Recent work

There are some recent pieces of mine uploaded to soundcloud--I thought it worth cross-pollinating here, if anyone is interested in hearing them.

This is one half of an installation developed with the help of Ruth Hardie and Oscar Dub for the Whipple Museum of Science in Cambridge. This material was composed--the right word--of close miked recordings of friction on various surfaces. My intention was to 'reconstruct' natural sounds (environmental sounds etc.) out of quasi-mechanistic material, using mechanistic processes. I was also concerned with that internal dialogue of 'recognisability' (the 'where have I heard that sound before?' question) one often has when listening to electroacoustic music.

This was the second room of the installation; the first (for which I had a lot of help from Oscar Dub) was more randomised and straightforwardly mechanistic--we took as our cue the replica of the 14th-century astronomical clock of Richard of Wallingford housed in the Whipple museum, and organised sounds to wander around the space in proportions determined by the ratios of the planets' orbits. Thus our installation (literally) circled around ideas of mechanism, nature, replication, simulation, time and astronomy.

This is an improvisation for piano and objects produced for Sarah Hughes and Patrick Farmer, of Compost and Height--I've since improvised at a date at Art Jericho, alongside Jason Kahn, Stephen Cornford, Patrick, Sarah, and Dimitra Lazaridou-Chazigoga, nestled amongst Will Cotterill's paintings. Look forward to more improvisation in the future--I'm just starting out in this area (well, all areas, but you know what I mean).

This is a piece for Cello and Tape, composed for and performed by Olly Coates, in the recital room at West Road concert hall. (Indeed it was specifically written for that room, the tape material designed to emerge specifically from the particular ambient noise in that space.) One of the best experiences of working with a performer I've yet had, Olly is terrifically sensitive, knowledgable, impossible to fluster, and without any trace of ego. I wish this piece could have been longer, but such were the time restrictions. I might be able to make it longer in the future, if I can find a good performer.

Will try and keep this blog more updated in future. Whenever I see it languishing (especially compared to the other, excellently well maintained blogs I read) I get a gnawing sensation like I haven't done my homework. Buck up your ideas, son.

xx

Oxford: Koboku Senju / Farmer, Hughes, Cornford

Stephen Cornford with Toshimaru Nakamura listening (photo: Richard Pinnell)

Talking to David Grundy after this one (blogger and writer for web magazine Eartrip), we discussed whether its really possible to write a concert review at all. David used to take notes—I’m not sure I could. I did a bit of student paper work recently (hence lack of content here), all pretty mediocre stuff, to be expected, but one thing I did notice was a tendency for the reviewer (me) to construct narratives in the gallery or concert space itself. One is too preoccupied (or, at least, I was) with constructing some terrifically ‘apt’ remarks that one can distract oneself from addressing the work at hand with full attention. David’s position was the opposite—that the looming prospect of the review required one to listen harder, and that note-taking solidifies deep listening. I’m not sure.

Nevertheless, these misgivings about writing don’t detract from the fact that this concert was excellent and had some unusual dimensions. Art Jericho, which is fairly near to where I live, is not a particularly great art gallery. Actually, I’m sure the art gallery itself is fine, it’s just the work the directors insist on putting in it. Mostly local fair, its nothing to write home about—as far as I can remember my favourite bit of visual detritus was the ceiling. Improvised music of this calibre is pretty rare in Oxford, despite its being home to the well-regarded programme at Oxford Brookes; only recently has a swathe of festivals and concerts, including some music by Wandelweiser composers at Holywell Music Room in February, appeared on the scene (most of which I sadly couldn’t attend). [Edit: actually, this isn't true. Oxford Improvisers have run many great concerts in the past, and continue to do so. There's more good improvisation in Oxford than I let on here.]

