The 1970s are often referred to as the heyday of avant-garde jazz and improvised music in Europe, especially in England. Festival and concert performances were frequent and, in the early years, even major labels got in on the action. Part of that had to do with the potential appeal of this music to audiences seeking psychedelic and progressive sounds. For example, there was no obvious indication that the People Band LP on Transatlantic (1968) was a balls-to-the-wall free jazz album, produced as it was by none other than Charlie Watts. Cross-pollination between the worlds of art rock and improvised music wasn’t that uncommon, either – saxophonist and composer Elton Dean (1945-2006) worked with the Soft Machine from late 1969 into 1972, appearing on their albums Third, Fourth, and Five (all released on CBS) as well as countless live recordings that have surfaced over the years. He lent an acrid tone and loquacious approach to a band that, as they evolved, narrowly walked the line between clinical reserve and rugged expressiveness, and his presence certainly pushed the band to extraordinary heights. Dean was recruited, alongside trumpeter Marc Charig and saxophonist Lyn Dobson (who only lasted a short time), from the sextet of pianist-composer Keith Tippett (who would briefly join King Crimson). A look at Tippett’s first LP You are Here, I am There (Polydor, 1970) shows the ensemble as young, hip and Beatle-coiffed – an image concomitant with Modish UK counterculture.
By the early-to-mid 70s, creative music was once again an underground phenomenon in Europe, with most major labels pulling out and musicians self-financing their work (though festivals and the media were still quite forward-leaning). Much as in the US, artist-run labels sprouted up to offer musicians a chance to document their processes on wax. Expatriate South African bassist Harry Miller (1941-1983) and his wife Hazel started Ogun Records to document the British modern jazz scene during the decade, drawing significantly from the exiled South African community surrounding pianist Chris McGregor. Recalling the lush landscapes of Tippett’s work as well as the exuberant and freewheeling suites of McGregor’s Brotherhood of Breath (two of the saxophonist’s employers), Dean formed Ninesense in 1975. The personnel included Miller, Tippett, Charig, drummer Louis Moholo, trombonists Nick Evans and Radu Malfatti (Switzerland), tenor saxophonist Alan Skidmore, and flugelhornist Harry Beckett. Ninesense released two LPs on Ogun, Oh! For the Edge and Happy Daze, and toured extensively through the latter half of the 70s. This fertile period has given us the recently unearthed The 100 Club Concert 1979 (Reel Recordings).
Unlike the many bootleg labels that present this music in less-than-quality format, Reel Recordings has sought to bring rare performances to light both legally and in good to excellent sound. This particular Ninesense set (two discs worth) is culled from two cassettes made by Italian superfan Riccardo Bergerone with the musicians’ approval. And while the sound is a bit raw (the piano is a bit distant), the vast emotional and conceptual canvas of Dean and Ninesense are clearly on display. Miller and Moholo are an incredibly well-synced team, swirling and ebbing in a rhythmic flow that, while forceful, carries this challenging music with the majesty it needs. Indeed, there’s something quite stately about the arrangements, due in part to the instrumental breadth and how Dean has paced the voicing (wide intervals and overlapping sections). With a combination of nine very individual personalities (or ten if you count the appearance of trumpeter Jim Dvorak on disc two), it would be easy to imagine Ninesense being blowout-prone. However, contra the Brotherhood’s music (which was often quite ragtag in its sonic appearance), Ninesense isn’t so rough around the edges. The palette and approach, as open as it might seem, are realized with captivating deliberateness – one can imagine a subtle and linear herding of Evans and Malfatti’s garrulous trombones as they duet in “Nicrotto,” joined by swooping brass, arco bass, and reeds. This music revels in elegantly threading an area between control and freedom, and it’s a really fascinating listen.
