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Tomasz Sroczynski, “Symphony n°2 / Highlander” (Ici d’ailleurs/Mind Travels, 2021)

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This album was my first exposure to this Polish composer, but this appears to be his sixth album if I include his improv trio and his collaborations. Also, it is the second symphony that he has composed (the first being 2017’s Resurrection). Some of his past albums are a bit closer to my own weird/experimental sensibility (Primal and Ajulella, for example), but Symphony No. 2 /Highlander is a more straightforward modern classical release and it is one hell of a great one. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Highlander is composed of three very good pieces and one absolutely brilliant one. 

Naturally, that one absolutely brilliant piece (“Moderato Pastorale”) is the best reason to seek this album out, but as the album description notes, “Tomasz Sroczynski is a symphony in his own right.” Hyperbole aside, Sroczynski is indeed a genuinely fascinating composer, seamlessly combining influences as disparate as Arvo Pärt, experimental improv, and strains of both classic Detroit techno and contemporary German minimalist techno.

A sane and honest critical assessment of Sroczynski’s second symphony could be easily distilled to some variation of “just go listen to ‘Moderato Pastorale’ immediately.” As tempting as that is, it is a bit lean on the details and I would be remiss if I did not mention that Sroczynski’s primary tools for this album were just a violin, a sampler, and a harmonizer and that Highlander is a triumph of masterful loop architecture rather than the work of a world-class string ensemble. 

I was surprised to learn that, as it is hard to imagine the churning, propulsive intensity of “Moderato Pastorale” originating from anything less than a dozen violinists relentlessly bowing away with demonic intensity. Regardless of how it was made, “Moderato Pastorale” is pitch-perfect in every sense, as Sroczynski unleashes a god-tier motif and then nimbly manipulates the tension for ten glorious minutes. I suspect this is where Sroczynski’s love of techno manifests itself: he handles dynamic tension the same way a virtuosic DJ might seamlessly assemble and deconstruct a monster groove. 

Sadly, Sroczynski does not attempt to replicate that deft combination of raw emotion and steadily intensifying trancelike repetition again, but that is mostly because each of these four pieces explores a different shade of moody, epic grandeur. The following “Adagio,” for example, gradually transforms from darkly brooding cloudlike swells into a rapturously swooning and heaving crescendo of Romanticism. Elsewhere, “Diablak” combines a chunky rhythm of strummed violin with a mournful, ambiguously exotic melody, but soon takes some strange detours before landing somewhere best described as “wrong-speed psychotic ballroom dance nightmare.” 

The closing title piece then returns to more billowing and cloudlike territory, but does so in a compelling way, as its deceptively amorphous structure is like a living, organic entity that can solidify whenever the need for an emotional crescendo appears. The four pieces add up to an absorbing and dramatic whole, as Sroczynski is very skilled at moving between heaving immensity and emotionally raw snatches of melody. That said, you should probably just go listen to “Moderato Pastorale” immediately.

Samples can be found here.

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This Immortal Coil, “The Dark Age of Love” (Ici d’ailleurs, 2009)

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It is difficult to avoid being moved by the four years of hard work, love, and tireless enthusiasm that Stéphane Grégoire has poured into assembling this globe-spanning homage to the music of Coil, but I have to admit that it completely subverted my expectations in many ways.  The Dark Age of Love is a deeply curious and oft-excellent album, but it is also a surprisingly tame one (given its inherently aberrant inspiration).

The drolly amusing title of this project gives a rather unsubtle hint at Grégoire’s aesthetic inspiration: This Immortal Coil, like Ivo Watts-Russell’s This Mortal Coil before it, is a shifting and eclectic assemblage of underground luminaries united for the purpose of covering a bunch of obscure songs. Of course, Ivo had the unique good fortune of being able to call in folks like Dead Can Dance and Cocteau Twins to lay down some tracks, whereas things were probably a bit harder for this small French label. I guess they weren’t quite hard enough though, as Stephane further complicated his task by deliberately seeking out artists who were previously unfamiliar with Coil in order to capture the thrill of discovery. Luckily, there were some pretty talented musicians around who that description quite nicely.

The most immediately odd thing about an album of Coil covers is that John Balance and Peter Christopherson are not primarily known for their songwriting. While generally quite weird and wonderful, they were most certainly stylists: Coil songs were generally good because Coil was playing them. Despite recording together for almost a quarter of century, the bulk of their extremely varied output was (quite obviously) wordless ambiance and sound experiments, so there are not many “songs” to choose from. That being the case, The Dark Age of Love skews quite heavily towards the band’s early days (particularly 1991’s classic Love’s Secret Domain). In fact, Matt Elliott (Third Eye Foundation) and renowned soundtrack composer Yann Tiersen (Amélie) actually tackle the title track of that album twice here (one as an ambitious, roiling misfire and the other as an excellent, albeit somewhat skeletal, marimba-based piece). That killer duo is also responsible for one of the album’s highlights in the epic and creepy “Red Queen.”

The other striking aspect about The Dark Age of Love is the level of musicianship, which is frankly disorienting. Much of the instrumentation is dominated by Belgium’s DAUU, who have a rather perverse and accordion-heavy tendency to make everything sound very traditionally French. I certainly appreciate how organic and intricate and downright musical they make everything, but it can be weird and distracting at times (like hearing industrial music re-envisioned by a particularly talented group of Parisian buskers). On a similar note, Matt Elliott transforms “Teenage Lightning” into a bizarrely Spanish-tinged approximation of David Byrne’s solo work. Israeli pop songstress Yaël Naim, on the other hand, turns “The Dark Age of Love” and “Tattooed Man” into smoky cabaret jazz, which is a neat trick. Some of the other feats of transformation aren’t so impressive though, as Sylvain Chauveau and Nicolas Jorio turn “Amber Rain” into fairly dour and straightforward singer-songwriter fare.

Despite my minor grousing about the rampant and perplexing professionalism on display, the gang does occasionally get a bit wild. In fact, when the balance between musicianship and exuberance is just right, the results are stunning. In “Ostia” for example, DAAU’s strings and snaking clarinet provide the perfect foundation for Christine Ott’s haunting ondes Martenot and Will Oldham’s harrowing, strained vocals (they sound like the world’s most unhinged, acid-damaged chamber music ensemble). DAAU’s expert musical backing succeeds again in the absolutely mesmerizing “Blood From The Air,” in which Dälek’s Oktopuss whips up a mind-melting cacophony around the menacing accordion backdrop that actually rivals the original.

The Dark Age of Love is definitely a fascinating listen and worth checking out, but several songs yield rapidly diminishing returns after the initial surprise wears off. Coil’s blasphemous, twisted songs bristle a bit at being interpreted in such a restrained and reverent way, but the stronger material is some of the more inventive and intense music that I have heard this year. No Coil tribute album could hope to please everyone, of course, and I think Stéphane has every reason to be quite proud of this odd and idiosyncratic project.   

Listen here.