Peter Hammill: Typical

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Peter Hammill has regularly complemented his prodigious studio output with a series of finely recorded live albums. His existence as a performer is in a constant state of flux; although generally working with a regular pool of trusted musicians, he frequently changes the configuration of his band in order to avoid slipping into familiarity and routine.

When speaking about his live work, Hammill emphasises the uniqueness of each performance. Whereas the Prog rock bands, with whom Hammill’s former unit, Van der Graaf Generator, were usually and inaccurately bracketed, were concerned with putting on the same show every night, VdGG’s concerts contained major elements of randomness and fragmentation. The results, as might be expected, ranged from the inspired to the chaotic.

Hammill has carried and extended this aesthetic of uniqueness into his work of the 1980s and 1990s, and it is this that makes his live performances such fiercely attractive propositions. This immaculately recorded 2CD set fills an obvious gap in the discography, being the first official record of Hammill’s most angular and discordant take on the live – alone with keyboard or guitar. In such a setting, these songs – most of which were originally recorded with full band treatments – take on the haunted, skeletal form of Giacometti sculptures. Hammill’s sonorous voice swoops manically above his tense, knotted playing, which occasionally lurches to a halt and modulates into something much more soothing and pastoral.

Hammill’s piano playing is often accused of being clumsy. Certainly there is nothing very considered to it, and the number of wrong notes is extraordinary given the frequency with which the songs have been played. But the lack of finesse is a function of the performances themselves. These songs are the vehicles of their own impulses, and both Hammill’s voice and his playing are apt to strain and crack as the emotions that he is struggling to express hit him faster than he is able to articulate them.

Few performers can approach the eloquence of Hammill’s lyrics, or the ferocious beauty of his full-throated vocal attack. This valuable release, complete with lengthy sleeve notes by the man himself, merits your full attention.

(Originally published in The Sound Projector 6, 1999)

Current 93: An Introduction to Suffering, Calling for Vanished Faces

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Two more additions to the ever-expanding Durtro catalogue. The untitled C93/Cashmore/Heemann CD is a compilation of out-takes and alternate versions from the last two C93 studio albums, previously unreleased demos, and solo pieces from Tibet’s regular collaborators. The alternate versions make compelling listening; highlights include a sung vocal take of ‘All The Pretty Little Horses’ and the sepulchral ‘Judas As Black Moth’, a long meditative drift from the Soft Black Stars sessions that is the equal of anything on that twilit masterpiece. What makes the disc essential, though, are Christoph Heemann’s two contributions, wherein silvery drones ripple menacingly around everyday sounds to startling effect.

Calling For Vanished Faces is an exhaustive 2CD compilation tracing C93’s development from Dogs Blood Rising to Soft Black Stars. As such it represents a useful update of the 1993 Emblems collection, with only three pieces being duplicated from the earlier set.

The diversity of musical styles on the first disc is startling, from nightmarish looped onslaughts to demented rhythmic freakouts, but they are unified by the tragic quality of Tibet’s voice and the hallucinatory imagism of his lyrics. The disc ends memorably, with three songs from 1992’s epochal Thunder Perfect Mind album and Nick Cave’s sublime reading of ‘All The Pretty Little Horses’ showing how Michael Cashmore’s mournful guitar sound has served to focus and intensify Tibet’s obsessions.

The second disc, for all its emphasis on the fragility and resignation in C93’s recent work, also demonstrates something that is often overlooked, namely that Tibet is the possessor of a great, warped pop/rock sensibility. ‘Lucifer Over London’ is driven unstoppably by a grinding guitar riff; ‘The Dead Side Of The Moon’ has Tibet stepping nimbly through a minefield of bass, drums and the full panoply of Stapleton weirdness; while the epic ‘The Seven Seals…’ attains pure grace and fluency through its endless, achingly sad guitar and glockenspiel figure.

The collection as a whole is further proof, if any were needed, of Tibet’s unfailing ability to disconcert and overwhelm the listener through the precise evocation of atmospheres of fear, despair and terror. Newcomers, start here.

