Micro-sound minimalism based on live improvisations, constructed in keeping with the mathematical theories of a 17th century German philosopher. If that didn’t lose you, you might find Fold, the second release from the duo Strøm, to your liking. If, like me, that sort of thing makes you feel horribly lost and alone in a great big field of abstract musical theory, then you’ll likely find the work to be a little obtuse and dull. Gaudenz Badrutt and Christian Müller indulge in an hour’s worth of what the album’s press materials refer to as “spastic sound multiplications,” which doesn’t come off sounding positive. In practice, it’s long test-pattern drones splashed somewhat randomly with burbles of noise and, every now and then, a great big crush of electronic interference. I’m sure that there’s some form of higher musical thinking going on here, but I couldn’t get away from Fold fast enough. If you’re into extremely abstract work, shoot over to the label and check it out.
Available from Domizil.
Slow Dream is a quartet of long, shadowy meditations from Loren Nerell. While never delving entirely into a dark-ambient space, Nerell does infuse these deep pieces with a certain sense of being cut off by the sound, immersed in drone and unable to reach the surface. It’s superb headphone listening, never raising its voice above a slightly sinister whisper as it ushers you down into yourself and spaces beyond. Nerell’s library for this disc started with his field recordings of Indonesian and Balinese gamelan. He ran the sounds through various processing programs and other means of manipulation to create a fresh batch of tones and textures that he quietly melts together. Because the source material is acoustic, the processed output retains a resonant remnant of its organic starting point, tucked into the otherwise otherworldly flows. As the opening track “Mentation” eases through its 29 minutes, a single recognizable gamelan chime rings solemnly, the tone marking time’s passing as Nerell’s mist-at-midnight drones fill the space. This is a fantastic half-hour of ambient that works to fully submerge you in Nerell’s intentions. Once you’re here, you’re not coming up until it’s over. It’s interesting to note that Nerell’s sounds are complex but not as densely packed as “dark” ambient tends to be. There’s no crushing weight at work here. His drones feel breath-light, paper wings of sound that hush and sigh past you in small, unhurried packs. Following “Mentation,” the voyage continues through the title track, a piece that borders on feeling isolationist, a lulling drone surrounded by hissing winds and cavernous echo. “A Sense of Presence,” the second-longest track, layers in more foggy grey drifts and a growing sense of the unease that comes with being just slightly lost. But while the feel is present, it’s distant, a worry that never quite forms but which makes you keep your guard up. You find yourself trying to peer through the mist as it rolls past, the high end like an uncertain breath, the low end the rich rumble of an earthy, open maw. This is a gateway to a different place. “Persistence of Dream Memory” is a comparatively shorter piece that ends the journey. From the start it is lighter in tone, high pads belying the penumbral landscape you’ve just passed through. Nerell lets us resurface slowly; we glide upward, patiently. Sometimes we hear a chime. We have been returned.
My experience with the very experimental music on And…, the new release from Regolith, can best be summed up by admitting that 40 seconds into the second track, I thought my CD player was stuck. This was before it straightened itself out and became something of a Reichian, Glass-like minimalist manifesto of repeated structure. Being taken out of the recording so early made me worry that getting back in wouldn’t be easy. This blend of “avant-garde electronics and orchestral minimalism” will hit home with a more specialized audience–but there are places where it pays off more broadly. That second track, “Happy Summer Days,” turns into an excellent hypnotic stretch of minimalist structure, energetic and strict. The 95-second “In Darkness and Distance” catches my ear with its classical simplicity on strings and piano intertwined with stray curls of electronic noodling. The underlying mechanics of this disc are interesting. Although I hate to quote directly from press releases, Regolith cannibalize their own creations track to track: “…the orchestral parts are sometimes made out of the pitches and rhythms of the electronics, and the processed parts are sometimes created out of the orchestral sounds.” To the listener’s ears it means two things: a well-wrought mix of acoustic and electronic, and an ongoing challenge. And… is only 43 minutes long, and the closing track takes up 16 minutes of that. There are sizable patches where the difficulty of finding something to latch onto in the chaotic swirl can outweigh the appeal of the intriguing intent and construction. But then you wrap your head something like that closing track, “The Way Out,” and its Glass-inspired familiarity keeps a strong hold on you. There’s a turn at roughly the midpoint that comes as an excellent surprise and shows that Regolith aren’t just copycaty minimalists. Listening to And… will be a roll of the dice for many. There are brilliant passages, and there are moments that just baffle. But it’s decidedly worth taking a run at.
