Manafonistas

Abserviert, Cains so lange verschollener Roman, ist, auch dank der erneut großartigen Aufmachung von Walde+Graf/Metrolit, für Krimi-Freunde wie Bibliophile gleichermaßen eine mehr als empfehlenswerte Wiederentdeckung. Ein düsteres und doch berauschendes »Noir«-Werk der alten Schule, das durch Ardais Nachwort informativ abgerundet wird.

Genau. These New Puritans zetteln eine bislang so noch nicht gehörte Musik an, die sich aus unzähligen Quellen der Klassik- und Popkultur speist, und dabei all jene Lügen straft, die Erneuerungen im weiten Feld des Art-Rock nur noch in Nuancen für möglich halten. Gerne wird für dieses an Traumszenarien erinnernde Werk Laughing Spirit und Spirit Of Eden als Inspiration angeführt. Das stimmt gewiss nicht, was den Sound betrifft, wohl aber, was die Radikalität der Mittel, und diese durchweg unwirklichen Stimmungen angeht, die alle Lieder auszeichnen. Natürlich nutzen TNP auch Strömungen der klassischen Avantgarde (und eine Prise Tubular Bells), und mit Henry Lowther wirkt ein Jazztrompeter mit, den einst auch Mark Hollis ins Studio lud. Doch damit hat es sich. Es braucht Zeit und Einfühlung, sich in diese Klangräume einzufinden, seltsam disparat wirken einzelne Elemente (ein fragmentierter Chor, ein verloren wirkendes Vibraphon, leise Murmelgesänge), doch dann geht irgendwann ein Licht auf, und der Hörer geht auf Erkundungsreise. Dabei handelt Field Of Reeds nicht von abstrakten Dingen, mit denen kühle Klangtheoretiker ihren Elfenbeinturm ausstaffieren, sondern um lauter existenzielle Angelegenheiten. Die hochgradig originäre Musiksprache verhindert jedoch, dass man auf den uralten Stoff (Liebe, Tod, Hoffnung, und all diese Habseligkeiten unseres Lebens) mit den üblichen popmusikalischen Konditionierungen oberflächlicher Anteilnahme reagiert. Hier werden neue Blickwinkel erprobt, alte Rezepturen ratzfatz abgeschafft. Der harte Schnitt. Zudem bewegt sich diese in jeder Hinsicht einmalige Musik in einem weitgehend melodiösen Raum, Dissonanzen sind nur spärlich, dann aber umso effektiver, eingestreut. Aber Vorsicht: anfängliche Befremdnis ist unvermeidlich! Unwiderstehlich geht anders, These New Puritans entziehen sich jedem geübten Zugriff.

“A drug is not bad. A drug is a chemical compound. The problem comes in when people who take drugs treat them like a license to behave like an asshole.” – Frank Zappa

Parking in Montclair, New Jersey is a pain in the ass. The roads are hilly and narrow, and there’s almost always traffic. It’s especially bad today, The Flaming Lips are in town for a sold-out show at the Wellmont Theatre, and it looks like every weirdo in the good ol’ garden state has turned out for this momentous occasion. After about fifteen minutes of scanning cross-streets and alleyways, I finally cave in and pay an exorbitant price to situate my vehicle in a tiny spot within adequate walking distance. The line outside the Wellmont is long, wrapping all the way around the venue and down the adjacent side-street. Incidentally, this places concert-goers across the street from a smoke shop. Up a way, I can overhear a group of fearless freaks debating the merits of a brief departure from the line in favor of a potential plunder for assorted paraphernalia. Another freak next to me is just staring off into space, looking beyond the tiny shop, beyond the bounds of New Jersey’s modest borders, far out to the way-end of the cosmos. He also doesn’t seem to be aware of the heaping pile of bird-excrement he has situated himself upon — but hey, who am I to say that’s not contributing to his zen?

Finally, the queue begins to inch forward. At last, I can see the dim lights of the Wellmont’s aging marquee, which reads simply, “The Flaming Lips”. As I get closer and closer to the entrance, the line begins to dissolve into a mass herd of clothed, semi-sentient cattle. A particularly boisterous member of the theatre’s staff begins to shepherd the flock along, barking at us all the while. “The sooner you get in, the sooner I go home!”, he sloganeers like an old time, New York City paper-peddler. There’s a slight surge in the crowds’ step, and I’m accidentally shoved against a glass door. My face plants right onto a flier that sort of reads like a bad haiku, “STROBE / Lights / Will Be Used / In Tonights / Performance”. I recover quickly, my excitement is now bolstered tenfold.

