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)

Robert Fripp & Brian Eno: The Equatorial Stars

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Not-so-hot on the heels of their ’70s collaborations No Pussyfooting and Evening Star, these two titans of English art rock have reconvened to produce a third album of superior ambient fare. Of course, we have come to expect music of high quality from the originator of ambient music and the legendary guitarist with King Crimson. Yet what is pleasing about this disc is the way in which Brian Eno’s gossamer atmospherics and Robert Fripp’s understated virtuosity combine to form a perfectly balanced and coherent whole.

While his work with Crimson has tended to focus on fret-melting explorations of rock dynamics, Fripp in solo mode takes a gentler, more painterly approach. Beginning with the method he termed Frippertronics in the ’70s, and evolving into the soundscapes he performs today, Fripp coaxes liquid, weeping notes from his guitar and loops and wreathes them in a haze of delay and sustain. On the disc’s opening suite of “Meissa,” “Lyra,” and “Tarazed,” these gorgeous washes of sound reverberate over Eno’s twinkling sound fields and somber, cocooning drones. Taking its cue from the track titles (named after stars and constellations), this music perfectly evokes a sense of drifting endlessly through space.

Things pick up slightly on “Lupus,” wherein Fripp’s fuzz-heavy distortions are nudged along by a soft, glancing rhythm. On “Altair,” Fripp—incredibly—sounds almost funky, as his taut chord patterns skip and swing nimbly around an irresistible Eno groove. Between the two sits the imposing “Ankaa,” on which Fripp issues sublime, serpentine guitar lines while Eno’s unobtrusive atmospheres throb and pulsate all around. The disc closes with “Terebellum,” a return to the lambent textures of the opening suite and a soothing, tranquil conclusion. Proving that mastery of one’s instrument need not equate to flashy technical riffery, the disc is quietly yet continuously striking, the perfect soundtrack to an interstellar journey.

Windsor for the Derby: Giving Up the Ghost

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On their sixth album, the duo of Dan Matz and Jason McNeely inscribe a network of post-rock sensibilities. It’s the first time in the band’s 11-year career that its members have lived in the same city (Philadelphia), and the resultant recordings have a markedly more-organic, less-processed vibe than earlier releases.

The ten tracks mostly adhere to an attractive template of rippling instrumental textures, unforced percussion, and hazy vocals buried low in the mix. “Empathy for People Unknown” is a fine example of Windsor’s energetic, questing songcraft, its simple yet effective keyboard melody giving way to scything guitar work. Matz is not a gifted vocalist by any means, but his conversational, slightly strained delivery fits well with the tentative, exploratory feel of the song.

Both “Praise” and “Shadows” call up the ghost of Joy Division, the former with its juddering synth line and choppy percussion, the latter in its glacial sense of movement. Yet the production, here and elsewhere, has a scuffed, lo-fi quality that reinforces the sense of the provisional. Accumulating pace and urgency as it goes, “Giving Up” is electrified by slipping guitar, while the lovely, effortless “The Light Is On” skips along on a slinky bed of relaxed drumming and happy, undemonstrative riffing. Modest, unassuming, but quietly effective, Giving Up the Ghost more than makes up in elegant simplicity what it lacks in grand gestures.

Various Artists: Glass Cuts

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According to the sleevenotes of this remix (or, more accurately, covers) project, Philip Glass is known as the “Godfather of Trance.” Not only was this title news to me, but it also displays a fundamental lack of understanding of Glass and his music. For while trance may use repetition as a means towards ecstatic release, Glass’s repetitive patterning is based on a different set of premises entirely. You can’t dance to it, for one thing. And while it’s entirely possible to derive a visceral thrill from Glass’s hypnotic arpeggios, it’s also important to keep in mind that his historical roots lie in the academic minimalism of ’60s art galleries, a world away from the dance floor.

This project is unfortunately hamstrung by licensing difficulties which meant that none of Glass’s major works for theatre or orchestra could be included. As a result, the pieces chosen come from the more obscure corners of his output. There are three piano études, three soundtrack excerpts, and two different versions of the same concerto. Highlights include a fiery interpretation of “Dance from Akhnaten” from project curator Don Christensen (as impLOG), on which Glass’s melodic pulse lurks dangerously beneath clattering beats. Dietrich Schönemann also impresses with the delicate tracery and sensuous percussion of “Thin Blue Line.”

Elsewhere, Kate Simko builds the momentum nicely on “Houston Skyline” with repetitive violin and touches of flute, while Hector Cassillo and Eduardo Larez bring unexpected textures to “Saxophone Concerto” with chunky guitar and a looming synth melody. Most other contributors attempt to overlay elements of trance, techno, hip-hop, and down-tempo onto Glass’s rigorously formal structures, and unsurprisingly come unstuck as a result.

The Birds: Birds Birds Birds in the World

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A duo consisting of former Acid Mothers Temple vocalist Cotton Casino and Norwegian guitarist Per Gisle Galaen, the Birds’ first studio collaboration is a remarkably diverse yet coherent collection, lushly produced and beautifully performed.

