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Éliane Radigue

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Éliane Radigue & Frédéric Blondy, “Occam XXV” (Organ Reframed, 2022)

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This is the debut album for Claire M. Singer’s Organ Reframed imprint, which will now enable home listeners to experience a bit of her singular music festival of the same name. While the festival itself has been going on since 2016, I can understand why Singer did not make the leap into releasing albums until now, as I imagine it is quite a challenge to translate the site-specific acoustic pleasures of Union Chapel’s famed hydraulic organ onto a CD. Also, solo organ albums have only recently begun to come into vogue (and I suspect Singer’s efforts played a key role in that). 

Thankfully, the stars seem to now be in proper alignment for such an endeavor, as artists like Kali Malone, Lawrence English, and Sarah Davachi have spent the last few years turning adventurous ears organ-ward and the reigning queen of minimalism (Radigue) is currently in the prime of her “acoustic instrumentation” era. Unsurprisingly, composing for organ has not resulted in a newly bombastic and maximalist Radigue, as she remains unswervingly devoted to Occam’s guiding principle of “simple is always better.” In fact, this album is probably a strong contender for one of Radigue’s most minimal compositions to date. That may test the patience of some casual Radigue listeners, but those attuned to her slow-burning drone majesty will find much to love, as she is in peak form here.

This is not the first album in Radigue’s “Occam Ocean” series that I have heard, but this is the first time that I learned about the origin of its curious title. Naturally, the “Occam” part is a reference to William of Ockham’s timeless razor (the law of economy), but I did not know that the “ocean” bit was because Radigue is drawing much of her inspiration from water and waves these days. That makes sense and knowing that reveals further depth to this series. Also, given Radigue’s history with Buddhism and its focus on mindfulness and the interconnectedness of all things, this series can be viewed as a sort of an artistic culmination of the themes and philosophies that have shaped her life as a whole. 

In more concrete terms, Radigue’s recent work is driven by the “transcendent beauty” that she finds in the “micro beats, pulsations, harmonics, and subharmonics” that result when sound waves interact. Another central belief of Radigue’s is that written music is an abstraction and that it is the performer that ultimately breathes life into it She also notes that “no two performers, playing the same instrument, have the same relationship with that instrument,” so it was a significant choice that return collaborator/ONCEIM director Blondy was chosen to perform the piece.

Speaking of Blondy, I am quite curious about how technically demanding this piece was to play. My guess is “very,” as it could easily be mistaken for a single sustained and droning chord with casual listening, but closer listening reveals that it is endlessly evolving and constantly creating subtle new sonic phenomena despite it being damn near imperceptible to tell when new notes are being added. In fact, the entire mood of the piece sneakily undergoes at least two dramatic transformations over the course of its 44 minutes, slowly moving from a stark, almost futuristic-sounding introduction of shuddering bass throbs towards a surprisingly hallucinatory finale of blearily celestial-sounding drones and insectoid whine. 

In between those two poles, there are passages that call to mind a surveillance beam slowly sweeping across a desolate wasteland or a gorgeous slow-motion sunrise and it never feels anything less than totally organic and seamless. And, of course, the piece’s unhurried, meditative journey continually reveals additional subtle layers of harmonic complexity with deep listening. Given the near-geologic timescale and the ultra-minimal nature of this piece, it probably is not the ideal introductory Radigue album for the curious, but those already attuned to her work will likely be spellbound by the exacting and patient virtuosity on display (I certainly was). Occam XXV sets the bar intimidatingly high for whoever gets tagged for Organ Reframed’s second release.

Samples can be found here.

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Eliane Radigue, “Geelriandre/Arthesis” (Important, 2019)

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I have mixed feelings about vinyl-only reissues, but there is no denying that they are an extremely effective way to rekindle interest in a long-neglected album that should not be languishing in obscurity. This album is an excellent example of that phenomenon, as Geelriandre/Arthesis has been fairly easy to track down digitally for a while and few were clamoring for it. Now that it is getting a formal physical resurrection, however, it is deservedly back in the public consciousness. 

As far as Radigue albums go, it is a somewhat unique one, occupying a grey area between the more divergent Alga Marghen albums and her more universally revered drone epics. It shares much more common ground with the latter, but it sometimes feels like an embryonic version that is still partially indebted to the avant-garde zeitgeist of the era. Nevertheless, it is quite a fascinating album, taking an alternate and almost sci-fi-damaged path quite unlike the pure and focused vision of Radigue’s later recordings.