Following the dissolution of Ninesense later that year, Dean continued to work in small groups, including with fellow ex-Softs bassist Hugh Hopper and in Canterbrury offshoot bands like drummer Pip Pyle’s (Gong, Soft Heap, National Health) l’Equipe Out and guitarist Phil Miller’s (Caravan, Hatfield and the North, National Health) In Cahoots. However, much of Dean’s subsequent work hewed closer to free improvisation, such as recordings with American trombonist Roswell Rudd, pianist Howard Riley, saxophonist Paul Dunmall, and others. The 100 Club Concert 1979 is a fitting and intense tribute to his admittedly somewhat underground legacy.
Psychedelia was a fortuitous intervention in the development of music technology. At the same moment as recording and amplification technologies were exponentially improving fidelity and reducing signal distortion, psychedelic rock was in the process of formalizing distortion as a method of reflecting altered states of consciousness. Guitar distortion had already been a fascination for 1950s R&B artists; think of Chuck Berry’s overdriven valve amp on “Maybelline” or Link Wray’s habit of poking holes in his speaker cones to create his signature tone. This fashion for distortion led to the development of technologies such as the Fuzztone, which paradoxically lend a measure of control to distortion, focusing and directing the stochasticity of dissonance and clipping toward musical ends. This tension between the proliferation of signal distortion and the technological means to control flows of noise is one of the many alternative historical narratives of pop music.
Seen in this way, the history of psychedelic music is no longer a narrative of human genius, the expansion of the mind resulting in the expansion of pop music’s vocabulary, but rather a highly contingent meeting of technologies: psychoactive drug states reorienting attention to the excess of recorded music (i.e. noise, inharmonics, decay, etc.), and technology responding by developing ways to produce signal distortion that can be artfully controlled. Lest we forget: LSD was the accidental invention of a Swiss chemist, and the history of guitar distortion is all about the creative misuse of gear and the use of malfunctioning or modified equipment. In other words, psychedelic music became the accidental laboratory for excess, for pushing music technology beyond its limitations in order to signify the chemically-altered consciousness in which noise, transience, and decay signify as much or more than melodies and lyrics. Someone had to be the first to turn the dial on the reverb unit all the way to “wet,” completely silencing the original signal, leaving only the feedbacked echoes.
In the realm of underground psych, this logic is intensified. Unsigned psych musicians of the first era had no choice but to turn their technological limitations into an alternate set of aesthetic values. The world of vanity-press psych is filled with home producers who pushed consumer-level technologies well beyond their breaking point, not just to evoke hallucinatory perceptual states, but also to cover over weaknesses due to substandard recording and mixing equipment. The rise of “lo-fi” as a pop aesthetic in the mid-1980s (Beat Happening, Tall Dwarfs, etc.) was already old news for rare psych enthusiasts, who had long ago embraced the shortcomings of home recording as a desirable alternative to the slick, soulless commercialism of art rock and new wave. The song “Take Off Your Eyes,” by a trio with the unwieldy name Damin Eih, A.L.K. and Brother Clark, is an excellent example of these strategies at work. The song was included on Never Mind, the first and only album by the Minneapolis group, recorded and released in a tiny private press edition in 1973.
Like the rest of the album, “Take Off Your Eyes” is marked by strange mixing, guitar and bass often cancelling each other out, and the nearly incessant cymbals far too prominent in the mix. The heavy delay on the main guitar part often results in the song seeming strangely out of sync rhythmically. At times, the drums appear to be rushing forward while other elements of the composition fall behind. Though it threatens to become annoying, the persistent ping-pong doubling effect on the vocals is an unorthodox gamble that pays off, evoking the mirroring effects of psychedelics and making other syncing problems seem intentional in context. It helps that the main vocal refrain is a bit of an earworm, and the melody is more than functional, but the appeal of “Take Off Your Eyes” is ultimately its own excess. It signifies too much. It insists on its own absurd lysergic imperative too emphatically, and yet paradoxically, it is this wide-eyed (or dilated-pupil) conviction that sells the lyric’s central conceit: “Take off your eyes/ And heading toward emptiness/ You can see everything suddenly new.”
