Manafonistas

The best stuff never arrives at your eardrums via reviews, recommendations, hype. It gets there via a process of mistakeism. And so it was with Edgeland – I pressed the ‚purchase‘ button on Amazon because I liked the record’s artwork. The late Anthony H. Wilson once said that you can tell when someone is of exceptional talent by their demeanour alone, even before you hear a note of their music. And the vibe Edgeland gave off, even before I played it, it just had to be a classic, somehow.

For me, the record works because of the way it balances the internal and the external. It’s not social realism, it’s not a criticism of the way things are. It’s just the fast fragments and mistakeism of the everyday. The song Shadow Boy is based upon observations the parts of town that film can’t really penetrate, unless it’s the backdrop for some kind of gritty crime caper. What we have here instead is something of far more value: a mix of psychogeography and time-travel. Watch how the song begins, in plaintive register, a broad brushstroke of pure luminous sadness, the kind we all feel, usually between about 5 to 6.30pm – the ‚long dark tea-time of the soul‘. A world watched ‚through broken windows‘.

The song begins its ascent. Weeds and dirt are ‚brand new‘, ‚whining electric trains‘ are music. Then – and this is the genius bit – the song’s identifier* then fixes the moment in time. ‚Broken eyes of factories have stared for generations at the rails / The rails have carried generations of bowed heads staring at the papers / as roofers perch on top of buildings looking down at all of us like day-glo birds …“ Wow. What we have here is decades of commuters on their way to work, observed by almost-human (Lowryesque?) factory glass, with construction workers above. The construction workers here are almost painted like accidental saints/angels: work as a sacrament, not a big money-machine, the high-vis jackets not-quite haloes. This song is like a snowstorm – one of them miniature worlds you can pick up and hold in your hands – and when you shake the fucker, it’s different every time.

The psychogeographical aspect of the song comes from the way it considers ordinary phenomena like broken factory windows, new-build breezeblock Babylon housing with its ‚barbecues like footballs perched on green glass balconies‘ – and then cuts right through these with movement – temporal and physical/psychological. The time-travel element comes from the momentum, as the song hits its cathartic moment, we’re all on the same fucking train, and the near future becomes the present.

I’ve never been to Essex. Visited Wanstead aged about 5, that’s the nearest I’ve been. We went to an Italian restaurant there. I remember being massively impressed that the maître d‘ didn’t view kids in a restaurant as a nuisance, and offered us free grissini. That’s my first ever memory of a trip to England. Whether or not it counts as Edgeland, I don’t know. But That’s mistakeism for ya.
 
 
 

 
 
 
*identifier is a term I had to make up. Roughly synonymous with protagonist, speaker, main character. But it’s none of these. At the risk of sounding like Jacques Derrida, it’s the vessel of spiritual acumen, an epiphenomenon of carbonicity. A you, a me, an everyone. Nobody. Someone. A partly-fictive super-verisimilitudinous spirit.

The sign was tempting: „Fresh catch of the day.“ Why not try an Irish Pub for a nice dinner? The food came, the Guiness tasted wonderful, but suddenly an awful loud noise swept over the place. Usually I like the Dixie Chicks and I always sing along when I listen to „Unknown soldier“. But with Fish and Chips and a friend to talk to? A Nogo.

I wished John Meyer and his wife were here and would call the owner to explain their invention: the soundbox. Recently I read about it in the „New Yorker“ and was fascinated by its effect. John Meyer is an audio engineer from California, who installs a conversation-friendly setting in different places. Sound absorbing panels are installed in the walls of the seating area, in a back room is the system’s digital processor, which can be controlled with a tablet. The reverb energy of the noise, caused by loud music or loud people is gently retouched. So maybe next time I can go into an Irish Pub and have a decent conversation, but no Irish Stew.

Welcher Lenz? Ist es der von Georg Buechner oder der von Peter Schneider? Ist es Hermann Lenz, au net schlecht oder neee jetzt keine „Deutschstunde“ veranstalten! Sie schaut auf das Ticket. Da steht: „Jakob Lenz“, eine Oper von Wolfgang Rihm.