Patrick Farmer and Sarah Hughes (of Compost and Height) are, amongst other people, behind this. This concert was put on by them in coalition with blogger and critic Richard Pinnell. Patrick and Sarah are themselves great improvisers—their set with Stephen Cornford (whose own output with Samuel Rodgers is worth a listen) was dextrous and quite varied. The style of predominantly close-miked acoustic sounds owes much to other British sound artists and improvisers (like Lee Patterson and Adam Bohlman). Though the sonic material is amplified, its texture differs in quality from sounds derived from electric or electronic instruments. Having this set paired with Toshi Nakamura—who played with Kobuku Senju in the second set of the evening—showed perhaps how these musical textures have developed as electroacoustic improvisation has flourished.

Nakamura is of course a pioneer, and there are many prevalent points of comparison with newer British improvisation and the established international style; nevertheless it was the differences which marked themselves out more to me. Patrick, Sarah and Stephen’s work had a kind of benign localism, there is something almost rural about it. Their work is much more akin to close-miking field recorders—Patterson, Peter Cusack perhaps also. Maybe this is because of the use of natural materials (Patrick deposited a pile of dead leaves on his turntable to conclude the set); more I think it is to do with the depiction of natural textures, textures that ‘sound’ natural. Of course this is just another kind of artifice (as Jonathan Meades has put it, ‘there’s nothing natural about nature’); but I think what I’m trying to get at is that Patrick’s turntable playing for example is not so much as ‘urban’ as other experimental turntablists (Marclay, Yoshihide). Anyway, maybe I’m grasping at straws.

Something else noticeable in Patrick, Sarah and Stephen’s set was the section where Sarah’s chorded zither was used to pluck out a decidedly modal collection of pitches. Much of this music does not reference pitch collections of such conventionality; this was an intriguing and perhaps adventurous thing to invoke in the midst of such abstractly textural music. This tendency towards modality, or even diatonicism, was something prevalent in Koboku Senju’s set that followed, and as Richard has pointed out, this is often a welcome relief. I don’t want that to sound like I don’t want to listen to abstract reductionist improvisation—I do, and when its done well it can be spectacularly rewarding. Nevertheless, an over-reliance on such gestures can lead to a slightly authoritarian aesthetic; like the minimalist trend in modernism, it can seem oddly stifling despite its tranquility (enforced tranquility, even subconsciously enforced tranquility, is hardly genuine). The majority of Koboku Senju’s playing was deliciously textural, with fascinating sounds produced by all of the brass instruments. Tetuzi Akiyama was, as one probably should expect, decidedly himself throughout—floppy hat (surely now something of a cliché), disjunctly melodious journeying. Akiyama offered some more ‘textural’ contributions towards the end, with a variety of metal and wooden implements used to rub the strings.

Nakamura’s offering was as well-honed as one would expect, it is a pleasure to watch him perform (not something I’ve been able to do before). Oddly though, there is something increasingly and bizarrely historic about his music. He hasn’t been around for long, but he has had such influence that his textures seem as much prototypical as archetypical. That doesn’t detract from their beauty—far from it, at one moment about one third of the way in, the rest of the musicians dropped out seamlessly leaving Toshi to explore an awesomely delicate texture, something almost lyrical.

There were weak moments in Koboku Senju’s performance no doubt. I’ve never been much a fan of embouchure percussion on the saxophone, those sounds seem rather old hat and uninteresting; but the saxophonist Espen Reinertsen also offered some wonderfully gossamer multiphonics as well, quite unlike anything I’ve heard from the instrument. Eivind Lønning produced some marvellously unusual sounds on the trumpet, and Martin Taxt’s tuba was also a resource for many fascinating sonorities. The unification of their playing resulted in musical textures that were difficult to aurally divide, despite the familiar instruments; their mutual responsivity was also such that, about two-thirds of the way in to the set, a spontaneously modal section was arrived at, something that referenced free jazz quite explicitly. Up until now electroacoustic improv has generally shunned reference to jazz—this isn’t a criticism, but it is interesting that the origin of the free improvisation movement, of which current electroacoustic improv is an offshoot, was jazz (and not, as it happens, experimental or avant-garde music). I personally can understand the loss of taste for jazz, but I also don’t think that its worth ignoring a piece of history for the sake of it.