We live in a brave new world in which the evolution of psychedelic compounds and the development of new audio technologies have become articulated together in ways that are not always apparent, such that it is hard to remember it wasn’t always the case. Terence McKenna claimed that the evolutionary leap from Homo erectus to Homo sapiens was due to the monolith-like influence of psychedelic mushrooms. The specifics of his argument don’t matter as much as his basic conjecture; that the advances of humankind are incomprehensible without a consideration of what was in the water. In this same spirit, we should be willing to consider the history of pop music in terms of a machinic evolution; the ways in which technology, with its own contingencies and trajectories, may often be a decisive factor in the (r)evolution of musical forms. Would techno be what it is today without the commercial failure of the TR-606 and TB-303, two bargain basement synth modules created as electronic accompaniments for jazz musicians? Similarly, the story of psych rock is one shaped by a series of stochastic collisions between emerging technology, psychopharmacology, culture, and the human psyche.
On March 10th, 1970, Alvin Lucier sat in his small rented apartment on High Street in Middletown, Connecticut and read a paragraph into a microphone. “I am sitting in a room, different from the one you are in now,” he began. It was the first step in a process that created the ur-text for understanding lo-fi music.
There’s a tendency to equate low production values with a certain type of intimacy. On it’s face, this is counter-intuitive; that poor sonic fidelity and less clean production create a recording that is more honest and sincere. Early Mountain Goats albums, On an Airplane Over the Sea, and pretty much all of the Corwood Industries catalog trade on this principle. The idea is partially rooted in our understanding of space. By retaining bits of sonic ephemera that were present at the site of recording — the tape hiss of John Darnielle’s boom box, the creak of Jeff Magnum’s chair at the end of “Two-Headed Boy Part 2” — the listener gets a more full and less mediated experience.
These imperfections could easily be scrubbed out in a studio, but keeping them gives the listener access to the site of creative activity. It’s a trick that gives recordings immediacy — it puts you right “there.” The construction is so incredibly pervasive that it’s no wonder we have a genre signifiers like “bedroom pop.” You and the artist share the same aural space, giving the entire recording a patina of intimacy.
After he finished reading the paragraph, Lucier hit rewind and played it back, recording the playback on another tape. He then repeated this process more than 30 times. I am Sitting in a Room is all these recordings collected and stitched together chronologically. With each copy of a copy of a copy Lucier’s original speech gets increasingly warped and distorted, the size and shape of the room emphasizing certain frequencies and absorbing others. After 45 minutes of tape, Lucier’s words are completely incomprehensible. What we’re left with is not his voice, but the sound of the room itself.
What stands out about the piece is how our relationship to Lucier changes in proportion to the prominence of the room’s presence in the recording. At the start, Lucier’s comes through clearly, his soft-spoken enunciation creating a sonic coziness. For the first few repetitions the closeness increases along with the slight distortion. As the clarity degrades and the words begin to blur around the edges. We hear Lucier speaking, as well as where he is speaking. We’re right there with him. However, as I am Sitting continues, the process quickly reveals diminishing returns. Within a few a few more loops, the voice sounds modulated and hollow, like HAL has taken over the reading. Soon, the human lilt of the speech disappears completely and all that’s left are pristine drones and harmonies: all room; no person.
Pull out some graph paper and draw it if you want. You get sort of a distorted bell curve, with peak familiarity somewhere near the beginning before dropping off completely. It’s the line all music working within the lo-fi framework must walk. You want to hint at the realities of the recording — the space, the tape hiss, the crackle of the mic — without drowning out the human aspect with the artifice of it all.
In the introduction to Rip It Up and Start Again: Postpunk 1978-1984, Simon Reynolds writes that, during the post-punk era with which his book is concerned, he never bought older records. Reynolds posits two reasons for this phenomenon: to begin with, today’s pervasive reissue culture did not yet exist but, more importantly, the overwhelming fertility of the then contemporary musical climate left no time to turn toward a nostalgic past anyway.
Liberated from the commodified leisure culture of the 70s mainstream rock spectacle, post-punk musicians sculpted their own vernacular, free from punk’s rockist foundation, upon the scorched earth landscape with which they had been left. They applied punk’s transgressive ideals to itself, synthesizing its minimal, neanderthal approach with supposed antagonists disco, prog, and electronic music to effect both a formal and aesthetic break from punk’s already cloistered structural misanthropy – and it is this further break from tradition, coupled with post-punk’s proletarian accessibility that lent itself to such a rich proliferation of recorded material from the period.
