Expect no less than good-natured surprises and the occasional question mark when you read the name Frank Rothkamm. Reno is an album of flaccidly pushy electronic music composed during the 90s, entirely orchestrated on an Atari ST computer running on Cubase and connected to an array of vintage synthesizers and ancient-sounding drum machines. In essence, this is the sonic rendering of a concept – that of the “supermodern ballet” – according to which audience and performers become one thanks to the universal clock which regulates the (presumed) proportion between the rhythms of our own cosmos and the neuroses deriving from the numerous difficulties contained therein (including the impossibility of getting a work acknowledged, namely what happened to Rothkamm when he went to New York in search of record deals and/or other types of artistic glory and was instead forced to live in stressful conditions throughout the stay). The original background for this stuff has to be found in San Francisco’s Rave movement, of which the main character was a booster both as organizer and performer in the years of reference. The sounds get consistently thrown to our ugly mug in all their scientifically démodé appearance: mathematical programming, wishy-washy timbral stableness resulting in some mythical splashes of blubbery synthesis, and a smattering of retro jewels (“Graphic Equalizer”, “Dancefloor Killers” and “Jazz Hands”) that will make someone put on the red shoes and dance a peculiar kind of blues. And it’s also perfect, enjoyed via ear-clogging headphones, for terminating the verbal bullshit surrounding a pitiable train traveller.

It takes just a few words to explicit our impressions in front of Levitation And Breaking Points, re-released by Dale Lloyd’s And/OAR two years after the original triple 3-inch edition. Describing the mere exteroception – as always in corresponding circumstances – is an intention that ultimately results in the typical fatuousness attached to any similar attempt when one listens to uncrystallized masses of sound rich in shifts of imaginary harmonies and ethereal chromaticity. Perhaps we could do better referring to “presence” and “absence”, for these two opposites lie – here more than anywhere else in Celer’s recorded output – at the basis of the pervading sense of noetic improvement and corporeal liquefaction perceived during the protraction of the experience (needless to say, this disc is a natural nominee for the “infinite repeat” mode). The richness of psychological phenomenologies remains the most valid point of discussion for this type of outing; both Will and Dani Long worked in the ambit of music therapy, so they were probably able to predict certain effects on a listener’s involuntary cognition since the beginning. What the miserable reviewer must do in such a circumstance is, once again, stressing the need of separating who operates in this area with a background of genuine education and sentience from those who join the bandwagon without having a clue about the grandness of these issues. Celer were in search of truths while in exploration, and this record shows their absolute commitment to orbiting towards spheres that – hypothetically – any individual gifted with serious inner means and a modicum of volition can reach. Especially by remaining silent.

According to Huib Emmer – a Dutch composer I was not acquainted with until yesterday, henchman among others of Lukas Simonis who now publishes this CD on his own label – Green Desert should evoke visions of urban bleakness and sense of forsakenness. Using a miscellany of sources, a laptop and electronics, Emmer does manage to raise some degree of hell, though not ferociously as certain noise-mongers do. The representational processes mostly describe a fuzzy disarray, washes of unrecognisable fluids combining with more incisive frequencies to lead the unsuspecting headphone-wearing victim astray. Everything looks OK to that point, the music offering several levels of stimulating information to the brain and, in general, sounding rather personal. Regrettably, there are a few instances in which the whole steers very clearly to a sort of hefty industrial techno replete with cold – and ultimately insipid – square beats; even the quality of the sounds seems to diminish its order of magnitude quite decisively in those moments. It probably works better live, but these “variations” ruin an otherwise interesting record.