In sum, this concert displayed a range of mellifluous and at times eclectic music; a measured eclecticism which, as much as that word is a bad cliché these days, is I think welcome. There were plenty of people in attendance who, as far as I could tell, did not walk out; I hope more improvised music in Oxford will happen, there seems to be an appetite.

Rie Nakajima - I can hear it

Soundfjord is a pretty striking place. As I stumbled through seven sisters I wasn't prepared for its utmost spareness - a small white room and two speakers. It seemed as if Nellie (who showed me in) was inviting me into her flat.

The piece on show there needed nothing else really. Rie Nakajima exhibits a recording of blind piano tuner Ken Bodden feeling and hearing his way around the inside of a piano. The absolute tactility of the sound belies any need for visual impulse. We hear the rattle and clicks of his tuning ratchet as it attacks and caresses the pegs; the muffled sound of children outside (unclear whether recorded or real); occasional breaths and sighs and the movement of fabric; and all the while this incessantly dry but peculiarly gentle striking of notes.

I've heard pianos being tuned before (I usually listen to the tuner when he does mine in my room in college), but there was something different at work here. Obviously, through recording and exhibition, the nature of the activity is changed somewhat. If, for example, my own piano is being tuned, there is a definite sense of social relation. The piano tuner is undertaking a task on my behalf, and with me listening is perhaps interested in getting it done quickly; conversely he maintains a certain amount of power, having the monopoly of skill in the situation. Nakajima's work, on the other hand, attempts to remove whatever social obligation might be otherwise present. It's not clear who Bodden is tuning 'for' - either for the purposes of Nakajima's recording; or else to just exercise his own skill. In many ways, Bodden's skill, and his pleasure in exercising it (and our pleasure in his pleasure, as it were) is the central aesthetic aspect of the piece.

Beyond that, from the point of view of Nakajima, the piece is almost a 'readymade' - something like a field recording of a human being. The functional nature of the piano tuning removes it initially from artistic climes, it is a 'craft' activity. It achieves the quantity of art through recording and exhibition. Nakajima exhibits a function (or a process-as-function) as object. The ending point of the process (its 'purpose') is redefined. Where the piano tuner is originally attempting to produce an 'in-tune-piano' (as I'm sure Bodden is doing in this case), Nakajima undermines this skill-function. The 'in-tune-piano' is the MacGuffin - it drives the process but is vacant from the object as-it-is when exhibited.

All of this is pretty illuminating when generalised, I think - because it shows what an enormous effect (aesthetically-contextually) the simple act of recording can have. It can redistribute the weight of an action - whatever that action was directed 'towards'; the action can find itself directed towards something quite different. In this sense recording can undermine as much as it can document; the status of the recorded activity is permanently changed ('cooked', even, to invoke Levi-Strauss). Though Nakajima's work is undoubtedly beautiful in depicting Bodden's tactile activity, there is a definite sense of unintentional betrayal. What does Bodden hear when he hears his process-as-function depicted as object? Does it, or might it lose its integrity? Like Kleist's youth in On the Marionette Theatre, who, when informed of the beauty of an action, might Bodden fail to reproduce his piano-tuning in its original, innocent virtuosity?

Like all good pieces, apart from being rather beautiful aesthetically, this one raises a good few questions. It's running until the 29th Jan.

EDIT: There's also a podcast documenting this exhibition here: http://www.frameworkradio.net/2010/12/310-2010-12-19/

Ernesto Neto/the 'New Decor' (Hayward Gallery)

Lee Bul's chandelier Sternbau no. 3. Pretty, but perhaps a little inconsequential.

I hoped that after its hiatus the Hayward would open with a new exhibition that would be interesting. Brazilian installation sculptor Ernesto Neto was not someone who I was particularly familiar with - this was his first solo exhibition in the UK so I can probably be forgiven for this - though I had seen images and so forth. I didn't really know anything about the other exhibition.