Ant Trip Ceremony hardly draw from the same ideological well, but perhaps share deeper impulsive groundwater. Recorded on a low budget in early 1968 by students in Oberlin, Ohio and originally released in a run of only 300 copies, the band’s only album 24 Hours remains very of its time, typifying the zeitgeist of a late 1960s America abundant with the music of an inspired generation. The presence of a “Hey Joe” cover and the album’s current status as a reissue beg for it to be interpreted through the lens of Lenny Kaye’s influential 1972 compilation of proto-punk, Nuggets, and 24 Hours fits predictably into that mold. The band’s version of the standard lies somewhere between The Leaves’ frenetic original and Jimi Hendrix’s laid-back, downtempo interpretation with the album’s 11 other tracks accordingly straddling the line between raucous garage rock and gauzy psychedelia.
Yet unlike typical 60s tracklistings, where a hit single becomes the title of a band’s record and its first track, 24 Hours remarkably resists front-loading to the point that I almost wanted to abandon ship on first listen. Though Ant Trip Ceremony are also clearly at fault, it is these introductory tracks that suffer from the album’s rough production. Opening crooner “Locomotive Lamp,” which in another world might burst out of floodgates with the bombastic pomp of Scott Walker, here limps from the silent void, weary with dispassion. Along with its three successors, the song is barely saved by mildly interesting, spindly guitar work, and half-hearted lyrical banalities like “eternally free to love” and “bridges in my mind” do little to prevent me from being reminded of Spinal Tap’s satirical hippie pastiche “Listen to the Flower People.”
Fortunately, “Hey Joe” is a breath of fresh air that manages, through its sonic oscillations, to express both the blind passion of a man who shoots his lover after being cuckolded and the melancholic aimlessness of consequent self-exile where most versions settle for just one. And the remainder of the album builds off of its energy. “Outskirts,” with its tastefully applied vocal tremolo, could be the story of Joe’s southbound journey: “Going down the river/ Going down the track/ Don’t know where I’m going but I know I’m going back.” Side two mostly atones for the shortcomings of its obverse, utilizing the no-frills production to its proper advantage on tracks like pithy rocker “Get Out Of My Life.” The specter of “Hey Joe” continues to exert its vibrant influence via the successful appropriation and slackening of its chord progression on “Four In The Morning;” and the band is at their most compelling on such instances where they let things stretch out and take on a life of their own, exemplified by “Pale Shades of Gray” and the instrumental flute-adorned pseudo-raga “Elaborations.”
While 24 Hours fits in with the better Original Artyfacts from the First Psychedelic Era, it also doesn’t particularly stand out. So why reissue the album? There already exists a 1995 repress, and this new edition surely can’t have been motivated by a demand for a 180 gram issue of such an obscurity. I originally intended to use this review to present the 2010 Vinyl Lovers version of 24 Hours as a separate entity from its 1968 predecessor: a Borgesian re-contextualization forward in time that would illuminate the deficiencies of garage rock’s current crop of lazy anachronistic imitators, decrying the shoddiness of their misplaced troglodyte nostalgia, etc., etc. But such a rash generalization would be both defeatist and a hasty simplification of reality. The truth is that I continue to discover older music I love, whether it be from 1968, 1981, or 2010.
Contemporary labels like Spectrum Spools rescue albums from both historical obscurity and the ephemerality of recent limited cassette pressings. So, if Simon Reynolds’ statement regarding the post-punk era is to be applied to today’s glut of reissues, maybe its emphasis should be placed on the erstwhile absence of such a reissue culture rather than on a cultural inadequacy inherent in our current digital age. Today’s music curators are faced with access to a near-totality of recorded material, both past and present, and the act of presenting a recording or collection of recordings as a relevant, coherent album is a way of making sense of it all, of separating the wheat from the chaff. Reissues have brought about a folding of music history in on itself, a canon in flux, and an archaeological intertextuality facilitated by the information age. Formerly lost in the ether of 60s garage rock, it is because of this recent reissue that the existence of Ant Trip Ceremony came to my attention. 24 Hours might not be the best example of its type, but I’m glad to have heard it.