(Originally published in The Sound Projector 6, 1999)

Ether column, July-August 2007

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The live music scene in Vienna, like that of any major city, tends to quieten down during the summer months, as the city empties and the outdoor festival circuit takes over. Thankfully, however, there are still a few interesting events taking place in July and August. First up, and buried deep among the shockingly conservative line-up of the Vienna Jazz Festival, is a concert by the veteran American free jazz musician Archie Shepp. Shepp has a long and distinguished history as a saxophonist; he played in Cecil Taylor’s band in the late 50s, before joining John Coltrane’s group in time to appear on Coltrane’s seminal 1965 album Ascension. Stepping into the limelight under his own name in the late 60s, Shepp’s music began to embrace a passionate Afrocentricity on sides such as Fire Music and The Magic of Ju-Ju. At the same time, like many black American musicians of the period, he felt the pull of Europe, where free jazz was – and remains – far more appreciated than at home. He recorded no fewer than five albums for the important French label BYG Actuel, and has in fact made France his adopted home. Shepp’s frenetic avant-garde sax lines, coupled with the rhythms and ideologies of Africa, make his music an exciting proposition. Demonstrating a continued willingness to experiment, he will be accompanied in this performance by two rappers and electronic beats.

The other big summer highlight is the visit of veteran New York avant-garde songsmiths Sonic Youth, playing an open air concert in the relatively intimate surroundings of the courtyard at the Arena. Sonic Youth have seemingly been around forever, constantly varying and refining their avant-edged brand of alternative rock. Emerging in the early 80s from the New York post-punk and No Wave scene, the band have never entirely abandoned their roots in experiment and confrontation. The signature Sonic Youth sound is a maelstrom of squally, guitar-driven noise, tempered with a clever, hookwise pop sensibility. Having enjoyed a degree of commercial success since the release of their 1988 album Daydream Nation, they are now in the rare position of being major label artists who have retained wide critical respect and the freedom to experiment more or less as they please. Daydream Nation itself has now almost achieved ‘classic album’ status, with the result that the band have recently taken to playing it in its entirety at concerts. This development may surprise those who never expected Sonic Youth to yield to the current fad for complete album performances; but, given their rich history of making boundary-breaking rock music, you can hardly blame them for exercising their rights to a little nostalgia. Besides, it’s a dead cert that they will continue to confound their audience’s expectations for a good while yet.

Brendon Anderegg: Falling Air

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Brendon Anderegg’s third album is a diverse yet remarkably coherent collection of songs. Deploying a range of strategies from folky singer-songwriter moves to ambient driftworks and raggle-taggle band workouts, Anderegg avoids any charge of dilettantism through a careful accretion of sonic detail and a sure-footed way with a conversational lyric. The results are consistently fresh and appealing, and the album is sure to bolster Anderegg’s growing reputation in avant circles.

Atypical for this release, the appropriately titled first track “The Open” recalls Anderegg’s previous albums, Anomia and When Rectangles Roll Under Cities, with its busy, rattling drones. Shards of light pierce the gloom as the activity builds, and the piece develops through deft layering of sounds and effects. The album’s only other instrumental, “One More Year,” is a pleasantly loping arrangement for banjo and percussion.

Elsewhere, Anderegg recalls Brian Eno’s early song-based work on tracks like “Off To The Side” and “Street Lights.” Anderegg shares something of Eno’s undemonstrative vocal delivery, yet his voice is perfectly suited to the deceptively artless phraseology of the latter’s lyric: “Don’t go outside, maybe this time you won’t wake up/Don’t trace your next step, just count the street lights and death toll.” The warning note sounded here is couched in deliciously cool acoustic playing, with trumpet and glockenspiel darting around loose bass and drums. On “Off To The Side,” meanwhile, Anderegg’s clipped electric guitar runs mingle with propulsive drumming (courtesy of Jake Morris) and a delectable rhythmic swagger.

Anderegg and his band of accomplished musicians hold the listener’s attention throughout with short, perfectly concise musical statements. The formally elegant “Baby Bird” resembles a waltz, with the warm, soothing tones of the Fender Rhodes and the delicate moves of Jesse Peterson’s violin adding to the glowing atmosphere of the track. The folkish manoeuvres of “Rode, Riding To” and “What Were You Going For” differ dramatically from the intriguing, mysterious “The Holes” – the latter consisting of mumbled words, sparse percussion and haunting effects, and little else – yet the contrast makes perfect sense in the context of Anderegg’s mastery of these diverse forms. The excellent final track, “When They Were,” draws upon a heightening of recollected detail: “all the money that we spent buying things, alone in the ocean while the notes shake.” Its smoky sax and forlorn acoustic guitar provide a nostalgic, emotive end to a fine album.

