On his new two-disc release, Computerchemist (aka Dave Pearson) tries an interesting strategy. He gave drummer Zsolt Galántai sets of time signatures to follow, then had Galántai improvise what were essentially long solos. Pearson then went back in and, in tried-and-true Computerchemist fashion, attacked them with the dual weapons of progressive rock and Berlin school concepts. The outcome is a long stretch of fiery, flaring, feel-good tunes that will have you turning up the volume. I will gladly confess to being a huge shill for Pearson’s guitar playing. It’s inspired and passionate and howls with a classic rock ‘n’ roll lack of restraint. These discs give plenty of that, particularly the second. “Strangeness in 13” kicks off that disc with Pearson grinding out soulful solos while a piano slyly offers up whispers of the beginning of Tubular Bells. This leads straight into “Goodbye, Moszkva Tér,” which is essentially Pearson and Galántai strapping you into a chair and pumping a constant stream of high-grade art-rock adrenalin straight into your veins. Then the man gets downright aggressive with his axe, strangling screaming banshee wails out of it for “Floor Zero.” Meaty keyboard chords fill in the background. On the first disc, Pearson hits the guitar mark when he revisits an old track in “Landform 2012.” This is a perfect blend of guitar and sequencer, Pearson holding long, soaring notes heavy on the reverb. Pure, gorgeous Berlin. “Zsoltimatic” is another nice guitar track with a bluesy edge.
The other element to Signatures is Pearson’s spot-on sequencer work. He lays down neat geometric patterns for the drums and guitar to flow over, their stringent borders just able to contain the energy. Analog lovers will eat them up in all their T-Dream-influenced glory. (Here, we go back to “Zsoltimatic” and its followup, “Corporatosaur,” as prime examples.)
It must be said that, to some degree, Signatures is a Must-Love-Drums offering. They’re here, they’re big and full of fills and flare, and Pearson doesn’t relegate them to the back seat. Which means, admittedly, that sometimes they take over and the two sides of the equation feel like they don’t entirely align. It becomes more like a game of catch the drummer. I like the playful charm that runs through “Broken Daliuette,” for example, which starts off with a feel like a lost Oldfield track, one of those pieces that meanders around an old folk dance. (Excuse the two MO references in one review.) But when Galántai hits the scene, it feels like the drums are vying for an undue amount of attention attention. The closing couple of minutes, where Pearson comes more in line with the framework of Galántai’s staccato attack, work better. These just-off-kilter moments are far more the exception than the rule on the Signatures discs, but with the drums given so much prominence, it stands out a bit when it happens. When everything comes in line, however, as it does in most cases here, it creates huge, exhilarating, face-melting gobs of prog-fueled joy. Come and get it.
Available from the Computerchemist web site.
As the title suggests, Peter DiPhillips’ Mystic River Reflections is an introspective set of synth-based pieces, ranging from lightly pulsing songs to extremely deep drifts. It’s a short ride, just over 45 minutes, and there’s barely a bump in it. DiPhillips offers up a set of sonic vistas painted in hushed tones and crafted with real depth and dimension. On the driftier side of things are “Whiteface Mountain” and “Plum Island Moonrise.” The first is washed through with a long, cold sigh of wind, the sound of it rushing up-slope, whispering its way against a quietly stated, slow-moving chant. The feel is genuinely reverent and spiritual, its minimal nature giving it a simple potency. “Plum Island Moonrise” is one of my favorite tracks here, a very calm wash of sound with a slight romantic tinge to it. It’s only because I enjoy it so much that I find myself slightly disappointed with the way it ends–it just feels like it gets cut off before it finishes saying what it has to say. Up to that point, it’s superb. Then there’s the title track which glistens appropriately, wavering watery tones flecked with high, twinkling notes like sunlight on waves, and a breath-easing sense. DiPhillips’ pads here rise up boldly and pass like cloud shadows. He touches on the darker side, too. “Ogunquit Beach” opens feeling a bit tempest-tossed, wind-swept and a little aggressive. The sounds clatter and clash like the dull thud of storm-tossed rocks. DiPhillips pares this one back mid-track to a lonely sigh of pads, the stormier parts having passed over but still in view. He then takes you into the murky and haunted surroundings of “The Sunken Forest.” The chitter of electronic bugs fills the space immediately and intermittently. Drones rise and fall, and a punchy melody with a kalimba-type tone catches hold of you. A very atmospheric track. In among all that, “Montauk Point” and “Blue Mountain Lake” offer somewhat more uptempo rides with their own cool personality. “Montauk Point” comes at you with a bouncing, rising three-note pattern that drops off to make room for shadowy drone structures, only to come back still humming its simple ditty. “Blue Mountain Lake” feels like a mildly deconstructed lounge piece, its glitchy rhythm and smooth chords finding themselves a bit displaced, again working in uncertain concert with hissing underlays. The more I listen to Mystic River Reflections, the more I find to listen to. A great looper that stands up to deep scrutiny. Nice work from Peter DiPhillips.
