Alfredo Costa Monteiro: electro-acoustic devices, speakers, electric guitar; Ferran Fages: feedback mixing board, electro-acoustic devices; Angharad Davies: violin
Never known for superfluously amiable traits or warm welcomes in the sounds they generate as Cremaster, Alfredo Costa Monteiro and Ferran Fages are definitely not making new friends fast judging by the resolute propensity to ear-piercing shrillness characterizing the bulk of Pluie Fine, a long-distance coaction with Angharad Davies occurred via sequential exchanges of files. The three tracks are comparable in various aspects – the primary one being the consequence of preposterous doses of agglomerated ultra-acute pitches on the sensory receptors – but they retain a separate sense of forward-looking transmutation and careful development carried out in somewhat inhospitable milieus.
“Embrun” is the “wavering” opening piece, the combinations between overlying timbres made richer by discernible throbs and slight glissandos while sinister growls underscore the ceremony. This before the textural mass steers towards a phase of high-frequency destructiveness escorted by mutating drones beneath the surface. Think about a heartfelt mourning released amidst a bunch of chainsaw manslayers.
“Bruine” is even more incisive if possible, calling to mind everything from intense radio signals to torturing brain drills. The right quantities of string impurity and blistering foam keep things entirely challenging until the final minutes, the whole shifting to an orchestral Hades of sorts where monstrous unwilled chords empower the air with the kind of nerve-exciting molecular motility which is sorely missed in times of collective seeking of a counterfeit serenity.
While the ears are still ringing, here comes “Crachin” to finally give some space to the lower regions of the acoustic spectrum, the outset instantly summoning forth memories of David Jackman’s Organum. It doesn’t last: those evil, skinny-yet-noxious upper partials mingle intelligently to hit again – hard. At the third straight headphone listen this writer had almost decided that he’d become incapable of discerning a clear-cut edifice in the “score”, ended by a fabulously sloped chorale of uncertain origin. A clever move following that trauma was repeating the procedure subsequently to a couple of hours of rest: the speakers did their work, the room helping the venomous gas generated by the infinitesimal intervals to spread first, and tighten the clutch on the blessed victim’s frontal bone afterwards.