Eliane Radigue’s discography is quite a uniquely confounding chronological mess, as it took an unforgivably long time for the world to recognize her as one of the twentieth century’s most singular and gifted composers. That is admittedly true of many other female composers as well, but Radigue has been more prolific than many of her peers. To give an especially damning example, her landmark Adnos trilogy was completed in the early ’80s, yet only managed to get released in 2002. While it is not quite on the same level as that opus, Geelriandre/Arthesis also languished unheard for decades, as these two pieces date from the early ’70s and only surfaced in 2003 on the Italian Fringes label (it was then reissued roughly a decade later on another Italian label, Senufo). 

Amusingly, it also just got released again as part of INA-GRM’s Electronic Works boxed set, but this reissue is still its first physical release in the US. Interestingly, the earlier of the two pieces (“Geelriandre,” recorded in 1972) was composed for the Arp 2500 synthesizer, which soon became Radigue’s signature instrument. Apparently, not immediately though, as 1973’s “Arthesis” was composed for a Moog synth at the University of Iowa. I would not have expected a visionary Parisian electronic music composer to turn up in Iowa in the early 1970s. I may need to completely reevaluate that state.

I was a bit surprised to discover that “Geelriandre” predates Radigue’s deep, lifelong devotion to Buddhism, as its lingering, bell-like tones imbue the piece with a very ritualistic and “Eastern” feel. Or possibly a feel more like a lonely buoy, hollowly chiming in a windswept bay in the dead of night. In either case, it is quite an evocative sound and I am curious about its source, as it has a distinctly “metallic” timbre, and there is no mention of bells or gongs being involved in the performance. 

Notably, however, “Geelriandre” is a rare duet for Radigue, as it was composed for Gérard Fremy, who accompanies her on prepared piano (likely the source of the bell tones, though they seem improbably deep and sustained at times). The beauty of the composition primarily lies in the fact that it does not feel like a composition at all. Rather it feels like a field recording of a strange and dreamlike ceremony where ancient gongs reverberate in a quietly oscillating, machine-like hum, evoking a time-stretched recording of a Buddhist mass on an abandoned space station. 

The following “Arthesis” further deepens that sense of haunted otherworldliness, as the pulsating and ghostly minimalist thrum of Radigue’s drones partially hides a host of ominous-sounding subterranean groans and scrapes. Again, an empty space station feels like an incredibly apt comparison, but now it feels like there is some massive, unknown creature slowly making its way through the air ducts, announcing its terrifying progress with sounds of distantly shuddering and warping metal.

Despite being a fairly devout fan of Radigue’s work, I was a bit slow to fully appreciate this unique and quietly wonderful pair of structurally and temporally ambiguous drone works. I suspect my initial lukewarm reaction was because Geelriandre/Arthesis conspicuously lacks much of what I love about Radigue’s major works: elegant, perfect simplicity and gradual, sublime transformation. Both traits are admittedly present on this album to some degree, but they are not the focus, and neither piece feels like it has a deliberate arc or evolution. 

As a result, I mistook Geelriandre/Arthesis for a primitive version of Radigue’s later work until it slowly dawned on me that it was instead a highly evolved version of something else altogether. That is what makes this an important album, as it captures a rare moment when Radigue turned her formidable talents towards texture and mood, as if she was masterfully portraying a single scene in great detail rather than embarking on a transcendent abstract journey. Also, it helps that the two scenes Radigue paints are so alien and weirdly beautiful, as if she was trying to capture the elusive and fragmented dreams of an android. That certainly is not the expected territory for an Eliane Radigue album and partially explains why these recordings languished unheard for so long: these two strange visions were presumably both too far ahead of their time and radically outside of time to be fully appreciated in their own era.

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Éliane Radigue, “Adnos I-III” (Table of the Elements (2002)/Important (2013))

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There has been an avalanche of fine dispatches from Éliane Radigue’s voluminous vault in recent years, which both pleases and overwhelms me, as I want to hear them all and cannot hope to keep up. Adnos is one of the latest of those great albums and offers the added appeal of being a major, decade-spanning, formative work as well. Originally composed between 1973 and 1980, these three lengthy pieces are stylistic precursors to Radigue’s minimal drone epic Trilogie de la Morte (widely regarded to be her masterpiece). While Adnos is not quite on the same level as its similarly ambitious successor, it certainly comes damn close.