(Originally published in The Sound Projector 14, 2005)

Edward Ka-Spel: Pieces of ∞

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Over the course of some 60 albums since their 1980 debut, Edward Ka-Spel’s Legendary Pink Dots have carved out a unique niche with their quirky blend of electronica and psychedelia. At the same time, Ka-Spel has released around 20 solo albums and numerous side projects. Pieces of ∞ is a 2004 addition to this vast body of work. It’s a very uneven collection, crying out for the kind of quality control that Ka-Spel, given his prodigious output, would appear reluctant to impose.

The album begins in undistinguished fashion with “The Writing On The Wall,” a laboured mid-tempo plod dominated by wheezing French-style accordion. The vaguely surrealistic lyrics are delivered in a mannered style that is not to my taste but is certainly distinctive. Partway through, the song lurches clumsily into a dramatic, piano-led interlude; unfortunately, it then returns to the dull accordion motif.

“Here Comes The Night” is immensely more satisfying – a dark ambient piece that magically evokes a drifting interstellar journey. Twinkling piano clusters sound like a music box floating endlessly through space, while electronic currents pulsate and a softly intoned chorale adds to the lambent beauty of the track. Here too, though, things go awry towards the end, as the piece morphs inexplicably into a tame electro footstomper.

Both “Comedown” and “Alms For Lepers” are routine, blustering synth workouts, the former redeemed by some splendidly disorientating Nurse With Wound-like effects. “Shanti” sees the return of the accordion, this time not without a certain goofy charm. Ka-Spel goes out on a definite high, however, with the mysteriously titled “8.2 8.3.” Here, bustling analogue textures recall the poppier moments of Throbbing Gristle, until the piece dissolves into a meditative dreamworld that evokes Tangerine Dream at their spaciest. One only wishes that Ka-Spel had reined in the tendency towards the novel and absurd that mars some of the album, and concentrated on the imposing electronica that provides it with its many wonderful moments.

(Originally published in The Sound Projector 14, 2005)

Marissa Nadler: Ballads of Living and Dying, The Saga of Mayflower May

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With these two albums Marissa Nadler establishes herself as a gifted, utterly distinctive folk talent. Both records are full of beautifully wrought ballads, delivered in a sumptuous mezzo-soprano voice and accompanied by sparkling, fluent acoustic guitar.

On her 2004 debut, Ballads of Living and Dying, Nadler delivers on the stark promise of the album’s title. Playing guitar in the richly resonant picking style of Bert Jansch and Martin Carthy, she sings as if from a haunted netherworld. With eight of the ten tracks being self-penned, Nadler draws on seemingly limitless reserves of darkly potent imagery to create ballads of vast depth and eloquence. It’s a measure of her lyrical skill that the closing “Annabelle Lee,” a setting of a poem by Edgar Allan Poe, seems entirely of a piece with her own texts. (“Hay Tantos Muertos,” a setting of a poem by Pablo Neruda, must remain a mystery to a non-Spanish speaker like myself.) Death, sex and lost or thwarted love are recurrent themes, from the tragic keening of “Box of Cedar” to the desolate eroticism of “Bird Song”:

You said my name so sweetly
That I took my clothes all off…
The birds are calling, and I do not believe for me.

Throughout these ten short, passionate ballads, Nadler instinctively knows when to foreground her voice and when to let the guitar speak for her. Bathed in unearthly reverb, her ethereal voice frequently gives way to ominous finger picking. Currents of strangeness wander among the songs in the form of floating electric guitar and accordion. On “Days of Rum,” meanwhile, Nadler trades guitar for banjo, sounding for all the world like a time traveller from Harry Smith’s Anthology as she intones the spectral tale of a girl who “was young and yearned to die.” Even when the guitar shifts to more relaxed major-chord strumming on “Mayflower May” and “Virginia,” the lyrics remain defiantly sepulchral: “The waves rush against my face as I start to drown…”

Nadler’s 2005 follow-up, The Saga of Mayflower May, makes occasional glancing lyrical references to her first album, reinforcing the sense that the singer inhabits a hermetic, spiritually enclosed realm. Housed in a gorgeous miniature gatefold sleeve, the album extends and deepens its predecessor’s concerns in eleven further outpourings of intense, supernatural balladry. This time the Hammond organ lends its radiant timbre to three tracks, including the delightful “Yellow Lights,” whose softly strummed backing provides the setting for a mandala of colours – blue water, green grass, red rubies.