Hm, oper ’n‘ shit?

Sie betrat das altehrwuerdige Gebaeude, sah hinauf zur Koenigsloge und hinunter in den Orchesterkasten. Da waren ja nur 11 Musiker. Als sich der Vorhang hob, gewahrte sie einen sich wurmartig vorwaerts bewegenden Menschen, der in Liebestoetern steckte. Das muss die Sprache von dem Mannweib der deutschen Theaterregie sein: Andrea Breth war hier am Werk. Wer konnte sonst einen Eisblock auf die Buehne bringen, um die Kaelte und Einsamkeit auszudruecken?

Wolfgang Rihm hat hier eine Oper aus Liedtexten, Brieffragmenten und Gedichten von Buechner, Lenz und Wieland geschrieben, die es in sich hat. Allein 6 Stimmen aus dem Off droehnen auf den gepeinigten Lenz ein, drei Cellospieler korrespondieren mit den drei Protagonisten: Lenz – Pfarrer Oberlin – Kaufmann.

Das ist genial gemacht. Wenn Lenz, ein Zeitgenosse von Goethe, der ihn aus Weimar warf, in dessen von ihm missbrauchten Fraeulein Friedericke er toedlich verliebt war, seine Einsamkeit und sein Leid hinausschreit, dann sticht ploetzlich in diese Qual eine messerscharfe Percussion in die Haut des Zuschauers.

Darauf folgt eine Stille: „Hoeren Sie nicht diese entsetzliche Stimme, die um den ganzen Horizont schreit und die man gewoehnlich Stille nennt?“ Georg Nigl schauspielert und singt eine brilliante Interpretation des schizophren gewordenen Lenz. Wie er zusammen mit dem kleinen Orchster den traumatisierten Lenz darstellt, ist grosse Buehne im doppelten Wortsinn.

Ratlosigkeit beim Hinausgehen.

Zuhause fragt sich Veronika, wer war eigentlich der stramme Dirigent? Sie oeffnet das Internet, gibt „Lenz“ ein. Da erscheint “ Maerz“, das heisst, da kommt der Fruehling.

Gerade hat das Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra – mit seinem Chefdirigenten Manfred Honeck auf dem Sprung in die Top-Liga – seinen Sommerspielplan veröffentlicht.

Darin findet man unter anderem: „Brahms + Radiohead with conductor-composer-singer Steve Hackman and food and drinks (June 24).“

Da fehlt jetzt nur noch eine Highschool-Marchingband als Supporting Act und für die Pause im Foyer eine Seehundshow.

 

 
 
 
– Michael, you sure?

– I am. I’m always so happy with records that put a spell on you.

– Some voodoo vibe?

– No Santeria mysticism. Don’t need that for a fuckin‘ great ride.

– So what’s so good about it?

– Sebastian Rochford always skippin‘ the agenda for his band.

– Meanin‘?

– Polar Bear doesn’t ever swim twice in the same river. Ha.

– Are we goin‘ philosophical?

– Nah. Well, it all starts with a praise of love and light like in the late sixties, remember?

– Yep, all the cars were going crazy and transcendental… kinda „music is the healing force of the universe“?!

– Mmhm, Seb’s pickin‘ up some of those old vibes, and  he recently spent a lot of time out in nature. California.

– Field recordings are part of the game, and not in that new age way …

– Killer grooves suspended in air, distant echoes, saxophones strolling in the hinterland, a touch of the Caribeans.

– Rather short sax lines, too, and I do hear this preciseness of the rhythm.

– It never loses the grip. It’s minimal on a grand scale, it’s, well, how did they say in old times, panavision, yes, panavision.

– „Same As You“ is simply a gorgeous album. Organic. A distant cousin of Weather Report’s „Heavy Weather“.

– Ya, but in its own peculiar way. Airy. Dancefloor with a view. Precisely cut in all its looseness.

– Turn the lights down low.