Manafonistas

No doubt, a lot of films are spriraling down after catching you at first with clever trickery. Even so called „art films“ often give away their secrets all too quickly. I’ve not seen a lot of movies in 2015 that stayed in my mind, but these films still make a difference. Some of them I saw again and again, and I‘m grateful to have my infamous „electric cinema“ and can see them on a big screen with excellent surround sound.

THE DUKE OF BURGUNDY is one of them. Erotic Cinema still has something to offer, and here we are, in the territory of seduction, devotion and surrender. There is a lot of darkness to dwell in, literally, dimly lit spaces that add to the spell of desire. Immersive. A MOST VIOLENT YEAR is another example for a „genre movie“ that transcends its rules and history. Far away from being a rip-off of film noir classics from the 70’s, it’s a masterpiece in reduction. You have to think a lot to nail down a „gangster drama“ with a similar amount of non-action. But it never leaves me off the hook, and, en passant, contains – surprise! – one of the most captivating „hunting scenes“ in modern film stories. EX MACHINA is Science Fiction of highest order, a chamber piece placed in a high-tech laboratory surrounded by wild nature. Here, too, „action“ is a foreign word; everything relies on camera, dialogue, soundtrack and sudden twists of perception. In one of its (instant) classic moments, you get a perfect example of how to transport a 70’s disco song into a scenario of controlled madness. Apart from that, Geoff Barrow and Ben Salisbury composed a soundtrack with sending-shivers-down-the-spine qualities. Another kind of creepiness: IT FOLLOWS can be labelled „horror movie“, but that is misleading, too. Situated in the decaying outskirts of Detroit, this film only uses some of the genre’s old motives to explore teenage angst, friendship and love in a world that mixes time zones in the most peculiar ways. A richly textured „edge-of-the-seat-experience“ with Dostojevski’s „The Idiot“ revealing a striking sub-text at the end … (all films on BLU RAY and DVD).

Dieses Album wird Prügel einstecken, es wird Agit-Prop genannt werden, schnell sich verbrennender Protest, man wird es einreihen in die gesammelten Abgesänge auf die Ära Trumps, die sowieso nur einen Scheiss bewegen, und dass wieder mal die Bekehrten bekehrt werden sollen, aber murmelt da nicht auch der 73-Jährige im letzten Song, das die Welt eine Kirche ohne Prediger sei. Dieses ganze Werk voll hingerissener Verlorenheiten wendet sich nicht an die, die sich gerne entrüsten, und ihre eigene Niedergeschlagenheit mit entsprechender Wallung kompensieren, dieses ganze Album ist komplett zerschossen, zynisch, und vollkommen am Ende. Neil Young spielt nur zu gerne den stumpfesten Blues-Stomper aller Zeiten, in dem er ein Loch gräbt, was er oft genug wiederholt, um in der Zeit wirklich ein Loch zu graben, gleichzeitig denkt er an seine Enkel und den verdammt langen Highway. Wer ganz schlicht im Geiste ist, fühlt sich womöglich aufgerufen, für seine Rechte einzutreten, und er kann auch die Ketten schleifen hören, mit denen sie den Irren wegschließen wollen. Aber das ist zu straightahead. Neil Young hat mit diesem Album, dessen Cover und Skizzenhaftigkeit und Ernüchterung mich entfernt und unmittelbar an Jackson Brownes „Running On Empty“ erinnern (ohne annähernd so einladend zu sein), das grosse rumpelnde Narrenschiff betreten. Mehr Otto Dix als Phil Ochs. Es gibt da, in Fragmenten, den alten Träumer, der die Träume  bloss  rigoros begräbt, den Protest gleich mit, und sowieso jede ach so hehre Botschaft. Hat er schon öfter angezettelt, etwa auf „Time Fades Away“, jedes „Heart of Gold“ ein abgenagtes Lebkuchenherz. Die Tage des Zeitlosen ausgezählt. Und deshalb ist „The Visitor“ eine verdammt gute Platte, mit dem Charme einer Whiskeyflasche, die gegen einen Art Deco-Spiegel geschleudert wird. Mal eine andere Art, wachgerüttelt zu werden, guys! „Out of the blue, and into the black.“

