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Born of Six, “Svapiti” (Important, 2013)

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Catherine Christer Hennix has certainly had a very curious career, to say the least: she worked at MIT’s Artificial Intelligence lab in the ’70s, was a research professor in mathematics at SUNY New Paltz, studied with Pandit Pran Nath and LaMonte Young, collaborated with Henry Flynt, and made some singularly challenging and adventurous music that somehow never got formally released until her 1976 performance of The Electric Harpsichord was finally issued by Die Schachtel in 2010. Now in her mid-60s, Hennix has beautifully capitalized on the belated interest in her music to become the reigning queen of deep, Eastern-influenced drone. This latest release is not a far cry from last year’s fine Chor(s)san Time-Court Mirage album, but it is every bit as good (if not better).

I must admit that I was pleasantly wrong-footed by Hennix’s current direction after being initially exposed to her through the somewhat maniacal and sinister-sounding The Electric Harpsichord, as she now sounds like a completely different artist. Of course, that makes perfect sense, given that over 30 years separate the recordings and that none of the evolution that occurred between them was ever formally documented or released. Also, neither this nor the Chor(s)san album are solo endeavors: for Svapiti, Hennix is rejoined by Chor(s)san vocalist Amelia Cuni, as well as new collaborator Werner Durand (credited with “invented wind instruments” and “drones”).

Given that Svapiti is about as “drone” as music can get, it might seem like Durand played a very dominant role in the album, but the trio’s contributions are so blurred together that it is often impossible to tell who is doing what. In any case, the crux of the composition seems to be a gently quavering, hazy, and layered bed of Hennix’s vocals accompanied by a steadily buzzing sitar or tambura drone. In fact, for long stretches, that is all there is (the piece clocks in at nearly an hour). The beauty lies in the details and the transitions, as the trio gradually embellish their hypnotic thrum with Durand’s viscerally breath-like and stuttering wind instruments, as well as Cuni’s increasingly prominent and ritualistic-sounding chants (which take their inspiration from Indian classical singing).

Svapiti also steadily grows in density and power as it progresses, but does so in an impressively organic and slow-burning manner. The most prominent change is the introduction of some deeper wind instruments, which unpredictably blurt and throb rather than languorously drone. Also, some of the higher-pitched wind instruments begin to swirl together to create a roiling, dissonant miasma that dissipates almost as quickly and unexpectedly as it came together. That is ultimately the piece’s harshest moment, but a few other surprises gradually emerge from Svapiti‘s ebb and flow as well, the most memorable of which is a juddering, burbling interlude of Cuni’s heavily processed vocals.

While Born of Six definitely take quite a bit of their direction, as well as their name*, from Indian classical music, there is actually a bridge that links Svapiti to The Electric Harpsichord: the use of Just Intonation. I imagine that there are also quite a lot of deeper philosophical and/or behind-the-scenes structural concepts linking them as well (Hennix is big on that sort of thing), but the two albums are as different as night and day from a listening perspective. 

Consequently, it is very hard to contextualize Svapiti within Catherine’s (very limited) discography. It is also a bit reductive to even classify this album as “drone,” as it is prone to some rather jarring, strangled, and somewhat abrasive passages that occasionally push the piece into somewhat challenging and nerve-jangling territory (a trait shared by labelmate Pauline Oliveros’ recent work as well). The important thing, however, is that it is all very good (which it is). The Electric Harpsichord probably remains the most bracingly original and essential release in Hennix’s oeuvre, but Svapiti deserves a place of honor for presenting her distinctive vision in a much more listenable way.

Listen here.

(*“Born of Six” refers to the Vedic sage Narada’s assertion that the tonic note originates from a combination of nose, throat, chest, palate, teeth, and tongue.)

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Duane Pitre, “Bridges” (Important, 2013)

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Pitre’s latest offering is a fine companion piece to last year’s stellar Feel Free, achieving a similar outcome through composition rather than computerized randomization. Built upon Duane’s now-characteristic pointillist plucking, shifting drone swells, and Oliver Barrett’s swooping and sliding cello moans, Bridges delivers yet another swaying, languorous reverie that I could happily listen to in an endless loop. It may not quite scale the heights of its predecessor, but that is more of a commentary on Feel Free‘s brilliance than it is upon Bridges‘ shortcomings. In fact, in many ways, Bridges displays an impressive evolution.

