Manafonistas

In his latest novel, Kevin Barry is rigorous on his homeland more generally:  Fucking Ireland. Its smiling fiends. Its speaking rocks. Its haunted fields. Its sea memory. Its wildness and strife. Its haunt of melancholy. The way that it closes in.

Musical references abound. Maurice and Charlie have taste; they can’t be having Radiohead: Never liked them. Whining bastards. And the amount of money the cunts are making? They should have the ukuleles out.

In tone Night Boat to Tangier shares something with the Pixies album Surfer Rosa: a lurching, crunching, Hispanic threat of heaviness, Spain with its “old, tatty charisma”. The band is duly referenced elsewhere. Barry’s laconic descriptions dazzle: at a psychiatric hospital we see an avenue lined with trees, larches that are parenthetically described thus – (primly erect, arrogant as surgeons). We are in high Nabokovian (picnic, lightning) territory here. Elsewhere we are told brilliantly “the last few taxis drifted as stoically as cows”. And in the ferry port we find “the quick gabbling ham-eater mouths are silky-greasy in the hard terminal light.” Finally in a detail common to the hell of such places:

There is crazy fucking denim everywhere.

Night Boat to Tangier is hymn to Spain and Cork and SE Hinton and the loneliness of men who like Hank Williams and much more. Kevin Barry’s writing here has the brisk allusive power of those early Michael Ondaatje books like Coming Through Slaughter. There’s a similar pacing, lines as loaded and hidden as a landmine that call a sudden halting and then impact in the head with their dizzying fragments. You feel fragged. You are made to feel the pain of the pair, to empathize sometimes against your better judgement, just as in real life, and yet laugh too at their lunacy, their sad predicament. As with encounters with the staggeringly inebriated strangers you escape, enervated, a tad fried, and with a sigh of relief that theirs is not your life.

Sun Rings for String Quartet, Chorus and pre-recorded Spacescapes ist der vollständige Titel dieser zehnteiligen Kompositionssuite, geschrieben und uraufgeführt mit dem Kronos Quartet bereits 2002. Eines der Stücke, „One Earth, One People, One Love“, war bereits Teil des Albums Sunrise of the Planetary Dream Collector, in dessen Folge der Zyklus entstanden ist; das schadet aber nichts, denn nun steht es in seinem richtigen Kontext, am Ende von Sun Rings.

Das Weltall war immer ein faszinierendes Thema, spätestens seit Gustav Holsts Die Planeten ist es auch Teil des Konzertlebens. Dass Sterne und Planeten Radiosignale von sich geben, weiß man schon länger. Voyager 1 und 2 waren sehr fleißige Sammler in dieser Hinsicht. Die NASA zeichnet diese Signale auf und analysiert sie zu Forschungszwecken — man kann daraus Rückschlüsse auf Atmosphäre, Zusammensetzung und andere Dinge ziehen. Man kann die Signale aber auch elektronisch so bearbeiten, dass sie für menschliche Ohren hörbar werden — rhythmisch krachend, pfeifend, singend, rauschend. Wer sie pur hören will, findet sie auf der Webpage der NASA. Die Sonne klingt eher aufdringlich, Saturn erinnert an singende Wale, Jupiter dagegen ist fast unheimlich (aber letzteres bilde ich mir vielleicht nur ein; ich fand den Jupiter immer irgendwie unheimlich).

Terry Rileys Verbindung zu den Sternen war ein Peyote-Button, irgendwo in der nächtlichen Landschaft des Tahoe National Forest, in dessen Nähe er aufwuchs. Nun hat er die Sternensounds, die er vielleicht schon damals gehört hat, zur Basis seiner Sun Rings gemacht. Sie liegen nicht nur einfach „unter“ der Musik, sondern sind ihr Ausgangspunkt. Die Klänge fließen mit den Streicherklängen, aber auch einem gemischten Chor zusammen, verstärken sie, rhythmisieren sie, geben ihnen Farbe und Atmosphäre. Sun Rings ist auch nicht „klassische Minimal-Musik“. Natürlich gibt es die Riley-typischen melodischen Schleifen, aber die Stücke sind auskomponiert, nichts ist Zufall. 9/11 war eine Unterbrechung; Riley wusste eine Weile nicht mehr weiter. Der Schock, den er bis heute mit den meisten Amerikanern teilt, hinterließ Spuren: „Prayer Central“, das längste Stück der Suite, ruft, zum Teil in Einzelsilben zerlegt, zum Frieden auf: „Now we must learn to de-pend on vast, mo-tion-less thought.“ Man mag das hoffnungslos romantisch oder Koyaanisqatsi-selig finden, das ist es auch, aber es funktioniert im Kontext der Musik. Das Schlussstück basiert dann auf der Zuspielung der Stimme der Autorin Alice Walker, die, während sie die 9/11-Anschläge beobachtete, diese Worte als Mantra sprach: „One Earth, One People, One Love.“

Will Burns and Hannah Peel have announced details of a new double-A side 7″ single, titled Pale Tussock.

