What we’ve got here is an album where – to the ears of the title-influenced unaware – a given movement may be exchanged with the following/preceding one. It is instead a subtle illustration of authentically “minimalist” conceptualization as intended by the genre’s historic tradition. Ian Vine – a sure bet when it comes to long stretches of superimposition of pitches – eschews sonic malevolence via the pacifying effects of accumulations of guitars and electronics ultimately sounding like a big harmonium. Overall, Copies I-V could be considered as the composer’s most consonant release to date.
The sensation of watching a mass of ice melting in the spring’s first warmth can be an apt description for this music. The imagery might not change that much, but something is definitely happening as we detach ourselves from normal methods of reasoning. Slowly but surely, the trademark contradiction characterizing this type of work materializes: practically motionless, it still reveals traces of constant adjustment under the reassuring appearance. The connection between auricular membranes and rest of the body is immediately established; therapeutic signals flow through the nerves as the necessity of staying there without doing anything overly operational is the obvious consequence.
Vine is a man who prepares his scores in advance, not someone who merely sets up a chain of pedals to feed it a couple of notes and get a coffee in the meantime. His logic becomes intelligible as the sounds unfold, the psychosomatic processes totally delivered by complications during the listening ritual. In absence of bargain-priced philosophical complements, we relish the near perfection of a straight point A-to-point B line across the blinding sunlight of momentary composure. Just leave cerebral folderol where it belongs.