Let me say from the outset that Upon the Edge of Night, the latest release from prolific electro-acoustic composer Robert Scott Thompson, is one of those albums that brings to mind the old quote, “Writing about music is like dancing about architecture.” It’s not a release that will benefit from a written review; it needs to be given a deep, focused listen. While I don’t do “Best Of” lists, I would have to say that this easily stands out for me among the releases I’ve listened to this year. Across 13 tracks, Thompson touches on classic ambient drifts, neo-classical structures, and light sequencer music, all with equal grace and mastery. This is my first exposure to Thompson’s music, and I’m amazed at what I’ve been missing. Upon the Edge of Night is actually a collection of pieces “culled from a large number of studio sessions” for three upcoming releases–which makes 2013 a very promising year for listeners. It also accounts in part for the diversity at work here. Thompson opens the disc with the very soft ambient tones of “Strange Lines and Distances.” The piece has a lush, warm sound, punctuated with quietly repeating piano notes. Then, having spent 16 minutes convincing you you’re in a very good ambient disc, he greets you with “Glass is the Enemy of the Secret,” an almost playful little tune on the edge of electronic chamber music. It reminds me in spots of a slightly tamer Roedelius. And the changes continue from there, all the transitions smoothly made. He again takes the listener deep into a dream-like realm with the gorgeous flow of “The Misty Place.” Organic touches and a distinct progression of sound mark the journey here. There’s also a rich sense of emotion, admittedly on the melancholy side, that connects and draws you in. The slow piano of “Far Side of the Sky” is paired off with long string pads, Thompson letting the space between notes and the fading resonance have their say in the story. The twilight-hued “In Situ” is a borderline drone piece, sizable pads moving in a slowly advancing line. Another track that just takes hold of your mind and holds it still while Thompson works on it. “Variation Reveals” is like a pastorale on piano, flute, and strings, a straightforward, classically oriented piece. “Pale Fire” closes the disc with energetic sequencer constructs and interruptive sound manipulation. Spacey and a little odd…I like it.
JC Mendizabal and his crew are back to put sound through the wringer and shape it to their liking on the latest Radio Free Clear Light offering, The Labyrinth of Ohgel. Eclectic is the name of the game here. Each of the 14 “chambers,” which are based on “
While Darker is dark, it’s not as dark as the name might imply. This is not grinding, crushing dark ambient, but it is without a doubt an hour spent fully cloaked in dense shadow. Phobos (aka David Thompson) escorts the listener through four long-form works, managing to create atmospheres that are equally as mind-salving as they are lightly unnerving. This is very much a headphone listen because you’ll want to soak up all the small details as Thompson pulls you inexorably down and in. The path starts early on in the half-hour-long “Seance,” with Thompson’s void-born drones welling up to surround you. This is not isolationist ambient per se; rather, it takes on the feel of willful dissociation as the sound drapes over you, alternating between thick, growling pads and the occasional distant howl of rising wind, and you agree to leave yourself behind. The amorphous, constantly folding washes of dark continue through “Descend” and “Hell’s Gate,” at which point Thompson opts to unleash a little discomfort on you. You’ve passed through his veil of shadow, slipped between worlds, and your reward is a gnashing, edge-of-industrial snarl of sound, the darkest space you’ll encounter on Darker. As the track moves forward, the sound tempers toward a softer edge without quite leaving the unnerving sense behind. It’s meant to deposit you into the last part of the journey, “Decomposing Lust.” As befits a well-planned excursion, Thompson arcs the sound upward toward the light here, his deeper sounds rising in tone and feel, stopping just short of the ever-popular angelic choir pads–but still coming off soft and warm enough to relieve forty minutes of sonic tension. Don’t get too comfy, though–in the closing moments there’s just enough dissonance slipped in to leave you with a touch of worry.
