Tape - Opera
(Hapna)
I don't write as much as I once did, so I try to make every word count that much more. When I do bring myself to share my enthusiasm or disapproval (indulge me one last dig at Interpol, before they're forgotten completely and it's too late), I encourage you at least to hear me out. Should my tireless proselytizing on behalf of electro-acoustic improv ever wear on your patience, feel free to move on to another review. I sincerely believe that this is the most vital, exciting and rewarding mode of musical expression in many a moon. And I stand steadfast by my statement that MIMEO and John Tilbury's The Hands of Caravaggio was the finest and most important release of 2002.
That said, I appreciate that not everyone is willing to invest the considerable energy and effort required to retune one's perception to the electrifying subtleties of this music. To unacquainted ears, Caravaggio may well register as impenetrable and random electronic noise. I had hoped that the unparalleled passion and sensitivity of Tilbury's piano playing might have sufficed to seduce even the most reticent listener, but perhaps the fullness of Mimeo's electro-acoustic congress, however dexterously controlled, was still too daunting for most. Perhaps Polwechsel and Christian Fennesz's splendid Wrapped Islands retained just enough of Polwechsel's essential old-school crustiness to alienate those intrigued by Fennesz's more accessible efforts. To you I offer Minamo and Tape, immediately approachable exponents of the electro-acoustic ideals espoused by MIMEO/Tilbury and Polwechsel/Fennesz.
Minamo's promising Wakka impressed me; the limited Live and a memorable appearance on Apestaartje's Colour & Pattern collection, even more so. It was apparent from early on that the guitar-and-computer duo of Keiichi Sugimoto and Tetsuro Yasunaga had tapped into a fertile seam of electro-acoustic invention. A handful of stateside concerts confirmed that Minamo was something special, particularly when Namiko Sasamoto (saxophone, keyboards) sat in and coaxed a dusky sort of Kind of Blue impressionism from the rupture of chords and spidery digitalia. kgs. never revisits this territory, but an assortment of techniques and shifting personnel keep this excellent album varied and fascinating. Guitarist Yuichiro Iwashita (whose broken, dissonant style recalls David Grubbs), bassist Masashi Kamada (of the Chicago aligned-and-minded Sangatsu), and restless synth-noise explorer Utah Kawasaki all contribute to the density of accumulative detail in the two-part "La Botanica Parallela." An epic, fractal-form interweaving of electronic, drone, and instrumental components on the order of Dean Roberts' remarkable ...and the Black Moths Play the Grand Cinema (Ritornell, 2000), the first part careens towards bedlam only to resolve in structured, spiraling chaos that sounds—I kid you not—like a Landing/Jackie-O Motherfucker jam. Part II seems like an attempt to un-create its sibling by liquidizing the insolvable bass and guitar motifs in a slow, pulsing rush of digital effluent. Mixed by percussionist Tim Barnes, the challenging, chimeric "a-Qu a-Qume" integrates recordings of Minamo performances in Japan and New York into a techno-gamelan rhythm that unifies Yasunaga's burbling electronics, the guitars of Iwashita and Sugimoto, and Sasamoto's sax—heard both straight and processed into indeterminate squabble. And, even without guest musicians to aid them in crystallizing fantastic structures from their interplay. Sugimoto and Yasunaga are still capable of such wonders as "Biographics," where sprinting arpeggios nail the exact mood and métier of Yellow6 or Bark Psychosis before they're overwhelmed by an upsurge of digitized noise.
I can't claim any prior knowledge of Tape before an earful of Opera knocked me for a loop. Drawing equally from the kitchen-sink aesthetic of Richard Youngs and Simon Wickham-Smith's low-fi multi-instrumental acoustic drone-adelia and the high-end soundhacking of Fennesz and friends, Tape—Berthling brothers Andreas and Johan and Tomas Hallonsten—has synthesized an enormously appealing electro-acoustic variant. In addition to the expected laptops and guitars, Opera's constituents include zither, flute, bells, accordion, trumpet, harmonium, glockenspiel, melodica, bells, field recordings—even rubbed styrofoam and rumpled paper. No run-of-the-mill Max/MSP extravaganza, this rainbow of natural tones has been layered atop sweetly strummed acoustic guitars and what could well be recordings of moths and fireflies caught in moonlit forest flight. Harmonica, accordion, and alto sax ramble upon soft, stuttering microloops and mingle with the residue of instrumentation erased and retraced many times over. The telltale textures of digital process permeate the delicate acoustic and organic elements without obliterating them, imbuing every sound with a luminescence of genuinely electro-acoustic character. Opera is enigmatic and extraordinary, sustaining a casual, intimate gathered-'round-the-campfire atmosphere in spite of the assiduous care apparently taken in programming and arrangement. I've never heard anything else quite like it.
|