The release takes in two new tracks from the duo. ‚Moth Book‘ came about from a commission to create a new collaborative work for the BBC. From there, the duo also produced flip-side track ‚Wendover, Bucks‘.

Sound recordist Chris Watson is set to join Burns and Peel on an upcoming series of shows supporting their collaborative record, Chalk Hill Blue, which came out earlier this year. „After bumping into each other at the Cornwall Port Eliot Festival and our admiration for all his work, especially on the new Chernobyl HBO TV series, we wanted to see if there was a way to work together,“ Peel says of Watson. „We’re so thrilled to have Chris involved in one of our last ever performances of Chalk Hill Blue!“

Peel says that the London performance at Milton Court Concert Hall on October 26 will be „channeling the living landscape present on the album,“ adding that she and Will Burns will be „re-creating the album live with a scored woodwind quartet and very special guest Chris Watson to accompany the sounds, synthesis and poetry“. Another show is scheduled at the Civic Barnsley on November 1.

Bagels & Beans, cappuccino time. Back home at midnight after another morning and afternoon of heartfelt encounters with friends and other strangers. From the point of view of conversations, this was my best-ever year at the Punktfestival. It was quite a thing to use a little magic trick to make KLM care for two free seats on the last flight to Kristiansand, on a chaos day at Schiphol, five days ago. A bit of hardihood, haha. Christoph owes me one Gosht Chilli Karahi next year (lam med fersk chilli, purre, paprika og løk i en fyldig delikat kryddersaus (minimum styrke 4)). Yesterday: listening to the re-workings of Miles Davis’ „Rubberband Sessions“ on the first flight (to Amsterdam) – oh, well, let me find a way to write a funny let-down of this album that will probably be the most talked about jazz album of the year (the thing with legends). Talking with S. M., the Russian woman besides me, on experiencing Dostojevski as teenagers (and Arvo Pärt as grown-ups), was much more fascinating – the things tomato juice can get started. Listening to Tinariwen‘s new album on the second flight (to Düsseldorf), another pure joy. At home, I put the just released book by David Toop, „Living With Sound“, on the night board. I will write one more article about Punkt 2019, the lectures curated by David dealing with sound and memory. October will be a good time for that. But now, look at the photo, music from the future, with a primordial vibe, the sound of Hardanger Fiddle maestro Nils Okland in the electric wilderness! Do we have a deal?

Patrick and Björn on a paddle boat trip to the sea. (Hope they will give „Life Of“ and „Lost River“ some deep listening sessions, great guys and music talkers from Sweden.) New companions. From earlier years I know old weathered houses in the hinterland of Kristiansand, the fjord area, that look like 1955, time standing still. Having nice talks with a lot of wonderful old and new faces, and with my journalist hero from the glorious „Melody Maker“ days of old, Richard Williams. Early next year I will read and review his forthcoming book that is time traveling to old Germany. The horrendous Thirties, to be more specific. Sharing stories and memories with Steve Tibbetts and Marc Anderson on a daily basis, like being with friends you didn‘t know you have. Sitting with my soul mate Elin at Mother India and listening to her journey to München around 1967. And on and on and on it went. Small revelation: Nils Petter Molvaer told me that a big inspiration for the music of „Khmer“ (now out on vinyl for the first time) had been passionately reading Borges’ „Labyrinths“. One highlight for my not-so-innocent ears on day three was The Shamisen Concerto, composed by Daj Fujikura and The Trondheim Orchestra at Kilden. An old Japanese instrument shining in a contemporary ambience. Fragile and strong at the same time, it was never overpowered. The orchestra a living thing, no dead fish. Reminded me, slightly leftfield, of my student‘s days in Würzburg, being surprised and captured by the sound of a koto (appearing out of nowhere, on side two of David Bowie‘s Heroes). Different worlds, but two thrilling ways of placing a kind of „exotic“ instrument in an unusual landscape. The notes still lingerin’ in the air, Jan Bang and Sidsel Endresen did the live-remix, all from scratch, wild and beautiful and beyond words. Here we are in the years.