I'd like to think it would take quite a lot for me to leave an art gallery (voluntarily) without at least attempting to look at everything. This time, however, I simply had to go - Ernesto Neto's exhibition made me feel like pieces of my brain were being systematically removed and replaced with squishy multi-coloured slime.

But first, the 'New Decor'. This was, to me, a fairly inconsequential arrangement of objects - connected by the rather obvious theme of artists' responses to the everyday objects that surround us (furniture mostly). I didn't really get the sense that the curator (Ralph Rugoff, the gallery's director) saw this theme as a subject for critique. Though individual artists did offer 'takes' on furniture through re-interpretation or re-contextualisation, there seemed to be no overarching 'point' to the exhibition; not at least in the sense that I was expecting - a critical rethinking of the objects that we surround ourselves with. Nevertheless, there were some nice pieces. Elmgreen and Dragset's mirrored bunk beds (Boy Scout) had a anxious and nervous tranquility, and were a little worrying for it. It was also nice to see some work by Doris Salcedo, which often has great expressive poignancy. Roman Signer's fantastic Floating Table (one of those 'does what it says on the tin' pieces) had a bizarre innocence but (like other works in the show) was worrying.

The standout work for me was Jin Shi's haunting installation 1/2 Life, a portrait of Chinese migrant workers seen through their possessions. Here, their life was depicted by showing a 1/2 size mock-up of a typical hovel - so that we 'look down' on these people's lives as the Chinese population does. The piece lacked the worker her/himself - and this conspicuous lacking contributed to a haunting state of instability, as we waited for the worker to (never) return.

Many of the pieces, however, had not much to say (at least as far as I could see), and some reminded me of exhibits in the Millenium Dome - a kind of semi-ironic celebration of western bourgeois banality.

Up the stairs, I moved into Neto's big work The Edges of the World. A touchy-feely, childlike environment, one is immediately confronted with squashy fabricy textures one is encouraged to 'be gentle with'. Sacks of stones hang in loose, ladies' tights-like stalagmites, dripping and oozing with 'playful' organicism. Bright colours are everywhere. One is invited to hit a drum and watch plastic grains bounce all over its surface and onto the floor; to turn (with an oversize mitten) the pages cardboard 'children's' books contained in a see-through stretch-fabric globule; and to take one's shoes off and wander through what feels like a play pen that should be attached to a Heston Blumenthal gastropub. There was also a swimming pool.

I didn't get that far, I was tiring of it all. Neto's uncompromisingly joyful aesthetic combined smell of Southbank saturday afternoons, children's feet and socks, and the noise and clatter of said children's intensive running around of the exhibit was too much for me. Maybe I'm a miserable bastard, but it was all too much fucking fun for me. I mean, there's nothing worse than being forced to smile and be happy and be content with the world. Neto's art is not only shallow, it's positively malicious - invading and pervasively joyous to such an extent as to destroy whatever curiosity I might have had.

If you do go to this exhibition, and if you come away happy and smiling and pleased with the multicoloured vibrancy of the Southbank and all of its minions and minstrels, I assure you, you have been hoodwinked.

John Cage: Indeterminacy at Shoreditch Church

A third concert review, and I hope to do a couple more next week if I get the chance. This concert was a nice one, and picked up on strands of musical thinking exhibited in the previous two in an interesting and slightly unexpected way.

After a slightly blustered journey from Old Street (had to break out the A-Z as my knowledge of this area is shamefully poor), arrived at the truly beautiful church and greeted with a nice glass of red. The concert began a little late (seems in the hot weather, people rock up late for concerts, something I don't really ever do); nevertheless it began with some bravura. Richard Thomas's startling and inspired performance of 57:30 for a String Player (1953) was a real treat. You can see his cello accompanied by the heavily branded edition peters landscape part (I always think it's rather stupid to have landscape parts; though it did allow for some theatrical page turns). There was a certain intense hilarity inherent in this opening string music, something that became a theme for the rest of the concert.