The album feels like a visitation from a parallel earth where the mythical has become the everyday, populated by damsels, gypsies and river children. If that sounds unbearably twee, then listen to the way Nadler’s filigree guitar, directly descended from Leonard Cohen’s classic 70s work, swoops and glides around lines like “Photographs of your face against the rain/I’m gonna burn them all and bury your name” (“Damsels In The Dark”).

These are the kinds of records you find yourself returning to again and again, drawn by the dark pastoralism of Nadler’s texts and the dangerous yet irresistible pull of her guitar and voice. Recommended without reservation.

(Originally published in The Sound Projector 14, 2005)

Letter to The Wire, July 2007

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A pity that David Stubbs’ review of the Donaufestival (On Location, Wire 280) only covered the first half of the event, as some of the festival’s most essential moments took place over the second weekend. Most notably, there were two deeply emotive appearances by the renascent Throbbing Gristle. The first, a set of bruising, uncanny atmospheres in song, was unfortunately preceded by the distinctly underwhelming Alan Vega. Vega resembled a confused pensioner as he wandered around the stage, cantankerously bawling drivel in the audience’s direction.

The next night, the Boredoms gave a riveting percussion-driven performance, before Russell Haswell and Florian Hecker shook the walls with their juddering noise, hypnotically lit by a green laser beam. TG returned to perform their live soundtrack to Derek Jarman’s In the Shadow of the Sun, a slow and infinitely sad dream piece saturated with hypnotic imagery. TG’s soundtrack, featuring a dark and mournful choir, was a suitably plangent and sweeping accompaniment. Lastly, KTL‘s deep and pulverising drones rounded off the festival, sending us queasily into the Austrian night.

Ether column, May 2007

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Loads of great gigs this month, so straight down to business. First up is Norwegian saxophonist Jan Garbarek, who will no doubt transform the magnificent Großer Saal of the Konzerthaus with his vivid, airy playing. Garbarek is a man who sits comfortably between the worlds of jazz, ambient, classical and world musics. After a stint in Keith Jarrett’s band in the 70s, he made his name with a string of albums that came to exemplify the limpid, crystalline sound of the ECM label. Forswearing the improvisational theatrics of Ayler and Coltrane, Garbarek’s style draws on Scandinavian mythology and exudes a tender, sunny playfulness. At the time of writing this concert was almost sold out, so check before travelling.

Japanese psych-rock heads Ghost land in Vienna as part of an extensive European tour. Active since 1988, this free-form collective has a shifting line-up centred around singer and guitarist Masaki Batoh. Their music spans a range of influences including the transcendent pastoralism of Pink Floyd, the pyramidal drones of the Velvet Underground and the nagging rhythms of krautrock bands such as Can and Amon Düül II. New album In Stormy Nights is the first Ghost record to have been recorded using the same line-up as its predecessor, yet this new-found stability does not imply any kind of creative stagnation. On the contrary, with this record Batoh and his comrades have reached new heights of invention and inspiration.

More down-to-earth pleasures are provided by Richmond Fontaine, an American alt-country band with a wistful, literate approach to songcraft. Singer and songwriter Willy Vlautin has been much acclaimed for his lyrics, which present echoes of the great American short story writer Raymond Carver in their downbeat realism and unflinching attention to the warp and weft of everyday lives. Vlautin has recently published a novel, The Motel Life, extending his sympathetic observational writing to the printed page. Musically Richmond Fontaine are a deceptively humble proposition, with Vlautin’s understated vocals and Paul Brainard’s washes of pedal steel guitar illuminating these quietly resonant songs of love, hope and loss.

Finally, this month sees a rare home town concert by Viennese electronica legend Fennesz, appearing in an unlikely duo show with American singer Mike Patton. Along with artists like Peter Rehberg and Farmers Manual, Fennesz was in the late 90s and early 00s one of the key figures of the influential Mego label, a Vienna-based imprint that was dedicated to innovative electronic music. Less defiantly atonal than some of his former labelmates, Fennesz’s fusion of guitar and synthesiser is suffused with a bright and warm elegance. His 2001 album Endless Summer was a loving homage to the Beach Boys’ ecstatic summery textures, flawlessly reimagined for the modern age. What he’s doing collaborating with a journeyman like Patton is anyone’s guess, but the results should be interesting in any event. And that’s your lot – something for everyone this month, I hope.