Bridges takes its name from Pitre’s original plan for the album, which was to “bridge” traditional Eastern music with Western forms like medieval religious music and Modern Classical. I am not sure if the project gradually evolved into something different along the way, but the influence of Western music is not especially apparent to me in the finished work, aside from the instrumentation used and Duane’s willingness to get a bit dissonant. That is not a complaint by any means, but the album’s most significant traits seem quite indebted to Eastern drone, as Pitre eschews anything resembling a strong beginning or end and focuses much more on the harmonic interactions of sustained notes rather than on crafting any sort of graspable, discrete melody.

Much like its predecessor, Bridges is ostensibly divided into multiple parts, but is essentially just one long-form drone piece. However, it can also be viewed as two separate (side-long) pieces for those who prefer their drone in 20-minute doses rather than 40-minute ones. In addition to their structural similarities, Bridges shares a lot of common ground content-wise with Feel Free as well, in that it is essentially Feel Free Redux (sustained strings sliding and swelling above a drifting bed of plucks and drones), albeit with all of the randomness removed (and an emphasis on droning rather than on richly twinkling harmonics).

That creates an interesting predicament, as Feel Free‘s ingenious computer-generated bed of randomly generated harmonics was the primary reason why it was so wonderful and endlessly listenable. Pitre gamely tries to replicate that element with his mandolin playing at various points during Bridges (with some success), but it is not nearly as hypnotically unpredictable and layered. That is a shame, as Barrett’s cello parts are wonderfully gnarled, visceral, and emotive—if the underlying bed was nearly as strong as the string parts in the foreground, Bridges would handily eclipse Feel Free. As it stands, it is a significantly deeper, darker, and more moving piece, but it lacks the sense of glittering infinity that its sister album possessed.

That said, Pitre has certainly proven himself to be reliably rewarding artist who is restlessly intent on getting even better. In this particular instance, he seems to have evolved laterally rather than surging forward, but he appears to be closing in on his masterpiece regardless (which lies somewhere between Feel Free‘s twinkling richness and Bridges‘ earthier passion, I suspect). In any case, this is yet another excellent Duane Pitre album.

Listen here.

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Alessandro Cortini, “Forse, Volume One” (Important, 2013)

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Cortini is best known as a member of Nine Inch Nails and How to Destroy Angels, but his work with Trent Reznor is quite a bit different from this opening salvo of a planned trilogy of releases using a Buchla Music Easel as his sole instrument. Given my justified weariness of the recent vintage synthesizer revival, it is hard to say whether I will stick with Alessandro for the entire project, yet I have to admit that his work in this field is much better than most. In fact, the opening and closing pieces of this double album are great enough to transcend any of the limitations that I erroneously felt this genre had.

In some ways, Forse (“maybe”) is a reaction or counterbalance to Cortini’s work with Reznor, as Alessandro found the enormous amount of tools at NIN’s disposal somewhat paralyzing as a composer. Using only the Buchla might seem like an extreme antidote to that predicament, but the idea also interested Cortini because he has come to believe that changes in how notes sound can be just as powerful as melodic or harmonic transitions. 

Forse certainly gives him ample opportunity to test that theory, as he opted to record the whole album live as well, limiting his already-limited palette still further. Given that, along with the fact that all three volumes of Forse were composed and recorded in a single month, these pieces are by necessity fairly simple experiments in exploring the potential of both the instrument and of strict self-imposed compositional constraints.

Cortini is not wrong in his belief that changes in dynamics and spectra can be hugely effective, but the catch here is that it is just about all that is changing in each piece: the Buchla does have a small keyboard, but it is impossible to get very adventurous with it while still paying close attention the various oscillator, envelope, and filter controls involved. Cortini, to his credit, does an excellent job striking an effective balance between melodic motion and tone manipulation, yet it is still the pieces with the strongest melodies or chord progressions that stand-out. The most striking one is the opening “Basta,” which unfolds a melancholy four-chord progression in dense, glacial swells that vibrantly buzz, reverberate, and dissolve. The similarly affecting closer, “Sera,”, on the other hand, is like a muted and ghostly negative image that eventually snowballs in power to a sizzling and snarling crescendo.