“Most rock journalism is people who can’t write, interviewing people who can’t talk, for people who can’t read.” – Frank Zappa

The lobby of the theatre is absolutely gorgeous, like an ancient relic from a much more elegant time. Its carpeted staircases twist and turn and come to rest along the room’s checkered marble floors. A gold-trimmed chandelier hovers over top, immediately attracting the attention of the crowd, who gaze upon it as if the band’s light-show has already started. I quickly run through an underpass filled with assorted, overpriced merchandise and make my way up the staircase. A quick glance at my ticket reveals the appropriate seat and row — nosebleeds, the usual. The showroom is slow to fill at first, but after twenty minutes or so, the place is packed wall-to-wall. A lone, scraggly aberration situates himself next to me. We exchange some brief, awkward small-talk, then quickly resume ignoring each other. A deranged fan behind me spills cold beer down my back — he doesn’t acknowledge my sour stares, I choose not to make it any more of an issue.

The crowd suddenly erupts with applause. I glance down to see what the hoopla is all about. THE BAND HAS NOT EVEN TAKEN THE STAGE YET. Just a short light-test and nothing more. A few minutes later, the stage goes dark. A tiny, nameless girl steps out in front of a projected backdrop — waves, scrambled and obscured by over-pixilation. Technical difficulties set in almost instantly, with the sound fading in, distorting, and then cutting out. Looking for a spectacle, the eldritch pack of ground-floor attendees begin to howl along to the incidental, droning feedback. The drunkard at my back begins to hee and haw and squeal like the gluttonous swine he is. It’s official, the Fearless Freak Choir has now become a surrogate warm-up act.

However, the crowd’s twisted sing-a-long is interrupted about mid-set by an unexpected blast of synthesizer noodling — the original opener is ready to give it another go. Despite her faulty equipment, the tiny sprite returns stage front and begins to rock back and forth, overlaying one lush, looped vocal at a time, which coalesce into a serene, Eno-esque wall-of-sound. Very cool, but also incredibly boring to watch. The frail beardo next to me sits up for a moment and ekes out a few words. “Sounds like something on one of those ‘Discover Ireland’ commercials”, he then slips back into his seat and balls up into a fetal position for the rest of the show.

“A hero is a goddam stupid thing to have in the first place and a general block to anything you might wanta accomplish on your own.” – Lester Bangs

The house lights slowly turn on as the opener collects her plasticine musical toys and hobbles off the stage. The Lips’ road-crew quickly swarm in, setting up what might be the most bizarre set-design I’ve ever seen. A single microphone stands atop several oblong, silver balls and space-age, tinsel-covered platforms as eerie, intestine wires connect the glitzy contraption to the ceiling. A few more light-tests yield a few more rounds of obligatory applause and then silence. The theatre’s resident hype-man comes out to greet us, spews a few buzz-words in a voice fit for a monster-truck rally, and then disappears. The room goes dark, but nobody takes the stage. After a long period of pure sensory depravation, The Flaming Lips finally march out onto the catwalk.

Coyne emerges first, clutching a mutilated baby-doll and perches himself atop his malformed, silvery lectern. A few short words of Spanish reintroduce the band to the dazed crowd, the violent buzz of a synthesizer drowns out their cheers. Like clockwork, the pungent aroma of multiple dubious substances sifts through the cracks in the air, creating a thick bed of psychedelic atmosphere. Without warning, a stabbing, repetitious synth pattern cuts through the white-noise and feedback and the drums begin to wind up — the clatter is almost deafening. The stage begins to strobe spastically — red, blue, red, blue, white, black, red, blue, red. A glowing, fluorescent harpy dances about the backdrop and then falls to her knees and begins birthing a bright sun-baby before the stage goes dark — I hardly notice the sustained, brash feedback that continues to filter through the room.