Unter den Filmemachern der Nouvelle Vague war Jacques Rivette der Beschwörer des Magischen und Mysteriösen. Es waren die Tagebücher von Jean Cocteau aus den Jahren 1945/46, die dieser während der Dreharbeiten an Beauty and the Beast geschrieben hatte, die Rivettes Begeisterung am Film entfachten. Er beschloss, Filme zu drehen, mit anderen gemeinsam an etwas zu arbeiten, nicht für sich allein. Er zog nach Paris und begann damit Filmkritiken zu schreiben. Es waren die Jahre, in denen er zwanzig Mal in der Woche ins Kino ging, manchmal in vier Vorstellungen an einem Tag, alle interessant: DeMille, Warhol, ein japanischer Film ohne Untertitel. Die Katogorien von Zeit und Raum lösten sich auf. Schnell lernte Rivette die späteren Hauptfiguren der Nouvelle Vague kennen. Merry-Go-Round (1981) entstand auf Wunsch von Maria Schneider, die Rivette vorschlug, einen Film mit ihr und Joe Dallessandro zu drehen. Als Ausgangspunkt für ein Zusammentreffen der beiden ließ Rivette sie im Film durch eine andere Person – die Schwester der einen, die Freundin des anderen -, in eine Hotelhalle nach Paris lotsen. Doch die Schwester bzw. Freundin erscheint nicht. Der Film wirkt zum Teil wie ein Experiment der Art, was passiert, wenn Maria Schneider (als Léo) und Joe Dallessandro (als Ben) gemeinsam vor der Kamera in ihren Rollen agieren. Der Dreh zog sich hin, Schneider und Dallessandro verstanden einander nicht. Neben persönlichen Spannungen gab es ernsthafte gesundheitliche Probleme der Beteiligten und zehn Mal wurde erwogen, das Projekt abzubrechen. Man merkt schnell, dass der Film seine Qualität vor allem durch die Montage erhielt und durch das, was zwischen Schneider und Dallessandro geschieht und was nicht geschieht. Die Faszination der beiden ist enorm und trägt den gesamten Film, auch wenn er sich mit seinen zweieinhalb Stunden ziemlich in die Länge zieht. In Anbetracht der Situation, in der sich die Schwester bzw. Freundin befindet und der dramatischen Hintergründe, die nach und nach enthüllt werden, wirken Léo und Ben fast surreal entspannt. Dallessandro verkörpert den Womanizer und Schneider spielt die jüngere Schwester: tough, lässig, unabhängig, intelligent und impulsiv. Merry-Go-Round öffnet einige parrallel laufende Räume, innere und äußere, zwischen Verschwörungskomplotten und suspekten Nebenfiguren, abgelegenen leerstehenden Bürgerhäusern, gefährlichen Begegnungen in den Dünen und im Laubwald, Transiträume, Pariser Vorortstraßen, einem Übungsraum, in dem Barre Phillips und John Surman musizieren. Ich mochte die Energie, die darin steckte, wenn Léo und Ben einfach nur nebeneinander saßen, sei es auf einer Gartenmauer oder auf einem alten Sofa. Gegen Ende gewinnt der Film an Tempo. Es gibt eine kleine Schlägerei, bei der es so offensichtlich ist, dass die Schläge gefakt sind, dass ich mich frage, ob es beabsichtigt war oder ob die Aufnahmen einer anderen Kamera verloren gegangen waren und es keine Kapazitäten mehr gab, um die Szene nochmal zu drehen. Der Schluss des Films lässt uns, wie Léo, sprachlos und irritiert zurück. „Jacques Rivette hat“, sagte Jonathan Rosenbaum, „das Kino mit ein paar Filmen in die Luft gesprengt.“

I like a stage scenery after everything has happened. Steve and Mark are always a treat, in their second half they played a fine version of „Threnody“, from their album „Natural Causes“. „You can’t be blamed for perceiving Natural Causes as a „grower“ in the truest sense“, John Garratt once wrote, „listeners need to reconcile the meditative nature of the music with the compositional complexity stirring beneath it all.“

Marc played sitting on the floor with a cushion (i think), handling the percussion with a master degree in subtlety, Steve didn‘t risk to take his infamously weathered guitar on the journey, but his „touring instrument“ had a wonderful open sound. Both played with the acoustics of the space, never being trapped by false grandiosity. 