All of the pieces in between are fairly varied and enjoyable in their own right, which makes for a satisfying album, but they are more “great for something played live on a Buchla Music Easel” than “great” in a more universal sense (though the throbbing, futuristic “Gira” makes a strong argument for the latter). That is fine by me though, as two songs that wildly exceed my expectations are a lot more than most albums offer—Cortini is not a goddamn sorcerer, so there is only so much he can do with the tools at hand, no matter how talented he is. 

The Buchla does sound quite spectacular though: Cortini is able to achieve a presence, density, and unpredictability with his pieces that I do not often get to hear. They may be locked into simple patterns, but those patterns often sound huge and alive and can erupt into all kinds of roiling chaos at a whim. I like that. I would probably like it even more if I could get excited about vintage synthesizer forays, but I will concede that Forse is exactly the sort of album that could make someone (at least, someone less burned-out than me) excited about such things.

Listen here.

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Günter Schickert, “Samtvogel” (Self-Released (1974)/Important (2013))

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Important Records has issued many great albums over the years, but it just occurred to me today that they have quietly become one of the best-curated reissue labels around. Case in point: this visionary 1974 suite of hermetic, hallucinatory solo guitar compositions. Originally self-released, Samtvogel was later reissued twice by the legendary Krautrock label Brain, which is something of a deceptive pairing. Although he worked as Klaus Schulze’s roadie and assistant and had an active presence in Germany’s free-jazz and space music scenes in his own right, this surprisingly dark and obsessive early effort bears little resemblance to anything else in the Krautrock canon, aside from perhaps Manuel Göttsching’s landmark Inventions for Electric Guitar (which was not released until the following year).

Notably, Samtvogel (“silk bird”) was Schickert’s first album, which is both remarkable and weirdly appropriate. The “appropriate” bit stems from the fact that it is clearly the work of someone who just discovered how cool echo sounds on a guitar and set about abstractly experimenting with it with no real aspirations for anything more. The “remarkable” aspect, however, lies in both the single-mindedness with which Schickert pursued his experiments and the self-assuredness of his bold divergence from the exciting, fertile scene around him. He clearly had a unique, fully formed vision from the very beginning and set about realizing it by whatever means were at his disposal, which were quite modest.

Due to the limited, primitive equipment Schickert had on-hand, the recording of these three pieces actually took three months, as all of the heavy lifting was accomplished with just a guitar, an amp, his voice, and two tape recorders. Given the density and complexity of some passages, that is difficult to imagine, but that is precisely why the recording took so long: Schickert had to painstakingly assemble the various layers by recording himself playing along each previous tape, starting over again from scratch every time he made a mistake. As frustrating as that process must have been, the naked, lo-fi quality of these recordings actually works in Samtvogel‘s favor, as Schickert’s brand of psychedelia feels genuinely, uncomfortably warped rather than like anything resembling mere studio artifice.

Despite that limited palette, each of Samtvogel‘s three pieces is quite distinctive. The shortest, “Apricot,” opens the album on a fragile, woozy, languorous and uncharacteristically song-like note. The piece is also quite a cryptic one, as the few words that I am able to make out seem to be about apricot brandy, a topic which sits uncomfortably with the lonely, echo-heavy nightmare the piece gradually becomes. 

After that, Schickert is very much done with attempting anything that resembles a song in the conventional sense, but he is more than happy to continue being disturbing and nightmarish. As a result, the following two pieces are much longer and more abstract. However, while they share a lot of similarities with one another in structure and trajectory, they ultimately wind up in very different places mood-wise.

“Kriegsmaschinen, Fahrt Zur Hölle” (or “War Machines, Go to Hell”) is the album’s darkest, most unhinged piece and consequently its artistic zenith, as Schickert unleashes nearly 20 minutes of dense, dissonantly churning Reich-esque minimalist patterns and panning vocal chants buffeted by queasily out-of-tune-sounding jangling. After the appropriately explosive crescendo subsides, Schickert launches into the closing “Walde” (“Forest”) with a similarly roiling, massive assault of repeating patterns before unexpectedly giving way to a passage of swooning, melancholy beauty. For better or worse, that oasis is an ephemeral one, as Schickert keeps a simmering tension rumbling in the background at all times. Part of me wishes that he had allowed his more warm and dreamlike passages to unfold in a less precarious, threatened manner, but I cannot deny that the piece’s unstable and unpredictable nature makes for much better and more striking art than the more conventional piece my battered ears were hoping for.