Timo Van Luijk represents the trait d’union between the disjointed constituents of what once was the Mirror karyon, having ongoing duos both with Christoph Heemann (In Camera) and Andrew Chalk (Elodie). Don’t envisage a Mirror reunion in a three-soul incarnation, for this is asking too much. However, the goods coming from the newer tandems are not bad as a consolation, and La Lumiere Profumee – the second transcribed phase in Elodie’s chronicles – is yet another pastel-shaded intermixture of moods that incorporate Arcadian echoes, psychotropic frequencies and undersized exhibits of the most regular – and, alas, gradually disregarded – kind of human impression. The sheer nonverbal motility of playing, whatever comes out of an instrument – or a generic tool, for that matter – lies at the basis of nine delicate trips through various stages of slightly perturbed ataraxis. Leaving us to speculate about the acoustic origins – though the dust-smelling piano characterizing several episodes cannot be missed – Chalk and Van Luijk seem interested in depicting an affirmation of the continuance of life with elements of such a subtlety that one is afraid of watching them vanish in the air while the music goes. Ingenuous melodies and atonal lines depicted by a number of reed instruments mesh and lull us softly, different perspectives and planes superimposed in lethargic earnestness. The music highlights the pair’s commonsensical sensibility, picking the elusive nuances of our misconceptions to defeat the hoity-toityness disseminated by innumerable lecturers of the vacuum.

In an handwritten note, Arvo Zylo (note the relation between his first name and the website’s) advises me that it took six years to complete 333. The many hours that he put in are discernible throughout the three tracks of the CD, radical sharpness subjacent to music mostly born from of jolts and compulsions, classifiable without reluctance in the orbit of semi-dignified noise. The project’s unfolding leads the listener across stages of “refuse-any-melody”, industrial-scented cadenced autism, characterized by the same pros and cons of other releases in this battleground. This means that the physiological reaction connected to the initial impact is somewhat dampened by the absence of a functional evolution, the various constituents succeeding in separated scenes rather than agreeing to a proper arrangement. Things improve over subsequent temporal transitions, a distinct opening towards more “orchestral” sonorities making the difference; we even start hearing (perhaps illusively) echoes of samples in the overall crushing. I won’t name names to forcibly compare Zylo to the usual suspects, because he does not deserve it: like it or not – and I do acknowledge several of its intriguing aspects – this records shows a strong backbone and a good degree of individuality, regardless of the cosmetic qualities.

Forgive this spurt of anti-democracy, but… wouldn’t it be possible to pass an international law that prohibits the attending of concerts to people with cold or affected by chronic coughing, either pneumonic or just nervous? Starting from the very first seconds, there are several instances in Journey – an otherwise glorious album by the violin/double bass duo of Cooke and Léandre – in which someone in the audience chooses, with surgical precision, the most tense and/or rarefied spots to sonorously showcase the content of their bronchial tubes, systematically collapsing the supernatural pressure of the moment.

This aside – and heaven knows how I hate putting great music second after behavioural deficits in a list – this performance from 2008 confirms what the ladies had already shown four years prior with Firedance on Red Toucan. In essence, the ability of keeping the flame of instant creativity burning brightly for a long time. They do it through freakish deviations and fulminating twists and turns enhanced by balanced dosages of perspicuous lunacy and liberal sensitivity. The interaction ranges from near-silence – crackles and taps in evidence, together with sighs, susurrations and “yeahs” of encouragement emitted by the players – to literally inflammatory attacks to the instruments. This album has much to teach to the disadvantaged scrapers who pretend to define themselves “musicians”: ardour, intelligence, scorching reflexes and sheer beauty of timbre are inbuilt gifts that cannot be acquired by looking intensely at a point while remaining still. If “playing with passion” does indeed mean something, there are many chances here to understand what that is. Unless you swallowed a couple of Aspirins before entering the concert site, of course.

An outstanding record to begin with, quite dissimilar from the previous disquieting release Dreamland on this same label (another must if you ask me). Here we observe Beat Circus’ penchant for the expansion of moods directly related to earlier eras of the American history, those in which leader Brian Carpenter’s parents and grandparents fought to survive. However, implications and hidden meanings were clearer once I became aware that the original concept behind Boy From Black Mountain is Carpenter’s attempt to depict stories through the eyes and brain of an autistic child – his son, diagnosed with the disease a few years ago, now luckily healthier following years of treatment. Let’s just say that this is a collection of compactly designed and finely orchestrated songs, in which a relatively deadpan and occasionally gravelly voice pilots a superb ensemble that looks able to execute whatever score one puts in front of them. You can find traces of bluegrass, Cajun, Irish reels and rural folk in there, Ron Caswell’s tuba and Andrew Stern’s banjo in evidence at various junctures. “The Sound And The Fury” throws in – for good measure - a Chinese reed instrument, tremolo guitar and marvelous samples of choral singing by what sounds like a group of Buddhist nuns. Shades of Steve Reich-esque strings (hats off, Jordan Voelker, Paran Amirinazari and, in other tracks, Julia Kent) inform “Nantahala”; a tender accordion characterizes the conclusive “Lullaby For Alexander”, a piece that made this writer brood over the late Lars Hollmer. A touching goodbye to the kind of juvenile incorruptibility that can’t seem to be found anymore.

