Languor is their business, and business is good. They are d’incise and Marcel Chagrin, who collectively go by the typographically enhanced name heu{s-k}ach, which is likely a pun whose meaning is lost on me. Their recent album on the restingbell.net netlabel bears a title that speaks to its deeply improvisational orientation: I Know Not What Tomorrow Will Bring. The sense of anticipation is especially strong, because the recording, four tracks in all, teams the duo with a third player, Pedro Sousa. The duo has an established sense of musical camaraderie, but Sousa is a new element. A new element can be a chaotic thing, and in music as willfully staid as that by heu{s-k}ach, the unexpected is all the more difficult to subsume. Chagrin plays guitar and drum, d’incise various electronics and sonified objects, and Sousa a tenor saxophone. The result of their collaboration is exemplary drone-influenced European free improvisation — which is to say, it sounds like less than the sum of its parts. Especially recommended is its fourth and final track, “Bruno’s Dream,” which opens with moments of intense delay between notes on Chagrin’s guitar, and when d’incise and Sousa enter to fill the gap, they manage to slow the proceedings even further (MP3). It’s masterful.
[audio:http://www.archive.org/download/rb099/04-brunos_dream.mp3|titles=”Live on Rare Frequency February 2011″|artists=d’incise and Marcel Chagrin and Pedro Sousa]
On his dincise.net site, d’incise refers to it as “weird-blues-drone-improv,” which seems like as good a description as any. The music, as d’incise’s summary suggests, has the feel of a score to a lost Jim Jarmusch film.
Get the full release at restingbell.net. It’s available for free download, and for sale as a limited edition CD-R.
The track is a series of events. It’s the opening track, the title track, of the new album by longtime electronic music figure Kim Cascone: The Knotted Constellation (Fourteen Rotted Coordinates), on the Monotype label. We tend to think of music as a layered experience. Even solo performances involve chords, counterpoint, themes. But this track is a narrative, a largely wordless one, and one in which, when there is verbal occurrence, it is as much a matter of sound as it is of utterance, utterance-as-sound (MP3).
Listeners familiar with Cascone’s work with David Lynch will hear an avant-storytelling familiarity in a male cackle that appears early in the track. But the moment is less a meta reference to any Lynchian heritage than it is a carnival-esque salvo, signalling that composite of playfulness and anxiety. The track proceeds as standalone sonic segments, each separated from the next by a momentary silence, a blank space like a black title card in a silent film. There are footsteps in a dark cellar, moments of sweet ambient pop, time-bomb ticking, HVAC droning, rough static, and more. Each builds on what proceeds and foretells what is to follow, yet more than anything stands alone as a unique instance.
Fans of the great Thicket iOS app who are awaiting an update (one is in the works) can bide their time with a lovely free app produced in part by Thicket’s developers, Joshue Ott and Morgan Packard. Titled Falling Stars, it’s a marketing piece created on behalf of a gum (Trident Vitality, a Kraft subsidiary), though the branding is limited to some relatively low-key logo appearances. It’s a work of playful, generative music-making, with an emphasis on appealing to a broad audience. Generative music is music that results from a system, a set of rules, rather than from a fixed score. It was released on June 27.
Here’s how it works: The user draws vines on the screen, which are hit by falling stars, thus triggering sounds. Each vine signifies a different sound, most “musical,” which is to say tonal and melodic, though there are also simulated hand claps. The user can trigger the five stars by tapping on them, or can wait for them to fall on their own. The stars bounce when they hit vines, which means that the user can set up Rube Goldberg compositions, sending the stars bouncing from one vine to another, or capturing them in literal loops (a complete circle of vine) that will put the star into a lengthy repetitive cycle. The stars also make different sounds when they hit the bottom of the screen, depending on where they land.
There are seven types of vines, selectable from a menu along the bottom of the screen (it disappears with a swipe). A couple of these vines don’t become available until the user shares a composition, via Facebook, Twitter, or email. (It isn’t particularly invasive, as I was able to just email myself a composition to unlock the remaining sounds.) This being a marketing tool, the emphasis on networked participation isn’t surprising, and the app thankfully lets users share their compositions. And should the visualization of small round dots triggering sounds along long lines bring to mind an abstract take on the traditional format of a piece of sheet music, that probably isn’t an accident.
Speaking of non-accidents, rest assured that the sounds that result from Falling Stars aren’t purely random. Quite the contrary, they are musical and enjoyable, owing to careful balance of the vine-related tones, and to some sort of underlying metronomic pulse that keeps everything relatively in sync.
iOS 4.2 & Vine: The main screen of Falling Stars app
This demo video was posted at the youtube.com account of Interval Studios, home to Thicket’s Ott and Packard. The brief piece is narrated by Ott:
Given the advertising-world origin of the app, Falling Stars is worth investigating for what it says about the commercial opportunities for generative music. As of this writing, of the 714 reviews of Falling Stars, almost 90%, 634 in total, give it five stars, the highest rating possible. Of the remaining 73 ratings, more than half are four stars, leaving just 12 three-star, nine two-star, and 16 one-star. The most negative reviews include a few critiques of the app, generally finding it useless, but a lot of them seem to be technical in nature (reporting audio defects that have not been evident on my test units: an iPad 2 and a current, aka fourth, generation iPod Touch). Those “useless” comments are common for generative sound apps, given that they often lack both a self-evident melody and the sort of goal or ending that is the hallmark of a proper game. (The Falling Stars app’s promotional text describes it as an “audio/visual digital toy.”)