The music from Suite for Toy Piano (1948) that followed felt very much like filler to me, though it had its charm. I do understand Cage's motion towards chance as a determinant for his compositional output - some of his earlier, semi-improvised compositions (as I feel sure this one was) are quite weak. These pieces also had some of the elements of structured silliness or charm shown in the earlier work, though the music for toy pianos is (of course) more evocative of innocence.

Next came the well-known Solo for Sliding Trombone (1957-8). This is performed quite a bit and there isn't much I need say about it save for the interesting 'functionality' this particular performance had. Alan Tomlinson's meticulous setting up of the table for his mutes, the music stand, the part, and his chair spilled over into the musical performance (despite his spoken disclaimer that the preceding activities were not written in the score; they probably are implied on some level). Cage's music seemed to have the same 'functional' quality that his setting up of his apparatus had - but a mysterious functionality understandable only to some higher authority. I got the feeling that if he didn't parp his mouthpiece into the harmon mute at the particular point that he did, something else might have been adversely affected, and (like an employee) the play would have to 'compensate' somehow. Again, the silliness invoked by this piece had a distinctly structural feel to it - like someone being instructed to play. This was in marked contrast to the A band's performance the previous night - it seemed that no one was instructing them to play, not even the concert organisers.

After a protracted period of (perhaps improvised) silence, Richard Thomas played a further cello piece. Though maybe a little weaker this time, it was nevertheless fascinating to hear this music in combination with the sounds from outside - notably the usual friday-night spats between men and women on the street. This was followed by a performance of 0'0" (1962), realised by the iPhone ensemble (I wonder whether they do other performances, and what they perform). This, again, picked up on the structured silliness of earlier pieces. This time, I felt it was a bit forced and perhaps a little embarrassing. Tania Chen's lunatic tap dancing combined with snippets of radio and the sounds of the world cup (I think), as well as another ensemble member's brushing and straightening of her hair, seemed a bit much for me. It looked to me rather like undergraduate performance art, somewhat unconvincing.

After the interval, we returned to a ten-minute realisation of Music for Amplified Toy Pianos (1960), a very beautiful work, and a little short (I felt) at the length that it was. An extra 5 or 6 minutes would have been perfect to fully articulate the atmospheres generated, but in a long programme like this it might have been unsuitable. This performance also lacked some of the silliness present in previous works - instead it was purely tranquil, articulating well Cage's mantra that music should 'sober and quiet the mind, thus making it susceptible to divine influences'.

But lastly we came to the moment most audience members had probably been waiting for. Comedian Stewart Lee has been a supporter of experimental music over the years, and his sense of comic timing and understanding of the domain was a obviously an advantage in tackling Cage's Indeterminacy (1959). Lee's somewhat clinical approach - sitting at a desk, with each story on a card - had a poignancy to it. There was something of the archivist about Lee's performance (and a tangible absence of Cage himself); but Lee was not cold, he had great warmth and humility. Though often Tania Chen and Steve Beresford's interruptions didn't perhaps interrupt as much as they might have done (and occasionally one got a sense of the awkwardness apparent, with Lee waiting for interruptions that didn't materialise), the performance had a charm and polish to it. I especially liked the Richard Buhlig story (including Cage waiting for 12 hours outside his house), one of the particularly wordy stories taking quite an effort to read in one minute. Thirty minutes was also a good length of time for the work, as enough variety was introduced without lapsing into indulgence.

A good evening overall, though the concert did have its low points. The humour inherent in Cage's work was emphasised - which seems to make sense, seeing as Indeterminacy is one of Cage's most humorous and accessible works. It's interesting to me that because Cage himself was such a warm person (and that his writings and interviews became so widely disseminated), his more austere works often found difficulty amongst even learned auditors - it's easy to understand why. Maybe Stockhausen and Boulez understood that, if one desires to work as a serious modernist, one probably ought to be a bit humourless. Though the public persona might suffer, people might be inclined to take as read the seriousness of the work without any dissonance in understanding.