While Samtvogel is undeniably a very unique, challenging, and forward-thinking recording from start to finish, its single most remarkable characteristic might be that it was not simultaneously Schickert’s first and last album. The mood of these pieces is so claustrophobic and paranoid that it is difficult to believe this was not an aural suicide note, evidence of terminal drug psychosis, or the last communique before he completely lost his mind. Instead, Schickert somehow went on to record a similarly wonderful (if a bit more conventional) follow-up five years later in Überfällig , then later formed the revered (yet obscure) trio GAM.

As much as I loathe the woefully over-used term “lost classic,” that is exactly what this album is, as it certainly meets my most exacting criteria: it sounded singularly challenging, audacious, and against-the-tide in 1974 and it basically still sounds completely unique. Schickert wisely avoided any of the trends or clichés of the day (aside from hating war machines, obviously), so there is virtually nothing on Samtvogel that sounds particularly dated, ill-advised, or derivative. Granted, there has been no shortage at all of echo-heavy psychedelic guitar voyages in Samtvogel‘s wake, but I suspect none of them have ever been quite as disconcertingly intimate and haunted-sounding as this one.

Listen here.

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Folke Rabe, “What??” (WERGO (1970)/Important (2013))

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Important Records keeps their recent string of excellent minimal drone albums intact with this long-neglected gem from the distant past. Originally released back in 1970 as Was?? on a split with psych legend Bo Anders Persson (Pärson Sound), What?? has woefully only re-surfaced once in the ensuing four decades (in 1997 on Jim O’Rourke and David Grubbs’ Dexter’s Cigar imprint). While it sounds quite contemporary today, I cannot begin to imagine how it was originally received, as it is essentially nothing less than an uncomfortably dissonant rejection of nearly every major aspect of Western music (composed at the height of rock’s supremacy, no less).

Though it took three years to ultimately get released, Rabe originally composed this piece in the summer of 1967, which is quite noteworthy for a couple of reasons. While several other experimental visionaries (Steve Reich, La Monte Young, Terry Riley, and all of the early electronic composers) were already somewhat established, none of them had recorded anything quite like this. Also, while Sweden was definitely a very happening place musically around that time, making proto-industrial electronic drone music was most definitely not the zeitgeist. Rabe was basically an isolated vanguard of one, a fact which is even more remarkable given that he began his career as a dixieland/swing trombonist.

Folke did share some common ground with his more psych-minded countrymen though, as much of his inspiration arose from an interest in Indian music. The difference is that Rabe was far more interested in ideas of monotony, repetition, and the actual qualities of sound than in more overt borrowing (like buying a sitar). Recorded using the now-primitive electronic gear at Swedish Radio, Folke’s stuttering harmonics and queasy haze of overtones bear absolutely no timbral relation to Indian classical music at all. Certainly not the original piece, anyway, which sounds like a hypnotic, otherworldly hum hovering above a bed of purring machinery.

The 1999 reissue added a half-speed version though, which is considerably more drone-like and easier on the ears. Of the two, I prefer the slowed-down version as a listening experience, as the periodic clouds of dissonant harmonizing tones do not feel nearly as harsh or tense at a lower pitch. Rabe was right to choose the more radical and challenging normal-speed version for the original release though, as it is much stronger artistically (the half-speed version’s softened edges blunt its impact). Greatness and listenability do not always coincide.

Unsurprisingly, the ensuing 40+ years of other drone and minimal music that followed in the wake of What?? serve to dull its impact as well—this reissue is unlikely to blow any minds or kick down any doors of perception in 2013. It still holds up as a very good album though and packs significantly more bite than I would have expected (though I wish it did not ultimately resolve with a major chord). I admittedly prefer some of Important’s more contemporary minimal drone albums to this one, but the gulf is not a wide one at all, as What?? fits quite comfortably into the label’s Radigue/Eleh/Hennix pantheon of classics.