The iPhone app based on the film Inception serves as the primary example of the power of a commercial brand to not only draw attention to something as adventurous as generative sound, but to lend it a useful context. The Inception app has 5811 ratings, over 77 percent of which are either four or five stars. By contrast, the various apps associated with RJDJ, the app from which Inception was derived, are more evenly divided between positive and negative responses.
This isn’t to say, merely, that a mass-market commercial property is necessary to garner public interest in generative sound — mass-market commercial properties can bring attention to any number of seemingly esoteric subjects. It’s simply to say that if a popular subject can indeed lend legitimacy to avant-garde ventures, then perhaps those ventures aren’t as esoteric as some might imagine. The Inception app provides the additional evidence that a good story, a rich narrative, can be a grounding force. Inception accomplishes this not only by tying itself to the popular film, but by having built a sense of discovery into the various stages, or levels, of the app. Falling Stars doesn’t have a story, per se, but its natural-world setting brings it out of the realm of pure graphic-score abstraction (the cold grids on which so many generative sound apps are founded), and into something that a broader range of people can relate to. The natural environment is a common source of inspiration in experimental music, and Falling Stars may even help some intrigued users track back to such figures as Stephen Vitiello (whose scores have drawn from images of nature), R. Murray Schafer (who popularized the concept of the soundscape), and Cheryl Leonard (who uses found objects, like bones and rocks, as instruments).
Water Music: Falling Stars’ mix of sheet-music elements and the natural environment echoes avant-garde graphic scores, such as sound artist Stephen Vitiello’s “Reed Music,” shown here, which superimposes sheet music onto a photo of reeds in a pond.
Closer at hand, Thicket’s Ott and Packard have acknowledged (in the text accompanying the video up above that features Ott) the influence of the app Soundrop on Falling Stars. Here’s a demo of Soundrop:
Trident is putting money behind the Vitality app’s promotion. There was a paid gawker.com post, and according to noisenewyork.com, a firm that was also involved in the app’s development, Falling Stars saw “over 100,000 downloads” during its first week of launch (other stats as of late June: “Trident Vitality app is #8 in the new and noteworthy section of the iPad, #15 in free entertainment apps, #85 overall in free apps”).
Just moments into “Crystal Glass” by John Praw, the hum with which the track opens undergoes two significant transitions: first, an additional tone appears, higher up, making the work more hopeful than the initial drone had suggested might be the case. And second, yet another voice is added, and unlike the first two, it clearly is a voice, recognizable by the complexity of its tonal makeup, and by the sinuous manner in which it moves amid the hum lattice that has already been constructed. As the piece proceeds, more voices are added, each more recognizable as such. But to balance the natural tones of the singing — by “singing” meaning extended melismas of soft vowels — they’re set on repeat, layered atop one another, as if reflected in a long hall of sonic mirrors. The voices are natural, their repetition mechanical.
Praw repeats this approach on the album’s second track, “Black Fog,” but with what appears to be piano in place of the voice. The effect is more distilled, in part because we’re hearing a mechanism, the piano, instead of the voice, but also because the echoing slightly muffles the instrument, softening its edges, as if to suggest we are only hearing the second or third generation of its repetition, not the original source.
The two songs are part of Split Continents+, which pairs three Praw tracks with three credited to Darkslider. Split Continents+ was recently re-released on Mine All Mine Records with two tracks of bonus material, following release last year on the Misspelled Records label. It’s available for free download (pay as you like, that is) at mamrecords.com, the files hosted at mineallminerecords.bandcamp.com. More on Praw at facebook.com/johnpraw.
Languor is their business, and business is good. They are d’incise and Marcel Chagrin, who collectively go by the typographically enhanced name heu{s-k}ach, which is likely a pun whose meaning is lost on me. Their recent album on the restingbell.net netlabel bears a title that speaks to its deeply improvisational orientation: I Know Not What Tomorrow Will Bring. The sense of anticipation is especially strong, because the recording, four tracks in all, teams the duo with a third player, Pedro Sousa. The duo has an established sense of musical camaraderie, but Sousa is a new element. A new element can be a chaotic thing, and in music as willfully staid as that by heu{s-k}ach, the unexpected is all the more difficult to subsume. Chagrin plays guitar and drum, d’incise various electronics and sonified objects, and Sousa a tenor saxophone. The result of their collaboration is exemplary drone-influenced European free improvisation — which is to say, it sounds like less than the sum of its parts. Especially recommended is its fourth and final track, “Bruno’s Dream,” which opens with moments of intense delay between notes on Chagrin’s guitar, and when d’incise and Sousa enter to fill the gap, they manage to slow the proceedings even further (MP3). It’s masterful.
Listeners familiar with Cascone’s work with David Lynch will hear an avant-storytelling familiarity in a male cackle that appears early in the track. But the moment is less a meta reference to any Lynchian heritage than it is a carnival-esque salvo, signalling that composite of playfulness and anxiety. The track proceeds as standalone sonic segments, each separated from the next by a momentary silence, a blank space like a black title card in a silent film. There are footsteps in a dark cellar, moments of sweet ambient pop, time-bomb ticking, HVAC droning, rough static, and more. Each builds on what proceeds and foretells what is to follow, yet more than anything stands alone as a unique instance.
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