It doesn’t take too long for the Lips to barrel into another overwhelming display of visual fetishism. “Try to explain why you’ve changed / I don’t think I’d understand”, Coyne sermonizes from his pulsating, electronic pulpit. I glance about the room and see a crowd full of psychically-altered beings communally engulfed in a din of skronking synths and helpless lyricism — but for reasons unknown to me, I feel as isolated as I’ve ever been. Maybe its the steep distance between my seats and the stage? Or the various distractions that have dominated my experience thus far? Maybe I’m just not lucky enough to feel the inert, psychedelic charms of The Flaming Lips’ presence? To be honest, I still can’t quite put my finger on it, but something kept me locked inside myself, forcing me to endure an acute case of self-imposed, cerebral claustrophobia. On the other hand, that might be the perfect way to experience The Flaming Lips’ post-Terror material. Maybe the desperation and loneliness that pervades that music is somehow channeling itself into my feeble psyche, leaving me metaphysically frozen and utterly emotionless.

However, just before I gaze too deep into the preternatural void, I hear a word that completely shatters my brooding, contemplative silence and summons my attention almost instantaneously: Bowie. “I don’t think he means we can defeat the bad guy or something,” Ringmaster Coyne says of Bowie’s mid-career hit, „Heroes“, “I think he’s saying ‘look let me live my life and you live yours, I don’t need to win, we already win by living the way we do.’ We can be heroes in that way.” I’m immediately built back up and ready to reconnect with my boisterous, psych-pop idols. Just as the words leave his mouth, Coyne and the gang let loose a noise that resembles Bowie’s classic, but only in spirit and lyricism. It’s a stunningly visceral performance, but yet again, I’m left unmoved and cold and once again retreat back into my head for some extra cognitive exploration. In the distance, I can hear the final rumblings of the concert and ravenous mirth of the cheering crowd. When I come to, the theatre is nearly emptied and the hog at my back is hunched over my seat, chanting “It was spiritual, man. I saw God! I saw God!” I wonder if he got his autograph…

1) These New Puritans: Field Of Reeds (endlich wieder eine Gruppe, die den klaren Schnitt beherzigt, und, ohne zu kopieren, ein paar Lektionen von Talk Talk und Spirit of Eden gelernt hat; „They are may be flitting through the shadows cast by Morton Feldman, Scott Walker, or Moondog, but they are making a statement that is easily as profoundly stark or beautiful.“ (Julian Tardo) „Ambition often manifests itself into self-indulgence, and from the off you’re convinced ‚Field Of Reeds‘ could slip into said territory. But it’s an exceptional case, where its makers hit the jackpot, where imagination runs riot and gets away with every daring feat, each one more foolish than the previous.“ (Jamie Milton) 2) Dennis Johnson: November (das vielleicht erste modale Werk des Minimalismus, aus dem Jahre 1958, transkribiert für das Jahr 2013, für ein Piano, und die Ewigkeit) 3) Scott Walker: The Collection 1967 – 1970 (some lessons how to get drunk on music and darkness!) 4) Boards Of Canada: Tomorrow’s Harvest (fein gearbeitete Unheimlichkeiten aus der Mohave-Wüste, auch Gespenster finden ihren Groove!) 5) Mark Kozelek & Jimmy LaValle: Perils From The Sea (Grosses Singer/Singwriter-Kino für Stimme und Elektronik, herzerweichend) 6) Stephan Mathieu: Un Coeur Simple (vom Sammeln alter Stimmen und Klänge, Rauschklangerlebnisse der anrührenden Art!) 7) Pan American: Cloud Room, Glass Room (Musik aus glasverspiegelten Räumen und Strassenschluchten, aus denen die Menschen verschwunden sind) 8) Pat Metheny / Tap: John Zorn’s Book Of Angels, Vol. 20 (Pat Metheny kann noch aufregende Musik machen!) 9) Lucian Ban / Mat Maneri: The Transylvanian Concert (Piano und Bratsche tauschen Unheimlichkeiten aus zwischen der Tin Pan Alley und rumänischem Hinterland) 10) The National: Trouble Will Find Me (grosse Elegien, vertraute Klasse, wächst mit der Zeit) 11) Cristal: Homegoing (Drone-Musik lebt) 12) Nancy Elizabeth: Dancing (beschwingtes Album über eine verlorene Liebe)