Murder ballads generally adhere to a strict formula it seems. They explain who the person being murdered is, why they got murdered, and finally how the killer is brought to justice. The most essential part though (other than, y’know… the murder) has got to be the motive, and that is precisely why “Knoxville Girl” is so fucking unsettling. It begins like a love song, with the narrator picking up his sweetheart to go for a stroll, and only a few lines in she’s screaming as he beats her to death with a stick. He doesn’t have any motivation, and our only insight into how he felt about her comes at the end as he wastes away in prison when he says he loved her. It never gets too gory, but a line like “She never spoke another word, I only beat her more, until the ground around me within her blood did flow,” sounds deeply disturbing when sung in the melancholy tone the song is famous for.
Pick any version you like, damn thing is nearly 100 years old so there are quite a lot to choose from. A lot of people go for the Nick Cave version, but for me nothing beats The Louvin Brothers version. These two brothers, Ira and Charlie Loudermilk, sing it so well because they depict the murderer in possibly the most unhinged way. They do that by singing it as a sad love song. If you heard their version and didn’t pay attention to any lyrics, it would sound like a broken-hearted ballad for the one that got away. They have the narrator reminisce the beating of a young girl to death, then dragging her bloody corpse by the hair and tossing it into the river as a sad memory of lost love. “Knoxville Girl” is the murder ballad at its absolute best, and this is the definitive version.
2003: The roots of Om
Listening to Al Cisneros and Chris Haikus post-Sleep band Om is like entering a realm where meditation and intensity coexist. The drums play a subtle but never simple blend of gentle pounds and reassured beats, while the bass oscillates between heavy riffing and string caressing pulses. It’s music to nod out and headbang to (and yes, it’s also great for smoking pot).
Still, the origin of the band’s sound is attributed to influences beyond rock, music from far off places preserved for centuries by millennial cultures. It seems that critics visit the “new age and world music” section of the record store to get references to where Om got their stuff. Having said that, here’s two older songs that are far closer to music geekery than ancient spiritual faiths that are the granddaddies to the their first three albums.
Yes’ classic album Fragile closes with one of their best songs, and there’s a fragment of the song where Chris Squier and Bill Bruford, for one brief moment, get their instruments locked in a gentle battle for us to breathe and feel the pulses of our circulatory system. Yes had always dabbled in ethereal realms, but “Heart of the Sunrise” does it with frenetic energy that goes beyond the drum and bass break.
The other is “Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun” by Pink Floyd. Saucerful of Secrets is a collage of different things, but this song is pure Om, right down to Roger Waters’ vocalizations. It’s right there, the stoner doom style in 1967.
In a way, I like to think of Om’s first three albums as a trilogy. Variations on a Theme presented Om as a continuation to the last phase of Sleep. It’s heavy and repetitive with some hushed tones that hint on Conference of Birds, where things get settled and sets a peaceful mood only to be disturbed by aggressive points. Pilgrimage is the climax, the grand finale, where everything explodes in their own way, things get shorter and there’s more variety. It’s a fitting conclusion to music that cycle and grind in equal measures.
Are effects special? I first encountered “The Big Hurt,” by Toni Fisher, referenced as the earliest use of the flange (phasing) effect – perhaps better known as ‘that sweeping noise,’ originally created by manipulating two simultaneous recordings of the same source. The term comes from ‘flange,’ the rim of the tape reel, which could be held down with a fingertip to create the effect – bringing to mind phalanges, the bones of the digits.
Skeletal technologies, doubled disassociations: it’s no surprise that “The Big Hurt” appeals to dark luminaries (namely Scott Walker and Nick Cave), while the image of Fisher on the cover of the eponymous 1960 LP rejects traditional pop-femininity in a portrait speaking to complex psychodrama. Curiously, the artist was specifically billed as ‘Miss Toni Fisher’ – like the song itself, the very fact that an appeal is made to the concrete known (i.e. gender) undermines the quality of definiteness which is intended, thus opening up a mirrormaze vista of sensibility.