Recording as Another Neglected Hobby, musician Mark Cotton sets out on his newest release to create “a soundtrack to use while watching the movement of the stars and planets across Earth’s night sky.” For your stargazing pleasure he offers the hour-and-a-quarter long Deep End of the Night Sky, an excellent long-form piece that shifts through several compatible identities as it moves along. Even with these shifts, Cotton never ventures into a sound-zone that disturbs the simple pleasure of listening and letting your mind’s eye create planetarium-quality starscapes. (And, yes, when New England weather allows it again, I will listen to this out on the deck while stargazing.) The moves and changes are organic and sensible. By way of illustrating the diversity at work here, I’ll tell you that one recent day I set this to loop in my office, then went about my day. It was interesting to note, each time I came back into the room, what tone this piece had taken on. At one point I entered a space that was cold and a little ominous, filled with low-end tones; on another visit, I was in a much warmer, calm floating space, immediately soothing. Cotton’s style is to launch far-stretching pads and let them slowly fade, the resonant sounds meshing easily with the newer formations as they rise. There’s a sort of easy complexity at work; you understand, in listening, that Cotton is manipulating and moving a lot of sound, but it all flows together without so much as a bump. This is also what allows those shifts to occur so smoothly. Deep End… is a big piece of work, packing a real sense of vastness and celestial beauty. Cotton spins his tale with practiced patience and a real ear for harmony. This is most certainly a disc to loop, as the journey melds end-to-end with ease and it’s likely you won’t want it to end.
CR Hougaard tries to show us “the charm in the weird and scary” on his new release, Aethereal, using synthesizer, guitars, and effects pedals “altered by an old tape recorder.” He manages to get the weird and scary part down, but finding charm in this mix of noise will be a matter of individual taste. If you’re not amenable to noise, you may be put off by the clatter and screech of the 15-minute opener, “Eine: Reise ans Ende des Verstandes.” To his credit, Hougaard creates a distinct atmosphere, loaded to the brim with grim uncertainty and a touch of claustrophobia. But it’s a long ride to take and a lot of sonic debris to get through–again, if you’re not among those who appreciate the heavily experimental stuff. I find myself skimming through the first several tracks until I come to the other long piece here, “Liftoff.” It’s quieter than its predecessors, falling somewhere between drone and drift, but Hougaard works in some dissonance to give it an edge. As the track progresses, the sound begins to decay under additional elements and processing, the textures on the perimeter much rougher while he maintains much of the comparatively simple aspects of what’s come before. This, I’d assume, is the power of liftoff, and it’s well done. The later tracks are more spacey than the earlier ones, the mix of drone and drift without the heavy hand on the noise. “Pacific” is a great example of what Hougaard can craft that’s more along the lines of straightforward ambient. Long pads stretch out under a white-noise hiss, the two elements trading prominence.