The Adnos trilogy is quite an interesting suite historically, as it began fairly early in Radigue’s career—not “feedback era/assistant to Pierre Henry” early, but not long after Radigue started making music using a Buchla synthesizer in a NYC studio that she shared with the similarly amazing Laurie Spiegel. 

The first part of Adnos was originally performed at Mills College in 1974 after Radigue was invited to play there by Robert Ashley (for an “embarrassingly low” $250). That occasion proved to be quite fateful, as some visiting students turned Éliane onto Tibetan Buddhism, which wound up having a profound influence on much of her future work (both thematically and structurally). Despite that revelation, the two sequels (spanning another seven years) still feel very much like variations on the original theme and seem like they could have easily been composed at the same time. Also, the first “Adnos” actually seems more transcendent and meditative than its successors, which are a bit more experimental in nature.

Despite the fact that this is box set containing a somewhat lengthy booklet, very little information is divulged regarding how two of these three hour-long epics were created. Amusingly, however, very specific information is provided regarding “Adnos II,” the most aberrant and dissonant segment of the trilogy (Arp synthesizer, 3 1/4 tape decks, and a three-octave filter). 

It is probably a decent bet to assume that “Adnos I” and “Adnos III” were the fruits of quite similar set-ups, though the presence of recognizable synthesizer tones is often quite hard to detect. In any case, these three pieces all roughly follow a similar stylistic and compositional trajectory: a minimal, droning electronic hum glacially transforms into something more as subtle oscillations and harmonies gradually snowball. Sort of like a butterfly gradually emerges from a chrysalis, except that the butterfly is sometimes complex and dark rather than pretty.

Aside from parts of the aforementioned and divergent “Adnos II,” these pieces present exactly what I have grown to expect from Radigue: entrancing, slowly unfolding beauty and a timeless sonic purity delivered with almost-superhuman patience and attention to nuance. For the most part, there are few textures or stylistic indicators that tie Adnos to any fixed period in time: humming feedback will always sound like humming feedback. 

Consequently, the very simple and pure “Adnos I” still sounds like the very cutting edge of drone in 2014, despite being constructed four decades ago (very prescient). Also, that trait goes a long way towards explaining why it took so long for Radigue’s work to be fully embraced—she was very much ahead of her time..or possibly removed from time altogether (also, it probably did not help at all that she was a woman in a very male-dominated field). The other two pieces do not quite maintain that illusion of timelessness as fully though. While “Adnos III” is probably my favorite part of the trilogy, its plinking, phase-shifting dissonances definitely feel temporally related to work of some of Éliane’s contemporaries.

“Adnos II” is, unsurprisingly, the least “eternal” of the trilogy, as it is extremely hard to avoid sounding like A Very Serious Electronic Composer From The 1960s Or ’70s when you are making abstract music with an early synthesizer: the timbres are inherently artificial and dated-sounding (albeit in a pleasantly retro-futurist way). That makes for something of a polarizing work, as I have seen others proclaim that it the highlight of this set, while it is personally my least favorite. I still like it though and can easily see its appeal, as there is a lengthy passage of queasy dissonance and beeps that sometimes sounds quite beautiful and sometimes resembles the cold horror of being adrift in space. The latter is not a feeling that I generally get from Éliane Radigue albums, so that makes for a unique, if somewhat uncharacteristic, entry into Radigue oeuvre.

Naturally, I have a few small gripes (I am chronically dissatisfied), but they are ultimately fairly trivial. For example, I would have loved some more information about both Radigue and the pieces themselves and I am very curious about what Rhys Chatham had to say in his liner notes for the original 2002 issue (on Table of the Elements). However, the stuff that is included instead is very cool in its own right (old flyers, a handwritten letter from Arthur Russell inviting Radigue to play at The Kitchen, etc.).

Also, I found 3 1/2 hours of very similar sounding material to be a bit exhausting and I think each of these pieces would be better appreciated as a stand-alone album. That said, there is absolutely nothing stopping me from listening to each piece as a stand-alone album (they are all on separate discs) and it is certainly convenient to not have to buy three separate releases. In any case, this is a great set. While I would probably not categorize Adnos as one of Radigue’s masterpieces, I certainly would not argue with Important’s claim that this is “one of the high points of modern minimal electronic composition.” It is indeed exactly that—it is just that Radigue is also responsible for some even higher points than this one.

Listen here.