At first listening, this Polish-Scandinavian collaboration seems almost too archetypal ECM for its own good. But there‘s more to UNLOVED than the surface of the surface may offer. So wait and listen. My edition of Deutschlandfunk’s „JazzFacts“ on December 7th, 9.05 p.m., will shed some light over Marciej Obara‘s debut on ECM. And the sax player will speak about it, in his home language. Other themes are in preparation. Please let us not discuss t h i s album here. But: are there brand new or quite new jazz, jazz-related albums out there (from lesser known labels) I might present on that evening‘s program? Do I have to go back to some overlooked gems? Nearly no one knows, for example, the highly inventive approach to Erik Satie, performed by a piano player and a cornetist, right?! Released on Steeplechase Records. And, with special works, it’s always the question what can still be called jazz in the widest sense? Jon Balke‘s fantastic new album seems a bit far out for a program called „JazzFacts“. Mhmm …  For German listeners: a week later, December 14th, same time, Anouar Brahem’s internationally acclaimed new work is in the focus of Karl Lippegaus‘ portrait.

Not easy. You really need access to all four seasons, and they are, via streaming, only accessible on Amazon Prime. Only seasons 1 and 2 got DVD/BLURAY releases, so, you better wait till the COMPLETE HALT AND CATCH FIRE BOX SET will have been released one day in the future. Future is anyway a main topic here, and, as in so many cases, a future long gone. So when time has come, you will dive into the world of four, five flawed main characters who are obsessed with the dawn of the then new computer age, and, in not so discreet ways, with one another, and their own demons. Full program. Soundtracking is great and overpowers the shitty mainstream of the ‚80s. Don‘t expect any far-reaching analysis deeply grounded in sociological and psychological knowledge here. Please. We have this knowledge, we‘re no dumbheads, but, may I say so in the the name of Joey, too, we are still rendered rather speechless by our heaven-and-hell-ride over the last weeks rushing by like an autumn leaf under a stormy evening sky. Clever writing is strictly forbidden when catharsis still works. The aftermath, the afterglow. It is very helpful to stay away from reading any reviews before entering the world of Cameron, Joe, Gordon, Donna and Bos. Stay innocent and let your heart be broken slowly. Seeing is creating. It works best in the dark, with your love or loneliness or ghost friends at your side. You’ll never watch alone. Interesting, though „Mercy Street“ is wonderfully placed at one point, I got, after having seen it all, a big hunger for a different Peter Gabriel album: MELT. The common ground: everything‘s constantly on the verge of falling apart (with great rhyhtms) – and, here we go, some damn good  story-telling may be on its way to you. Just melt away!

One week ago, a friend asked me about the best-sounding jazz album ever. What a question, I answered. I don‘t know anything about „ever“, but ask me about a certain time. Then he asked me about the best-sounding jazz album of my teenager years, and the best-sounding album „before my time“. Okay, choices made instantly. I said, „Dis“ with Jan Garbarek, Ralph Towner, and the short appearances of a wind harp. And thinking of the times before my time, I said, „Way Out West“. It was made in the middle of the night on March 7, 1957, in the shipping room of a small Los Angeles record company, with an underpaid engineer recording a trio playing cowboy songs on a first-generation stereo Ampex tape deck through a homemade mixing console. It seems an unlikely setting for one of the greatest jazz recordings of all time, musically and sonically. But the players were Sonny Rollins and Ray Brown and Shelly Manne, and, on that night, they were cookin’. What seems like strange duo of vinyl albums, makes some extra sense when realizing a strong bond between them: deep relaxation, high intensity, breathing space. Real favourites.

It is a distant beach, out of reach for any flight company. People gather on the beaches playing congas, bongos, everything you can hit on. A summer of love vibe in the air and I don‘t know the exact moment where I understood, oh, I‘m dreaming. It happened maybe fifteen years ago (in real life), I always loved the idea of being part of a community who has written peace and love on their flags, and really lives it.

In this dream I am looking for a woman of my dreams, and there she is, I leave out the details of her features, her dark brown skin. We have a lovely conversation about Antonioni‘s movie with the big villa exploding in the end. I tell her how similar this scenery is to the Hippie shangrila of the movie. She says, this is not a movie, and I know, this is a dream, but don‘t want to make things more complicated. She is so real, and her kisses full of life and extravaganza. I tried some of the tricks to stay inside the lucid dream. Quick turnarounds of the body, keeping yourself saying this is a dream. Interesting, all these strategies didn‘t interfere with my romantic feelings.