Just when I had gotten used to Chris Russell as a purveyor of deep, far-reaching drones and abstract atmospheres, doesn’t he go and change it up on me with the warm, textured and intricate creations at play on Bloom? This release shows a great side of Russell’s extensive and constantly developing talent. Bloom is the most dynamic release I’ve heard from Russell. It moves from slow and deep to upbeat and intriguing, always packing a tonal warmth and, in many spots, a light sense of play. Most importantly, he shows that he can readily handle his style switch-ups. The quiet side is here, of course. The opener, “Dahlia,” courses in on classic arcing synth pads underscored with a bass rumble you can feel. Listen to the hush of rain that paints the backdrop for slow drones and notes in “Lilac.” This is a gorgeous ambient piece that glides in and out of your subconscious and showcases Russell’s excellent use of field recordings on this release. You hear them as well in “Orchid, ” mixed into its hesitant, almost yawning set of pads and chords. The piece reveals itself slowly, a blossom opening at first light. Russell ripples the sound in places, adding texture and interest. A superbly impressionistic piece, its imagery quite full and rich. Russell show his energetic side with “Phlox,” which bounces around with a metallic reverb that’s about the hookiest thing I’ve heard in a while. Listen beneath it, though–a long, passive drone stretches out as a neutral soundbed. Russell knits the two together and manages to give each equal importance in the flow. Bloom ends with “Allium,” which begins with a big, rising drone, its bass rumble (less tactile than in “Dahlia” but still quite present) fading slightly as the piece moves. It feels very open and deep, and subtly changes tone a couple of times before coming to a whispering close.
Dark, vicious, relentless. This may be all you need to know about The Seven Tongues from The Kali Ensemble. A side project of Michael Page, the man behind Sky Burial–a noise project I enjoy–The Kali Ensemble seems intent on pure alienation with this disc. There is neither point of entry nor release, and that’s clearly by design. After all, Kali is the destroyer. But I found myself needing to jump forward, hoping to escape the initial onslaught–it was just that claustrophobic. There are places where the pressure lets up slightly, which is to say that it stops kicking you in the skull for a minute, but I wonder how many listeners have the aural fortitude to take this kind of hyper-industrial beating. This is like sitting in the middle of a storm of sharp metal. As I said, I find much of Michael Page’s noise and drone work interesting. Past reviews here will certainly bear that out. But this is one of those cases where I have to say that if your tastes run toward very heavy, dark, industrial and experimental noise, you look into it and see if it suits you. As for me, I’m going to take a couple aspirin and hug someone.
Synth.NL’s well-honed mastery of classic analog/Berlin music gets an extra dose of theme on his 2011 release, Apollo. This rocket-fueled joyride whooshes through a dozen sequencer-based scenarios, abetted by soundbites taken from Mission Control recordings. Michel van Osenbruggen neatly captures the feel of our early jaunts into space, from the rush of takeoff to the grace of zero-G to the expectation of splashdown. Many of the tracks here are powered by deep, rich bass lines, a solid and funky bedrock that perfectly supports his higher-end flights. This is at its best in the patient movement of “Docking.” The bass tiptoes along like the subtle and deliberate manipulations of the docking craft. At the same time, van Osenbruggen manages to pipe in a feeling of suspense. Apollo truly hits its stride when it’s going full-speed. “Apollo 11” catches me with a moment of sudden acceleration that puts me in mind of the 80s New Romantic band Classix Nouveaux–a burst of dance-worthy electro-pop groove that’s pure fun. Appropriately, “Reentry” is uptempo and energetic, but also carries a great hopeful feel–the sense of heading toward victory. The gentler pieces also excel in conveying the theme. “Earthrise” coasts along on a flute-like sequencer. Plucked notes reminiscent of the work of Ray Lynch carry the melody and paint a picture of the big blue marble coming into view in the distance. “Apollo 8” is a perfect floating spacemusic construct with Berlin influences at the edges. Electronic twiddles dance in the space around van Osenbruggen’s graceful melody. The overall atmosphere of Apollo, if you’ll pardon the pun, is wonderfully amplified by the voice samples. They create a real sense of narrative. van Osenbruggen is telling a story he’s very passionate about, and he puts that straight into the music. Apollo is a lot of fun to listen to, particularly at volume. (Drive with this on and you may likely exceed all local speed limits.)
The first two parts of a planned triptych (the third, Off, will release in January 2013), Markus Mehr’s In and Out are studies in extreme contrast. Effective, listen-worthy contrast. In is the comparatively quieter of the two, made up of two long tracks. “Komo” is built on a simple string phrase that patiently repeats itself while Mehr folds in new layers and levels. On top of that, it’s subjected to Mehr’s sonic surgery. The sound drops out or muffles, gets cut up and reordered. There is a stretch around the 16-minute mark that is pure, unexpected fun–more so in headphones. The timing is perfect–right when you think you’re just in the midst of some minimalist, unchanging construct, it changes. Often, I will say, in quite unexpected ways. Until the very end–which is unbelievably potent–Mehr keeps that base phrasing absolutely consistent. This track gets better each time I listen. The depth is delightful to explore. “Ostinato” rises slowly, as “Komo” does, but from the start it’s roughened up by a crackle of static. Melancholic strings come up beneath it and, as before, the sound builds up across time, developing into the same sort of base phrasing from the previous track. Again, the phrase stands staunchly against Mehr’s sound-additions. The trick here comes when Mehr begins sliding a totally different tune, on brass, under the developed flow. But it comes and goes like something you half-hear when you’re almost asleep. The static returns at the end–a nice touch.