Casino stamps her presence on all but two tracks with her astonishing vocal performance. Her wordless a capella singing on “Green To Me” provides a bewitching opening to the set, soon joined by distant, rumbling guitar. Gradually coalescing around Casino’s freeform vocals, Galaen’s effects are subtle and restrained. Things get a little shaky with “Fama Fama,” a throwaway and rather sickly ditty, but soon get back on track with “In the Name of the River,” in which Casino’s ethereal soprano floats in and out of Galaen’s imposing drones. Galaen also lays down beautifully clear, bell-like guitar throughout the track, adding to its sense of stilled wonderment.

This spell is abruptly broken by the mental mash-up of “Donkeys,” where Galaen ruptures Casino’s girly voice with shrill frequencies and blasts of angular guitar. After a brief vocal interlude, the lengthy “Human Play” is a rare lapse into formula with its feeble and needlessly extended soundscaping. The final track “Fireburner,” however, restores (dis)order with a delirious, frenzied assault from distorted guitar, jolting synth, and demented percussion. It’s a rousing finale to an album whose mind-scrambling psychedelic 3D artwork stands as an accurate representation of the delights contained within.

R: Under the Cables, Into the Wind

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On his first proper solo album, Fabrizio Modonese Polumbo of Larsen forgoes the towering guitar structures of that group’s last effort, Play. Instead, Polumbo essays a more searching, low-key approach, with somewhat mixed results. While full of persuasive moments, the album lacks the powerful dynamics that made Play so memorable.

The standout track is “Love Song,” presented in two versions bookending the set. As an opener, it’s a slow aggregation of bass and synth, along with an inspired use of bells and cymbals. Energized by frequent stereo panning, the piece throbs and pulses with a lovely, unforced elegance. Reprised at the end, it becomes a vortex of infernal activity, with the chiming bells and sinister drones coalescing into a very strange kind of love song.

The rest of the album never quite reaches the same heights. “Landscape #1” is a pleasant, carefully layered accretion of sonic detail, with luminous harmonium waveforms gradually joined by an unfussy synth melody. It’s followed by “Ghosts Are Made of DNA,” a lengthy and somewhat inert slice of drone-based abstraction that’s lightened by warped guitar and percussion effects towards the end. Rounding out the set are “Shiny Camels & Rising Anacondas,” on which a slipping guitar riff makes itself comfortable amid shiny metallic textures, and an ill-advised cover of Avril Lavigne’s “I’m With U” that reinterprets the song as a dark folk trip, adding its own layer of inconsequentiality through Polumbo’s drained vocals and limp guitar work.

Aranos: Bering Sea

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Aranos’ latest disc tells the story of Jiri Prihoda, a Czech who travelled to northern Siberia to undergo training as a shaman with the Inuit people. As part of his education, he supposedly spent up to three weeks submerged in icy water. The CD is a musical approximation of this chilly experience.

It’s a beautifully sculpted, hour-long piece, immersing the listener in its grinding metallic scrapes and slow, indeterminate drones: The glacial textures recall recent work by Aranos’ occasional collaborators Nurse with Wound. As the piece progresses, the sounds become ever more delirious. The increasingly hostile environment comes to resemble an inhuman, infernal machine, ensnaring its victim in a network of frozen tentacles.

In a vivid, warming coda, Aranos sings a short, playful song about the experience. We hear it twice, the first time played through backwards, the second time normally. It’s a quirky, oddly soothing end to a disc that has, until then, delighted in depictions of the murky and hellish.

Jon Sheffield: Something Left is Never Far

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Something Left is Never Far is Jon Sheffield’s fifth full-length release, a jaunty, amiable canter through a variety of electronically generated moods. Sheffield makes a virtue of brevity: none of the 11 cuts lasts longer than five minutes, and several are shorter than three minutes. There’s a playful, childlike quality to much of the music here, due in part to the presence of Sheffield’s infant son Gabriel on two tracks. The boy’s sampled voice appears on “Call Me Smoky,” and he contributes musical samples of his own to “Snake (In Four Parts)” as well as talking endearingly to his dad about “snake poop.” Shaping and organizing the samples into a vibrant collage, Sheffield’s sense of fun is infectious.

The rest of the set is divided between upbeat, poppy activity and more drifting, textural pieces. Of the former, “Reaching Kisses” is a short, warm bust of energy, while “Soda” skips along irrepressibly on a brisk, sunny beat. Sheffield knows when to take things down, too, with a number of tracks that trade beats for softer, lo-fi textures. “Things We Leave Behind,” for instance, carries a hint of regret in its title that is borne out by the track’s wispy static cling. Meanwhile, “That What Hair Song” twinkles and turns like a gently rotating music box. “Have The Fun Now, OK?” combines the two approaches, with its simple, memorable keyboard riff ebbing away in favour of sparkling synth tones. Its quizzical title could serve as a summing up of the album’s benign encouragement towards a gentle form of hedonism.