After another series of kisses and dense body contact – I never came closer to an orgasm inside a lucid dream without awakening – she‘s standing up being worried about the dark clouds appraching the sand with a surreal hurry. Within seconds hard rain is hitting the ground, and everybody‘s looking for shelter. In this tohuwabohu, where everyone is strangely on his and her own, the whole idea of  community is replaced by a nasty fight for survival. The rain coming down so hard, it hurts, makes all of us run, run, run, without thinking, without empathy, and I lose every bit of knowing the state of my mind of being inside a dream.

Cause, otherwise, I could‘ve stopped the rain.

They were terribly wrong. You could see them, with long black coats, on Bakerloo Line. Or in Paris, near the grave of Jim Morrison. They appeared in other stations of the metro, in Paris, New York, even Cologne. They knew god, they even knew his name, though, the names were different. It was never a white goddess. Wankers all of them. They were possibly drugged when they wrote the universal truth (their versions of it) on fucking granite walls, stone walls, paper walls. ERIC CLAPTON IS GOD. BRIAN ENO IS GOD. JERRY GARCIA IS GOD. STEELY DAN IS GOD. The list goes on, but you understand the pattern. No matter how great these artist were, they didn‘t get the point. So here comes the name of the one and only god. It was a lot of soul searching, and digging archives, second hand record stores, witnesses, friends, but finally the truth is revealed. FRANK ZAPPA IS GOD. Written on a closet wall in Truro, Scotland. I saw it, amongst mobile numbers offering cheap fucking and instant blowjobs. Sometimes truth goes mysterious ways. Good night and good praying. Don‘t miss to listen to „Joe‘s Garage“, three vinyl records of holy shit!

One – Zazou / Bikaye / Cy1: Noir et Blanc
Two –  Midori Takada: Through The Looking Glass
Three – Bark Psychosis: Hex
Four – The Necessairies: Event Horizon
Five – Pep Llopis: Poiemusia La Nau Dels Argonautes
Six – Michelle Mercure: Eye Chant
Seven – Barney Wilen: Moshi
Eight – Hiroshi Yoshimura: Music for Nine Postcards

You can look at this photo with hypnotized eyes. It was shot on a lovely, sun-drenched evening. A moment of silence inside. On that day I listened to the last album of the late Tom Petty. Time for time drifters and glass breakers. The two women on the photo leave the zone of blue shadows and return to the flow of life. The campfires have all been blown out. Benmont Trench is sitting in a corner.

L

K

It‘s a nice way to put it as Michael Dervan from The Irish Times did writing that „Silvestrov seems to be inexorably drawn to the aching losses of the past, and in thrall to the lingering traces of favourite musical shapes and harmonies.“ How apparently simple an album can be while at the same time keeping its magic and mysteries up in the air of the studio space. Lugano studio space, this time.

Let‘s mix up genres and think of other albums that have a comparable approach to sound and silence. The different „Selbstporträt“-albums by Roedelius come to mind, as come, apart from Brian Eno’s ambient classics, Steve Tibbetts‘s „Northern Song“, David Darling‘s  „Cello“, Björn Meyer’s „Provenance“, Fripp and Eno‘s „Evening Star“ (side one). Or John Cage‘s favourite shakuhachi record.

I really wanted to hear the album of Anja Lechner and her partner in the two-cello pieces, when Gregs wrote his short notes on the album, and I stumbled on the name Silvestrov. Different to our jukebox trader in the far north, I only have one of his albums, „Stille Lieder“ – that title always rings a bell of ancient haikus, dark clearings, and, sorry for the cliche, a view to the horizon at sea. And, of course, I have a vivid memory of the fantastic (quiet concert) of Lechner and Couturier in Jameos De Agua.

So take your time strolling through the record collection of your mind coming up with musics where nothing really happens on the surface. It takes some time into „Hieroglyphen der Nacht“ till a kind of simple melody turns up. So much is absorbed by pale shadows, night skies, desolate harbours, immersed by a world of grey. Yes, indeed, and closing with Michael Dervan, „they sound fully attuned to the world of these diary-like, gentle obsessions.“