“The Big Hurt,” lyrically, is a recognition of the onset of pain in a romantic loss (“Now it begins”), and its dragged-out eternality (“I wonder when/ Oh when will it end”). And this beginning is set to a discomforting and insistent beguine, over which emerges a labyrinth of shifting tones and key changes, reproducing the dislocated theme of the lyrics: a pre-postmodern house of leaves (the theme of alienated separation would also appear on Fisher’s tracks “West of the Wall,” about lovers separated by the Berlin Wall, and “The Red Sea of Mars”). The echoing sonics add to the sense of refraction, as do sighing strings which threaten to break into a stereotypical major-key pop chorus, yet slide away; and which give a chronologically impossible and eerie sense of pitch-shift as a purposeful strategy. The song both inhabits and refuses the listener’s ear, impossible to get a handle on, yet paradoxically memorable and addictive.
Despite these deflected discursions, the effect is achieved by a brutal brevity; there’s not a moment wasted in “The Big Hurt“‘s 130 seconds, and rather than a verse-chorus structure the tension builds to a single climax, a petite mort in jouissance mode, at the song’s end. To run with Lacan, there is a fundamental lack at its center, but one which is also, impossibly, a fullness of longing. We are somewhere between the glorious melodrama of the 50s, the death pop of the 60s, and the darkest aspect of psychedelia – that latter found in the surreal element of the flange. Del Shannon covered “The Big Hurt,” and like the electronic bleeps in his “Hats Off To Larry” – but in a less vengeful register – the unexpected technologesqueness gives the sense of a double mediation. It’s not that the tune arrives from outer space (as for The Ventures a few years later), but from the shadowy, phonographic past and the unimaginable future (now the present) simultaneously: from the childhood absence of the m/other, and from a posthuman state which is posthuman not from utopia, but from beyond the grave.
1996: Thela - Argentina
Start by imaging the last half of Sonic Youth’s “Expressway To Yr Skull” — specifically, the echoing part that ends in a locked groove. Thela’s Argentina is the sound of that locked echo getting picked up and shaped into new forms and directions, filled out with droning microtones and a pulse. Nels Cline once suggested that Argentina “seems like the only logical way to follow all that post-SY, post-Slint music,” and if you’ll allow me to briefly think about music in terms of minor era-based segments, Thela’s sound exists in a tightly packed sliver: it’s the mid-90s, so Harsh 70s Reality is out there; Royal Trux already ground rock music into the dirt one way, and all this post-rock stuff just seems to have abandoned “rock” in favor of stargazing (or lounging, even) — how do we break free and take it elsewhere?
Thela’s music is vaguely identifiable as rock, but only because of the instrumentation; guitarists Dean Roberts and Dion Workman are more likely to wrench out a trail of feedback than anything resembling a riff. Without overtly framing their tracks or becoming predictable (“dude, where are the crescendos?”), the echoing drones and clang of Argentina sculpts a narrow spot touching on the vague, inexpressible moodiness of the Dead C with the clarity of 90s post-rock, all filtered into long, gripping drones. In short: less murk, more open space. (And it kind of rocks in a way, kind of.)
What makes Argentina interesting to me today is that it really does sound like “post-rock,” but in the sense that it’s rock music emptied of itself. The instrumentation is identifiable, yet the rock signifiers have been otherwise deflated, hanging loosely at the sinews of scraping guitars and unsteady percussion. No track titles either, just a tarnished red chair in an empty and unfinished room – a fitting image, perhaps, for the Auckland, NZ-based trio’s second and final album on Ecstatic Peace: recognizable and worn, minimal and oddly claustrophobic in its emptiness. Argentina is an interesting moment where the free- and post- became entwined, hollowing out the mantle of rock into a serenely empty cavern, thick with dust yet never “dry” – it’s a more welcoming entry point than one might think, and a fantastic place to visit whether or not one is acquainted with the likes of Corpus Hermeticum or not. This water isn’t clear, but drink deep.
