-fertilisation between musical categories – and his own work with Spiritualized has frequently revelled in a love of free-form atonality.

Amassed is a follow-up to 2001’s Masses, SHJ’s first large-scale foray into improv. Whereas the earlier album was largely a collaboration with American free jazz musicians, here the emphasis shifts to the European sphere. Highlights of the eight shortish tracks include ‘Wormwood’, wherein Coxon’s loose guitar and Wales’ sublime percussive touches lead to some lovely, jazzy interplay between Shipp and Parker. Characteristically, the piece becomes ever more frenetic as Bennink attacks his drumkit and the guitar and sax take flight. Parker is lyrical and tender on the opening ‘Double Cross’, his fluttering runs anchored by Bennink and by John Edwards’ double bass.

The set is beautifully balanced between full-on group improvisation and more barbed solo and duo explorations. ‘Maroc’ is an incredible battle between Parker and Spaceman, with Pierce sending out splintering shards of guitar and feedback while Parker lets rip with a stunning circular breathing solo. Equally intense is the appropriately titled ‘Duel’, an epic confrontation between Parker and Bennink.

Elsewhere, Kenny Wheeler delivers some achingly beautiful flugelhorn on ‘Lit’, although this piece is marred by the album’s only wrong note, as Wales bafflingly tears and crumples paper. All is forgiven by the time of the closing ‘Obscured’, however, which sees a mesmeric rhythmic pulse coil ominously around Shipp’s tumbling piano, as the rest of the ensemble work up a collective firestorm around him.

The live set was recorded in Brighton, at a show I was lucky enough to have attended (and don’t you just love it when live albums appear of concerts you were at?). Like the studio disc, it teems with instrumental virtuosity and wild ensemble playing. The line-up combines the American feel of Masses with the European sensibility of Amassed, with William Parker replacing Edwards on bass; but there is no respite from the thrilling intensity with which the group invests every phrase and passage. Over the course of two long improvisations, SHJ and their fine collaborators modulate from smoky lyricism to swinging bop and exhilarating, oceanic energy.

(Originally published in The Sound Projector 12, 2004)

Bethany Curve: You Brought Us Here

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The highlighted letters in the track listing pick out the words ‘LOVE MISSED’. The album’s title, meanwhile, carries hints of hurt and recrimination. Thus Bethany Curve set out the emotional agenda that is explored at length on this fourth album from the California three-piece. Bethany Curve walk down paths already well trodden by the likes of Slowdive, My Bloody Valentine and Flying Saucer Attack: dreamy, languid vocals drifting over great swathes of feedback-drenched guitar and reverb-heavy percussion. Yet while it would be tempting to label You Brought Us Here as a lame work of copyism, something prevents me from doing so. The album transcends its lineage by virtue of its determination to conjure and sustain a mood of extreme, willed melancholy. There is little in the way of textural variation over the course of the album’s nine tracks and 55 minutes. On only one track, the pastoral ‘Summer Left Me’, does a gently strummed acoustic guitar break through the lowering clouds of electricity, coming as an intense relief before it characteristically makes way for waves of short, abstract drones. In short, as an evocation of lost or thwarted love, this is a remarkable collection. Bethany Curve are without bitterness or rancour; instead the music communicates, through its funereal pace, washed-out vocals and woozy instrumentation, intense regret and wintry resignation.

(Originally published in The Sound Projector 10, 2002)

Bernhard Gal: Hinaus:: In den, Wald.

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Bernhard Gal’s fourth album is a journey inside the mind of a disturbed, solipsistic individual. Adolf Woelfli (1864-1930) was a Swiss who spent a deprived childhood as a farmhand. He was imprisoned for sexual attacks on young girls before being transferred to the mental hospital where he spent the last 35 years of his life. While there he created a 25,000-page opus of detailed texts and illustrations. It is Woelfli’s status as an outsider artist that forms the basis for Gal’s enquiry into his life and work.

The disc consists of recordings of Woelfli’s texts, which he wrote in German and in an invented language, recited by Gal and by a young Taiwanese girl. (Some of the texts are reproduced in the CD booklet.) Interspersed with these are field recordings of a man making his way through a forest. The sleevenotes say that the latter are intended to express Woelfli’s ‘permanent creative urge’. The overall effect is disturbing, for several reasons. The girl has an uninflected, naturally pure voice, while Gal’s own often whispered voice ranges in timbre from the idle to the threatening. Together, the voices uneasily register the presence of victim and assailant. The forest sounds, whatever the intention, strongly evoke Woelfli’s estranged status.

Gal is primarily a sound artist, and Hinaus:: In den, Wald was originally the soundtrack of an installation – a dark, immersive sonic environment. It is easy to imagine how disorientating these recordings must have been in this context, and the sleevenotes recommend listening on headphones in darkness to approximate the effect. Without the full spatial awareness given by the installation, listening to the CD is a necessarily incomplete, yet still powerful experience.

(Originally published in The Sound Projector 13, 2005)

Bernhard Gal: Defragmentation/Blue

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Defragmentation/Blue is a conceptual piece by a German sound artist who goes under the ridiculous lower-case name of ‘gal’. It was originally designed to accompany a light installation by the Japanese architect Yumi Kori. In the useful sleevenotes, Kori explains how the piece evolved in response to her spending five weeks in a hospital watching a close relative dying. The modern hospital is a place of artifice and routine, where natural rhythms are substituted by new temporal experiences like the serving of meals and daily medical check-ups. Kori was severely disorientated by the experience: ‘after some weeks it turned out to be impossible to tell how much time had passed and even whether time had passed at all’. The installation, together with Gal’s music, was designed to replicate this phenomenon of ‘defragmented time’.

The booklet has a couple of photographs of the installation, which was held in New York in 1999 – a crepuscular affair of the kind most often associated with the American artist James Turrell. I’m a big fan of Turrell’s work, and this looks to have been an excellent piece in similar vein: fine shards of light faintly illuminating a carpeted chamber suffused in the deepest blue.

Although designed for the express purpose of soundtracking the installation, Gal’s music nevertheless retains its impact when listened to as a piece of work in its own right. It’s indexed into five tracks, but is really one continuous piece: a very long and slow unfolding of liquid frequencies and low rumbles. Soft, intermittent bleeps evoke the deathly pulse of the life support machine, while occasional intakes of breath conjure a distinctly Beckettian mood.

Confronted by such a stark piece of conceptualisation, there really is nothing for the listener to do but surrender to its embrace. Listening to this music, time ceases to function as a linear sequence of events and is reconfigured as an endless, painful present, always on the brink of slipping into nothingness but never quite relinquishing its grip.

(Originally published in The Sound Projector 9, 2001)