Seeing it from a little distance now, and as being part of his acoustic, non-ecstatic side, I look at „Natural Causes“ as a prequel to their 2019 masterpiece „Life Of“. If you want to go for a wilder ride with Steve, Mark and cohorts, start with „A Man About A Horse“ (2003). 

Look at the photo – psychedelic lights are still on from the inspired live-remix, Arve, Eivind, Jon and Erik did using samples from the performances of Trondheim Voices and the duo from Minnesota. Punkt‘s inner circle should finally publish a collection of this quartet‘s live remixes – it would not stand behind the thrills of „Punkt Crimes“, or the buried treasure of the „encounter“ of Jon Hassell and Sidsel Endresen.  

In regards to the Norwegian vocal music of Trondheim Voices: all took place with an impressive care for microtonal finesse, perfectly balanced with small breaks for turning pages. A minor quibble is (from a guy who has no long and surely no passionate story with choir music – Fiona is the expert here, and I‘m the bloody amateur), that it was a little bit too long in real time, meaning my headspace was drifting off at some occasions. Good thing is, I was always returning. By the way, being a long follower of Jon Balke’s adventures in modern music, I’m curious about his forthcoming collaboration with the ladies.

At the end, the blonde woman (crossing my paths here for years), who reminded me to not forget my petrol rain coat on a that cloudy Kristiansand evening, was entranced and fulfilled by this afternoon‘s musics that started with Stale Storlokken‘s take on church organ music. For someone like me who has a critical attitude towards the historical baggage of big church organs as being (amongst everything else) instruments of intimidation, I must confess: I liked his journey – turning the grey old pathos into a lovely playground, at least most of the time. 

A blue fade-out at the end would have suited better (for me) than the big „brumm brumm“. Anyway, at several moments Stale‘s moods were so light that I could imagine a Bo Hansson tune from „Lord of the Rings“ shining around the corner. From the days of old. I‘m now sitting in my room, totally in the mood for a really cold and sparkling coca cola, honestly. 

Some time ago now, you remember? „Cattle and Cane“. Think of my very last radio night in December, and how to end it, songwise, no second thoughts, just a smile on my face. It just came to me, on my flight yesterday from Kristiansand to Amsterdam. The last sequence, twenty minutes long, four pieces of music, four small, well, not so small worlds. On my list of 50 things to do before I die: crossing the Go-Betweens-Bridge in Brisbane with earphones while some spring rain will gonna be fallin‘. This is an inventory for the love of a music. With a place. We are all Go-Betweens.

Grant McLennan dying so young, Robert Forster finishing Grant’s last three songs when going solo again on „The Evangelist“ after the end – and what songs that were!

The Go-Betweens were looking for pure songs and melodies. With a twist. With undercurrents. Melancolia, sunbathed. Or rain. They wrote one of the best songs about rain since Creedence Clearwater Revival. „Spring Rain“. Passion and understatement. Fine lyrics all over the place. You can start anywhere.

And another way to enter their sunken world, the documentary „Right Here“. Some might find moody shots of Forster walking across an empty field or staring at a bonfire cliched or even trite. But they are people who hold more value in technique than soul. The Go-Betweens have always been about soul, not technique. As Lindy Morrison says, “We didn’t look the part, we didn’t sound the part, we were too intelligent.”

Haha. Well said, Lindy. It is an emotional, rolling thunder of a film, one this extraordinary band deserves. Those for whom the Go-Betweens are part of the architecture of their lives will love it. For casual watchers, it might introduce them to something special.

• Send Me a Lullaby (1982) ***
• Before Hollywood (1983) ****1/2
• Spring Hill Fair (1984) *****
• Liberty Belle and the Black Diamond Express (1986) *****
• Tallulah (1987) ***1/2
• 16 Lovers Lane (1988) ****
• The Friends of Rachel Worth (2000) ****
• Bright Yellow Bright Orange (2003) ****
• Oceans Apart (2005) ****1/2

„Before Hollywood“ was my ticket to ride. i saw  the band wheneer they came near – it was meant to be a company for a lifetime. Reading a lot of these small letters on the band’s website in the memorial section  can still bring tears to my eyes. There is a kind of „community“ of listeners that never really met (apart from local stages), but can tell one another so much. About their experiences of the music. I never had such an intense emotional reaction about the death of a musician. Not even linked to my meetings with the guys. Their songs found a deep way down into my soull. Next week I will do a radio show where death is present all around, playing Ali Farke Toure, Johnny Cash and The Go-Betweens. That night I will wear my old blue Go-Be´s T-shirt. Sky-blue. Grant will always be part of the music I love, here and there and everywhere.