I first saw Girl Talk in 2007, shortly after the release of Night Ripper. Drunken college kids filled the floor and stage of the tiny venue. Hopped up on a continuous stream of Top 40 hooks, they surrounded Greg Gillis, jostling his tiny table of laptops and electronics like rioters trying to tip a police car. Shirts were off. Gillis’s keyboard was covered with saran wrap to protect it from the rain of sweat made airborne from the frantic dancing.
I’m not going to say those those kids owed their good times and undoubtedly massive hangovers to John Oswald, though he certainly predicted them. In 1985, the Canadian composer presented a paper to the Wired Society Electro-Acoustic Conference in Toronto titled “Plunderphonics, or Audio Piracy as a Compositional Prerogative.” The paper is short, and sets about making a point that now seems so self-evident as to be unnecessary: he argues “a sampler, in essence a recording, transforming instrument, is simultaneously a documenting device and a creative device.”
To our 2012 ears, accustomed to hearing Kanye top the charts by rapping over King Crimson, this sounds plain as day. It’s like someone wrote a paper arguing that you can compose a great pop song on a six-stringed something called a “guitar.” Though, remember, this is 1985. Though artists have been repurposing bits of recordings since the early days of musique concrète, the practice hadn’t spread far beyond the world of hip-hop — even the very high-profile Queen/Vanilla Ice fiasco was still half a decade off.
What makes this more interesting than your run-of-the-mill academic armchairing is the fact Oswald follows up his paper with Plunderphonics, a 24-track album that lays out a vision of the sampler as instrument. Unlike its contemporaries in the world of hip-hop, Plunderphonics doesn’t merely use prerecorded music to backbone a new creative work, something to buttress and build off of. Instead, the manipulation of samples is the focus — nothing new is added, and most tracks have only a single source material. The editing and handling of the samples is the point of creative action.
He doesn’t shy away from his target, either. Right from the start he goes after the King of Pop. Listen to “Dab,” Oswald’s take on Michael Jackson’s “Bad.” It’s mangled, concussive, and nearly twice as long as the original. At first, the song is recognizable, just jumbled as if being played off a severely scratched CD or on a bumpy bus ride. But just as the liner notes claim, “as it progresses the levels of complexity and abstraction increase.” The song essentially shows the various degrees to which a song can be mutated. It leaves you with the question: at what point does deserve the distinction of being a work in its own right.
Elsewhere, Oswald shows the versatility of this type of composition. On “Dont,” Elvis is slowed and stretched until his ghostly croon sounds as if it’s coming from the back of a cave filled with malfunctioning clocks. On “Pretender,” Dolly Parton goes through puberty right on tape, her voice dropping until it would fit into any Lynchian hallucination. The final track, “Rainbow,” works over the Wizard of Oz’s most famous performance into an eerie drone piece that would be right at home on a Caretaker album. Really, the technique and result are unbelievably similar.
Back in 1985, Oswald asked the audiophiles, futurists, and academics in Toronto to “imagine how invigorating a few retrograde Pygmy … chants would sound in the quasi-funk section of your emulator concerto. Or perhaps you would simply like to transfer an octave of hiccups from the stock sound library disk of a Mirage to the spring-loaded tape catapults of your Melotron.” Scrolling through my records now (side note: when will “scrolling” completely overtake “flipping” as the go-to verb in that sentence) it’s like he’s describing half the artists getting coverage here at TMT. He’s describing Co La; he’s describing Eric Copeland; he’s describing Heat Wave and Macintosh Plus. I wonder if he’s ever met James Ferraro? I’m sure they’d find much to talk about.
That The Bonniwell Music Machine hadn’t yet been covered by the DeLorean Blog came to me as a huge surprise, for I can think of no other record in my collection that so deeply warrants a contextual analysis based on time. Plus, it’s the work of a great songwriter often overlooked by the masses, which is why whenever someone around me brings up garage rock or garage punk, I almost always namedrop BMM. The irony is that in 1968, they were marketed not for their lo-fi reworking of R&B tropes, but instead as purveyors of a clean, futuristic sound.