The A Band / Sogabe Hidekazu @ Cafe Oto

Another day, another gig. This one promised to be a fascinating trip, the newly reformed improvisation troupe do not perform all that often.

Dalston on a sunny afternoon is perhaps not a place to sit indoors, and Oto's slightly muggy interior (and abundance of tea lights) was maybe anti-seasonal. Still, all this hot weather makes my skin itch, and I was happy to retreat into some darkness.

The concert started at 9 with an opening set by Sogabe Hidekazu, a young Japanese improviser who (as far as I can tell from his website) is primarily a visual artist (there are some works of his on the Saatchi gallery webpage). Playing an electric bass and a effects pedal, Hidekazu's opening ocean waves of no-input feedback noise - and the baseball cap - seemed like a nod to Toshi Nakamura; the ringing tones generated by the body of the bass suggested something more melodious however. On the whole, however, his playing did not sit easily with me - portions of the performance were spent tediously repeating cells of material (generated by the 'infinite delay' of the effects pedal) while Hidekazu toyed with his controls. This, plus the fizzing buzz of the Cafe Oto PA as it rattled on its assembly, the bedroomy feeling of the musical structure and the sonic content, and the enforced recapitulation at the end to the opening waves of noise, reinforced Hidekazu's admirable, but ultimately crude set.

It seemed at this point (when there was a short interval) many audience members decided they couldn't stand the heat (or, indeed, the noise), and made a break for it. A shame, because when the A band came on - tonight performing as " 'Allo Aloe" - we that remained witnessed a truly remarkable set of improvised music. I say this without exaggeration - I watched the whole of the Freedom of the City festival, and while much of the music played at the Conway Hall was well thought out and nuanced, nothing was intoxicating as this performance of the A band's.

The group was constituted of around 9 members, who all (as far as I could tell) played together at the opening - a blaze of 4/4 toms, cymbals, and wailing, call-to-prayer-like vocal layering. The opening had something of conventional 'indie' about it - but after maybe a minute and a half, the anarchic tendency the A band are known for came into the foreground. Members began to leave, jettison their roles as musicians and adopt honorary positions as audience members. The music disintegrated from its metered opening to an expanse of beautiful and evolving textures. The musicians let each other 'solo' - almost like jazz - but also conversed with each other and the sound technician, moved around the space, contributed when they felt it was necessary, and added absurdism to the situation by (for example) laying out duplo bricks on a table in front of the performers, and subsequently throwing them everywhere.

What was intriguing to me was that as a unified performance, so much of the music had such stability and expressive integrity - ideas were allowed to last for enough time to become established, but not too long as to become boring. Transitions were usually seamless, and without the moments of awkwardness present in the support set, and yet all the musicians seemed to perform 'haphazardly'. Even one player's failing instrument - a toy piano made on a roll of cloth, producing a beautifully mundane MIDI piano sound - contributed in an absurdist way by failing to work.

The A band's fluidity when it came to performing also helped solidify for me the usually edifying nature of performance; of an 'us and them' relationship between performers and audience. This was dismantled, casually, by the A band - instead, as an audience member, one felt a combination of involvement, inclusion, and voyeurism. One was watching a group at play (gaming, scheming, forming nexuses of activity and falling away again) - but a group at play with itself. The performance lacked the bourgeois ritual that made it necessary to clap at the end - so that the final applause (of the few audience members that remained after their hour or so of playing) seemed inappropriate and tokenistic.

And yet, in purely musical terms, the A band's performance was familiar - the music was 'sectional', it contained references (echoes) of other musics (a suitably postmodern stance), the delay pedals of the violin/theremin players created commonplace repetitive figures, there was a piano and a drum kit (both conspicuously 'non-unusual'). Perhaps these commonplace instruments were necessary - for if a music is to be truly democratic (as the A band's performance surely was), it cannot be formed on a principle of exclusion. A good thing indeed; for me, the A band's performance is certain proof that a nuanced and subtle music can exist without being rarified or exclusive.