Ether column, February 2007

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Porgy & Bess continues its phenomenal run of recent concerts into February with two shows by the great American composer and improviser Anthony Braxton. Braxton is a towering figure in contemporary American music, incorporating elements of free jazz, improvisation and composition into his rich and complex musical structures. Principally a saxophonist onstage – his 1968 album For Alto was the first ever album for solo saxophone – he is also skilled on the flute and clarinet. His great innovation has been to take the essential rhythmic and textural elements of jazz and to combine them with experimental compositional techniques such as graphic and non-specific notation, serialism and multimedia.

Braxton’s work is theoretical and often mystical in nature. His scores and record covers are littered with cryptic numbers and diagrams, betraying the influence of Cage and Stockhausen. And yet he takes pains to stand apart from these masters of modern composition, often claiming not to know himself what the numbers and diagrams mean. One senses that Braxton is grappling with a search for a higher truth that will remain forever out of reach. It is the search itself, rather than the truth, that drives him. He will be appearing in Vienna with his Sextet, a group of young Braxton acolytes dedicated to realising their mentor’s dense yet rewarding music.

And now, as a special favour to those who would like a change from all the challenging experimental sounds I’ve been recommending in this column lately, some great pop music. From Portland, Oregon, The Decemberists have released four albums of indie rock with a folky, literate edge and a strong narrative element. Taking their cue directly from British singer-songwriter Al Stewart, the Decemberists produce finely crafted ballads that combine lyrical musings on soldiers, sea captains and chimney sweeps with a chiming, propulsive musical energy. Singer and lyricist Colin Meloy is a charming and charismatic live performer, as happy encouraging the audience in a dance contest or singalong as he is wandering to the edge of the stage and playing to the front rows. After three albums on the confrontational Kill Rock Stars label, the band released their latest, The Crane Wife, on a major label (Capitol); happily, however, this shift has not signalled any watering down of the Decemberists’ craft. On the contrary, the record contains some of Meloy’s strongest writing to date, particularly the 13-minute epic “The Island,” which sees the band move towards a highly attractive fusion of folk and progressive musics. Confident without being overbearing, the Decemberists are just the ticket if you need to banish those winter blues.

Ether column, January 2007

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Many creative artists thrive on collaboration – the refusal, through seeking out a shifting cast of associates, to allow musical habits and attitudes to ossify. Porgy & Bess showcases no fewer than three such aggregations this month. British composer and musician Fred Frith sets the ball rolling, appearing with the Arte Quartet in a performance of his composition Still/Urban. Best known as a startlingly innovative improvising guitarist, Frith first came to prominence as a founder member of the experimental rock group Henry Cow. The Cow were active between 1968 and 1978, in that time producing several albums of complex, politically engaged music. Later, Frith moved to New York and became associated with a loose network of musicians centred around the saxophonist and composer John Zorn. In more recent years he has turned his hand to music for dance, film and theatre, in between holding down a day job as a professor of music in California. Still/Urban is an intriguing prospect, a piece for four saxophones and electric guitar.

Later in the month, Porgy’s has the privilege of playing host to Sunny Murray, a true original of free jazz. Now in his 70th year, Murray was one of the first percussionists to use the drums as a lead instrument rather than merely as a timekeeping device. After playing with Cecil Taylor’s group in 1962, Murray became part of the Albert Ayler trio, adding his barrage of irregular stickwork to seminal recordings like Spiritual Unity and New York Eye & Ear Control. For this Vienna appearance, Murray is joined by a large Austrian group consisting of reeds, trumpet, violin, piano, bass and saxophone – a lineup, propelled by Murray’s incendiary drumming, that should be loud enough to shake any remaining post-Christmas cobwebs away.

Bringing the spirit of the ad hoc musical grouping decisively into the 21st century, Japanese avantists Otomo Yoshihide and Sachiko M land in Vienna as part of the annual Jeunesse festival – an admirable initiative that focuses on attracting young people to live concerts, although all ages are welcome. The two collaborated initially in Ground Zero, a fearsomely heavy noise-rock aggregation, before playing formative roles in the development of onkyo – a movement that began in Japan in the late 1990s, privileging small and often quiet musical gestures and making liberal use of electronics and silence. Playing here with drummer Martin Brandlmayer (of Vienna post-rock trio Radian) and trumpeter Axel Dörner, Otomo coaxes all manner of sounds from his guitar and from a turntable with no records on it, while Sachiko M uses laptops and other devices to create music from sine waves. Of such strange gestures are radical and necessary unorthodoxies forged.