On differs from In in two basic ways. First, it storms straight in on an industrial-grade grind with “I’m Gonna Make You Love Me.” A big hit of percussion and raw distortion greet you, ushering you into Mehr’s mix of field recordings, drones and treatment. Visitors coming from In understand right away that this is a different place. Second, the tracks are quicker, their impact landing sooner and the moment passing in completion within a few minutes. Thus, Mehr packs a lot into those frames, and it’s broadly varied. A jazz-trumpet loop hides under the slow drones in “Flaming Youth,” its smoothness contrasting perfectly with the clicks and buzzes around it; another works as the base of “Duck Becomes Swan,” holding its own against clashing and crashing metallics and buzzsaw hums; rapid-fire clips of Greek folk music trip through the disorienting “Olympia”; Gregorian chant and field recordings of conversation intertwine in “Monks on the Beach.” One of the things I enjoy about Mehr is how he infuses his work with unexpected things that border on a sense of humor. “Only for A While” stands out against the tracks before it by coming in on quiet synth-strings, a simple ambient flow. You get about four minutes of that before a quick burble of sound momentarily corrupts the the flow, as if to say, “You didn’t think it was going to be that simple, did you?” With few extra augmentations, the flow then continues on its way. On is in some ways a more complex listen than In, although both have much to say and certainly enough sonic elements to say it well. Mehr rides the edge of experimental music without falling into a too-abstract space. His explorations are tethered by identifiable structures, but the farthest reaches of his intentions pack enough allure and interest to bring you to them and hold you there. In and On together leave me anticipating how Mehr will complete his triptych. Time will tell.
It’s standing policy at Hypnagogue that I do not review discs that are largely lyric-based. But on Patience, the new release from M. Rosin’s Godheadscope identity, the lyrics are pulled and twisted and half-buried in the mix, rendered down to chant-like aspects of a musical ritual. This 22-minute set of four pieces rides on heavy layers of guitar and synth drone as Rosin culls together elements of rock and folk and submerges them in his sound-field. The result is a sort of darkwave feel, moody and ruminative and weighted down with concern. Rosin’s voice takes on a priestly tone in “Solidarity,” the repeated phrase “our ruin now a temple” lifting like a homily over howling guitar chords from Claudio Alcara. “Medusa in the Cistern” is comparatively invigorating, hurrying in on a thick bass run. Here, more than on the other tracks, Rosin plays with his lyrics as a musical element, distorting the quick-paced, half-blurted recitation to the point of being indecipherable amid the raspy drones over it, but also heightening its sense of raw, fear-churned urgency. Patience makes the absolute most of its short run and is another release where it feels like your sense time was given the day off. Your twenty-two minutes inside Patience seems so much longer; it’s a wormhole of sound and sensation. A compelling piece of work from Godheadscope.
Nils Quak is an artist possessing several identities and, with them, styles. On Aether, under his own name, his style is to grind away at you with dark, noise-based spaces. His sounds gnash, snarl and rasp in a fairly relentless onslaught against the listener. At times the work borders on unwelcoming, exhibiting a harshness that dares you to stay attached to it. What helps you hang on is when Quak drops in sounds that feel like he’s making a spontaneous, improvised decision. Unexpected glurgs of electronic sound get thrown into his established mosh of aggressive sonic mutations to get batted around. The fact that these decisions always seem correct is what makes you understand that Quak isn’t just reaching blindly or randomly. Aether is decidedly not about music; it’s about sound creation and manipulation in the moment, of muscling a response out of the listener by pushing their tolerance. Quak’s drones show a chord structure, but it’s clear they exist only as the floor around which his wilder elements careen and crash. This release is only 40 minutes long, but as it’s an endurance test, it feels longer. Hardy experimental-music and noise fans will find this to their liking. Others might be hard pressed to find a way in.
Murky drones culled from “field recordings and found sounds…played from audio cassettes through various effects pedals” make up the crux of When Do We Dream, the debut release from Grey Frequency. The pieces here are, according to the artist, mixed in one take. That’s a tricky proposition, and looking at it strictly from a dark ambient standpoint, he pulls it off reasonably well. But there’s a thickness of sound here, a ceaseless density that contributes to a lot of sameness of sound. Everything is ominous, weighty, and glacial in its forward progress. The texture of the sounds seems to change only slightly, track to track. I find myself wanting to move on, or to catch hold of some more tactile shift in execution. There are spots where this happens. The wobbling, resonant metallic clangs that rise in “Carbon Monoxide” are like a frightening wake-up call in the middle of an unfortunate dream, the sense of something bad about to happen. The slow-moving, higher-tone melody that whispers beneath the sound in “A Million Broken Hearts” is also a nice touch. What makes it work is how Grey Frequency keeps it scaled back like a distant dream against the fog-bank of drone. “Brownfield” threatens to take up a beat as what sounds almost like the manipulated sound of a train echoes over misty drones and a guttural snarl from somewhere off in the darkness. This track has a good rusty-industrial touch to it. When Do We Dream is aimed firmly in the noise/dark direction, and to that end, it does work. It’s not always comfortable, and the spaces it describes are, well, grey. Listeners whose tastes run toward the grim, uneasy side of things will want to have a listen.
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