(m.e., summer 2006)

Michael Engelbrecht: Grant was writing on three songs. Sketches. Originally for another Go-Between album. Were there only melodies – did you write or finsih the lyrics for „The Evangelist“?

Robert Forster:  For the song „Demon Days“, the first five lines were written by him, I continued the writing. When Grant worked on songs in the last few years, he always wrote the lyrics at the end. He loved choruses and melodies – this raw material fuelled his work on the lyrics. After his death I came across his notebook and there were no lyrics in it, except these five lines from „Demon Days“.

And, how moving these lines are, in retrospect. Especially on this song, your singing is so soft and warm – I have rarely you heard that from you.  Somehow close to the devastatng tone of Neil Young  from „On The Beach“, his album was about loneliness and alienation.

That’s a special compliment, Michael.  „On The Beach“ is my favourite Neil Young album. In fact, I was listening to side two of the album just a week ago. I don’t think I’ve sung much in that vein before because the melody wasn’t mine.  Grant’s melody changed my voice. And of course his lines established a basic mood that I had to follow.

The album starts with a very quiet drawn-out sound, and it takes quite a while for the first words come up in  „If It Rains“.  The beginning is an awesome kind of meditation on rain.

Meditation is a good word here. There was the end of the very last song by us Go-Betweens on „Oceans Apart“; and then, not much later, the terrible thing happened. I wanted the first song of „The Evangelist“ to be a kind of meditation. The album couldn’t start normally. I didn’t want to start with a song, but with a sound, which, by the way, came from an old Casio keyboard. I wanted people who listen to hear this point zero, this  sound close to nothing. Only then do things start to develop.  The album just had to start slowly for its own stake!

Azkadenya is a modern, casual-dining Arabic restaurant chain that offers a wide variety of Middle Eastern cuisine. I don‘t know exactly if there is any other meaning, but the trio‘s work surely offers a broad palette of sounds, flavours, and moods.  Violin, bass, voice. Introduced by Fiona Talkington’s empathetic words, and enhanced, all the way through, by first class imagery and light (shadow) effects. It is always a joy to experience Sidsel, one of the world‘s greatest vocal improvisors, at Kristiansand – the Punktfestival now celebrating without big fuzz its 15th birthday. Records with her unique „singing style“ (the word style seems a bit limiting here) are a rare treat, so normally you have to go see her live exploring an enormous field between the whisper and the cry – all delivered in an awesome melange of sounds free of meaning, and (as it appeared to me, but you easily get lost in the wilderness) remnants of Norwegian and English language that add another element of suspense. As does Vilde and Inga’s searching and finding of holes, exits, solutions, outbursts, wonder, real life ecstasies, never relying on nostalgia or l‘art pour l‘art. This trio is a perfect pairing – and, sorry for that, there‘s no recording available. ECM New Series would be a perfect place for such unrelenting magic. And, let me add this: the pleasure of experiencing such music is slightly undermined by hard floor sitting. Yoga experts might have been able to cope with such inconvenience.

Zwei besondere Alben in nur einem Jahr, das eine extrem surreal, wie ein Soundtrack zu einer ganz anderen Art von „X-Files“, das andere  ganz und gar irdisch, zornig, dunkel, zärtlich. Offenbar sind „Big Thief“ am Verwegenen interessiert. Fast jedes Lied (schreibt Sam Sodorsky in „Pitchfork“, und ich übersetze ein paar Sätze von ihm wie ein Simultanübersetzer, dem auch mal was entgeht) fliesst über mit Tränen und Blut. Es gibt nur wenige Overdubs auf „Two Hands“, und manchmal hört man einzelne Mitglieder des Quartetts, wie sie einander Instruktionen geben, als wären sie gerade im Probenraum. So lassen Big Thief ein sehr spezielles Rockalbum entstehen, einem Versuch gleich, die unvollkommene rohe Essenz einer Band einzufangen, zu zeigen, was passiert, wenn man einfach bis vier zählt und loslegt. Dieser Zugang ist bestens bekannt, um einen starken, zugleich ausgefransten Zusammenhalt zu betonen, einige von Neil Youngs Platten aus den Siebzigern könnten einem da einfallen. Je stärker sich Big Thief auf einen besonderen Sound fokussieren, desto magischer klingen sie. Ich habe (und ich bin jetzt nicht mehr als Simultanübersetzer aktiv) diese amerikanische Gruppe erst in diesem Jahr entdeckt, keine Frage, absolute Klasse.