Dirk Serries: Gibson Les Paul Custom, various pedals
A few Italians and the occasional stray cat are the only ones who are cognizant about my antediluvian function of appraiser and commentator – solely in a domestic idiom – of the most evolved forms of (a-hem) “ambient” materials on the pages of my late comrade Gianluigi Gasparetti’s Deep Listenings quarterly. Among umpteen names, Dirk Serries’ work was all the rage in our houses at the time, obviously under the Vidna Obmana mask; he and GG got in touch at one point, if I recall correctly. It was a marvelous period of daily discoveries; we were constantly swapping experiences and feelings on diversely droning/reverberating albums, systematically originating playful attacks against each other’s favorites (one of Gianluigi’s targets being my esteem for Czech composer Jaroslav Krček, certainly not an exponent of the same aural territories).
Now and then, I sincerely miss those times. That’s why – besides the authentically superior quality of the music – I rate this new message by Serries so much. Bypassing the harsher aspects of his production as Fear Falls Burning to return to a more sympathetic dimension of spacial magnitude, The Origin Reversal conveys the awareness of a serene approach to the act of existing which is emblematic of the best contemporary ambient. This does not exclude deeply interior issues, in this particular case related with the maturation process of two close friends moved by analogous energies. The Gibson Les Paul is also a favorite electric guitar over here; that definitely helps. Ultimately, you can easily imagine what this record is made of: washes of attractively swelling superimposed chordal essences, where the frequencies of numberless pitches never fight, tending instead to signify a single organism of half-ethereal extraction. Potential remote comparisons: Paul Bradley, Suso Saiz, David Tollefson and so forth. Contemplative matters of quite a high caliber, no pontifical cerebrations or superficial effects to grab the ear of the average “I-won’t-listen-but-I’ll-download” illiterate. The soundtrack of a slightly sorrowful recollection that, at the end, bends the lips upwards in a smile of affection for people and memories that have defined our earlier life.