The record’s back cover states: “The Bonniwell Music Machine is ideally named, in fact, for they have fallen heir to a treasure chest of electronic techniques pioneered by such ancestors as The Beatles and The Beach Boys, and are pushing farther out into the frontiers of studio-produced music. The wild variations of electronic distortions, splicings, time lags, echoes, and dynamics control on this album are the most advanced products of sound engineering, recording and mixing available,” but in listening today, not one of these innovations stands out at such. In fact, they don’t even really stand out at all. Granted, I’m far from the world’s biggest audiophile — actually, my understanding of sound engineering, recording and mixing is novice at best — so the explanation could be that I’m not hearing the “variations in dynamics control” because I’m not 100 percent sure what to listen for from the start, but isn’t it also possible that collectively we’ve become so attuned to these technological tricks that we no longer notice them?
This concept need not be considered metaphysical in nature. Think about the evolution of television from black and white to color, from big screens to flat screens, the way our eyes have become acclimated to an HD picture. What was once new and complex is now simple and commonplace, even taken for granted. Yesterday’s electronic pop is today’s garage rock. In that sense, the steampunk contraption pictured on the front cover isn’t just a music machine… It’s also a time machine, if not a DeLorean then maybe the box in Primer (see: input/output design and the whole “garage” motif).
Appropriately, Sean Bonniwell’s songwriting boasted elements of past, present and future musical styles. Rooted in basic blues chord changes and a folk music background, he adopted the psychedelic melodies de jour while looking ahead to the progressive pomp of the coming years. As the back cover describes, “The compositions [he] has composed are specially suited to the development of electronic enrichments…” With the benefit of hindsight we can estimate that this is because, like many electronically enriched prog rock licks of the ’70s, Bonniwell’s riffs demonstrate that particular combination of technical prowess and panache. This can be heard across the board, but is especially evident on “Double Yellow Line,” with its dueling bass and guitar lines, and “Discrepancy,” which, deconstructed, sounds like two songs laid on top of each other. According to Bonniwell himself, “Discrepancy” is also the only BMM song that wasn’t definitely written, recorded, and arranged to be heard in mono. “Stereo weakens the coagulated force of the band and thus, the intended impact,” he explained. It’s an odd notion, especially considering all the aforementioned sonic enhancements they explored. Again, we return to the idea of temporal context.
I’ve already touched on how the band was promoted to the public in the 1960s and how they’ve been received in later years, but I think it’s also informative to examine how they were received back when they were active. An old article from the Minneapolis Tribune titled “Music Machine Upstages Blues Magoos” details one live performance: “Their musical experience showed … in Latin American and Near Easter overtones in several numbers, and they did some haunting things with an organ and a flute. Higher in pitch and more discordant that most modern music, their sound was startling in the huge arena. Even the wandering semi-bored teeny-boppers stopped wandering to listen.” Not to overextend the Back to the Future metaphor, but I can’t help compare the scene described here to Marty McFly covering “Johnny B. Goode” at the Enchantment Under the Sea dance. Just imagine it: a bunch of flower-patterned teens are meandering about when suddenly a gang of black-clad, one-gloved weirdoes shows up and starts barking poems while making unidentifiable noises with their instruments. It’s the perfect image.
Sadly, The Music Machine (as they were originally called) disassembled after the release of their debut album, Turn On. The Warner-released follow-up, The Bonniwell Music Machine, features the original lineup on several tracks, including the previously released singles “Double Yellow Line” and “Eagle Never Hunts the Fly,” but is for the most part a collection of songs recorded by varying rosters at different times and places. In fact, it was originally going to be called Odds And Ends, yet somehow this lack of cohesion takes nothing away from the album’s value (another example of temporal context?), and while Turn On might be a more complete work, it’s here that Bonniwell’s best work is collected. For God’s sake, “Eagle Never Hunts the Fly” essentially contains a hardcore breakdown… and it was first released in 1966! Need I say more?