If I’m understanding this correctly–and I’ve done what is, for me, an inordinate amount of Googling and surfing to come to this conclusion–the disc I received from 3AM Tone is not actually for sale, but it is a collection of tracks available for download. I think. Two of them appear to be on sale at CDBaby; others are at Soundcloud but don’t appear to have a download link. (This is what happens when you don’t send me any information, friends. I have to guess. And I’m lazy.) All that being said, if you like very quiet, quite soft ambient drifts, 3AM Tone is pretty much worth the hunt. This artist favors misty, warm pads that follow a classic rise-and-fall cadence. There’s nothing groundbreaking here, but it’s well-made ambient. The first track, “Some Are Asleep (Summer Asleep Mix),” owes more than a little to Mr. Eno, with its slow-paced piano threaded out across a hushed synth backdrop. I like the breathing cadence of “Purple Gloe,” which brings to mind some of Roach’s Structures from Silence music. “Phaze” is a workable drone piece that whispers its way through three minutes; there’s motion here, but it’s subtle and nicely so. 3AM Tone hits a nice ambient stride with the longest offering here at six minutes, “Velvet and Starshine.” It’s another whisper-tone ride of intersecting pads and subtle dynamics. All in all, a promising collection of pieces. Now if only it was easier to get them all at once…
Slow Dancing Society returns with a fresh batch of softly wafting, half-awake post-rock on Laterna Magica. I’ve long been a fan of Drew Sullivan’s signature blend of ambient textures and slow-motion, evocative guitar, the pair melted together most often in a ballad-like form, and Laterna Magica offers plenty of that and more. Sullivan’s cool pizzicato playing, like rain drops on guitar strings, forms the base of several tracks. “A Few Moments” finds it gracefully sharing space with gossamer pads, light touches of piano, and echoing rimshot-style percussion. (A familiar sound to those of us who eagerly dive into each new SDS release, and one that’s well-used here quite a bit.) The closing track, “Tomorrow’s Another Day,” is also built around the pizzicato sound, more high pads and a little bit of vinyl-scratch for added texture. You get a different side of Sullivan’s soulful playing on tracks like “Bones & Ice,” his melody accented by lazy slides up or down the neck and perfectly stretched, expectant pauses between notes. This track has a wonderful sparseness to it; Sullivan is an artist who honors the potency of negative space and the lasting colors of patient sustain. Hear it again in “Gardens & Graves.” Here, phrases on acoustic guitar and piano speak briefly and then pull back. There’s a great passage where he comes at you strong with the strings, galloping up to it then just letting it all fall back. A slight change of pace arrives in the short track “Pieces of Your Presence,” carried on a throbbing sequencer line and a slight sense of urgency. An interesting departure that works.
If this review doesn’t make much sense, it would be because of the amount of time I’ve spent having my brain scoured by the excellent, industrial-edged minimalist trance of producer Stefan Gubatz’s Distanz, so it’s a little like I’m writing under the influence. This is a batch of stripped-down, bleached-out EDM structures powered up by the relentless undertow of trance. Start listening and you get pulled under and held under, surrounded by increasing masses of sound. Gubatz’s sources, though electronically generated, come off sounding like he’s armed himself with an arsenal of PVC tubing, industrial springs, and hunks of metal that he slaps, whacks, shakes and otherwise gently abuses while sequenced beats hold down the tempo. Fact is, he’s playing with a lot of dance-music tropes here. Steady thumping rhythms, gargantuan swaths of bone-rattling bass, and the endless straight sonic lines of trance. In fact, some listeners may not care for the repetitive nature of Distanz. It helps to have some appreciation for tonal shifts that happen in glacial timeframes and the way in which the introduction of minute elements can alter not just the piece or its direction, but also your perception of it. Of course, all these things are the earmarks of good trance, and Distanz is definitely that. You will zone out while listening, guaranteed. But when your brain can focus, there’s a lot to hear. I love the echoing twang that fills “Metal Worms,” the way it just takes over my head, and how Gubatz keeps adding to it to create a complex tangle of sound which he then pulls apart as the track winds down, creating a little mental breathing space. “Villa Nicht” seduces you with a bass heartbeat and gnat-sized pops of glitch. There’s a great air of grim expectancy here that increases as Gubatz begins to open it up–steam hisses and industrial echoes, a building beat, and dub-derived rimshots, and suddenly I find myself rocking a bit to the sound–coerced, sonically, to join in. It’s not all grind-and-hypnotize, however. Take a listen to “Offshore” and the way Gubatz sews together a definite chillout-room feel, with lazy organ chords and more of that dub snap, then shoots bolts of more industrial-grade sound straight through it. A drop, and he laces in a long, high, hanging note to offset it all. Great track. Every time I listen to Distanz, I find myself turning up the volume. I have to believe that I am somehow being subconsciously urged to try to cram more of these dark grooves and luscious atmospheres into my skull. And friends, I am happy to do so. On the Telrae web site, it’s noted that “The intention of the album is nothing more nothing less than to create an atmospheric intensity.” Congratulations, Stefan. You nailed it. I’m hooked on Distanz.
Hypnagogue Music Reviews 