Cuneiform

Drummer Mark Holub is the compositional deus ex-machina behind Led Bib, whose lineup is also shaped by bassist Liran Donin, keyboardist Toby McLaren and the sax tandem of Pete Grogan and Chris Williams. Sensible Shoes is an album that requires a measure of persistence in order to obtain maximum pleasure from it. On a first listen one thinks about a classic Cuneiform offer, RIO tints in jazzy sauce with sudden harsher digressions; but there’s definitely more. The ability of seducing the ears via composite counterpoints flowing into sheer lyricism (“Water Shortage”, “Zone 4*”). The powerful dissonant riffage of “Sweet Chilli” and “Call Centre Labyrinth”, nearly grotesque stridency revealing instrumental compactness and utter disbelief in traditional values, facilitated by the lack of guitar-related commonplaces. The initial “Yes, Again” grows and immediately stops; you breathe for a second, only to be thrown in a pot bubbling with vehement pulsations and erratic changes, spiraling saxophones constituting both the melodic source and the ornamentations. A mercurial unit for sure, the quintet positively belongs among the bands to follow with interest in the label’s plentiful troops. Honest and vigorous, executing their scores with the “right” kind of zeal, still leaving room to authenticity.

Cuneiform

GUTBUCKET – A Modest Proposal

Gutbucket – the quartet of (mostly) multi-instrumentalists Ty Citerman, Adam D Gold, Eric Rockwin and Ken Thomson – counts on a palette that ranges from harshly distorting electric guitars and sharp-as-a-blade reeds to the use of old keyboards such as Hammond organs and Roland Juno synthesizers. They even grieve over the lack of a mellotron in the inner sleeve. But if I must tell the truth, what impresses me the most is the tightness of the rhythm section: Gold and Rockwin cross-question the inevitability of keeping a beat with a foot, relentlessly displacing our poise via tempos and subdivisions thereof that would reanimate Lazarus in absence of the original redeemer. However, in “Doppelganger’s Requiem” the band brings out a softer ¾ with quasi-moderate arpeggios and something that might resemble a melody to sing; naturally, the whole ends with another overdriven blast. The 4-way dynamics are often quite complex for an instant identification, yet what’s bizarre is the clear idea of unaffectedness left by these ten tracks in the mind despite the numerous intricacies. Everything appears completely delineated, ready to be committed to memory with a bit of an effort; influences are not excessively visible; hints to seemingly not pertinent genres are also on display. The copious doses of transmitted energy repay the listener’s attentiveness, indicating paths to the enjoyment of materials that – though not really pioneering in the strictest sense – require functioning brains, pumping hearts and rock-solid nuts to be performed. These guys own all these things, and then some.

Cuneiform

There’s a sense of barbed menace in the six tracks of this superb CD. Rupp – whose temperament on electric guitar is twice as mordacious than his acoustic counterpart – throws up astringent jangles and straightforward messages bathed in vitriolic liquids, blistering resonances emerging from umbrageous spurts. Müller removes the expected stumbling blocks that may be hypothesized when an instrument like the trombone – not a model of malleability to start with – becomes the pliable means for a quixotic battle against the rot-smelling supercharged intellectualism that even respectable improvisers expose in some of their trades. The lone member never met before by yours truly – drummer Fischerlehner – is a welcome surprise, a new participant in the festival of accent-displacing propellers who treat toms, cymbals and snares as pretexts for spirited discussions, if not out-and-out scraps. Jointly speaking, the music resulting from these ignitable exchanges sounds consistent, often galvanic, ultimately unpredictable. The way in which the instrumental colourations combine, in union with the noticeable affinity between the musicians, makes for a clutch of bubbling improvisations that manage to preserve sharpness during the most boisterous fragments.