Music We'd Like to Hear I

If I am honest, I can’t say I am particularly enamoured of the violin as a musical instrument. High, shrill, usually played with such ego, it’s not an instrument that I find enjoyable to behold. Still, the first concert of Music We’d Like To Hear, a full concert of music for solo violin, was not something I was going to turn down. It turned out to be a sublime evening which (to an extent) renewed my faith in the instrument and in string instruments in general.

Clemens Merkel (of Montreal’s Bozzini Quartet) played four pieces, beginning with Christian Wolff, and continuing with three works by the concerts organisers: Marcus Trunk, Tim Parkinson and John Lely. Trunk appeared before the concert began and tried to persuade us that this was not an egotistical affair, that Clemens had chosen the pieces of his own bat, and that, besides, it was a 5-year anniversary for the concert series. The music’s quality, however, dispelled any qualms I may have had.

Beginning with Christian Wolff’s piece, The Death of Mother Jones (1977), it became clear that Merkel’s violin tone and the ambience of the Church of St Anne and St Agnes were perfect partners. The violin was warm, resonant, clear, but also evocative and not particularly ‘pretty’. Merkel’s idiosyncratic playing style also came to the fore, and from the very start, this seemed (to me) as everything solo violin music should be. Contemplative, microtonally rich, variously gestured, with excellent weight of expressive idea, willingness to crumble, with some degree of innocence (and a thankful absence of decadent vibrato). Wolff's piece had a conceptual edge linked to folk music; its harmonies showed this directionality, but much of the music was angular and not ‘homely’ at all. Merkel’s playing breathed with absolute integrity, relaxation and concentration.

Next came Markus Trunk’s austere Four Stills (2002/10). Dominated by dwellings on singular tones, this form of composition was suggestive of Scelsi. But beyond that, Merkel’s playing added a distinctly contemplative or reflective element that, while present in Scelsi’s music, is often clothed in mysticism. I was beginning to think that the expression that lay behind this material was humanistic (perhaps the Lutheran church principles were infecting my senses); but nevertheless, I was struck by the wisdom and humility present in Merkel’s playing. The final section of Trunk’s piece was a particular highlight – the bow drawn across the strings half col legno, in tiny, almost inaudible motions. The sound of the violin seemed to melt into the soundscape of St Paul’s – the distant coloured noise of traffic, the occasional ‘crack’ of a sat on pew, the drop of a pencil. The musical sounds contained, and were contained by, the environmental surroundings.

Tim Parkinson’s piece that followed was just as gorgeous, if not more so. Small melodic ideas are given to us, passing us (as Parkinson notes) ‘like slabs on a pavement’. The perfect weight given to these ideas allowed the piece to be contemplative and not drag, yet not speed and ignore the integrity of each idea. Again, Merkel’s beautiful playing carried the musical model to heights.

Finally, John Lely’s piece. Up until this moment, Merkel had played from music stands, organised first on the right, then left, then back. For this piece, he came to the forward and played from memory. This was easy enough, as the piece - The Harmonics of Real Strings (2002) – was made up of a very slow glissando up the A string. A beautifully elegant idea, executed almost perfectly; Merkel allowed the natural fluctuations of the violin to speak, and ignored the Classical mantra of ‘evenness’ (which would have destroyed the work). Using the bridge, Merkel brought out the higher harmonies present in the string (as Lely no doubt indicated to do). At times the shift in pitch was almost imperceptible, but towards the bridge, the pitch had to shift pretty quickly (the distance of the same interval reduces in real terms as one moves up the string). Particularly spectacular was the extremely high tone at the end, and its seamless transition into noise, and that noise’s subsequent fading into environmental sound, the perfect end to a concert of great contemplation, elegance and force. I look forward to the next two!

Field recordings

Went to a talk today between LCC sonic art lecturer Salomé Voegelin and artists Jennie Savage and Peter Cusack. Cusack showed his Favourite London Sound project (which has now expanded to many other cities around the world), and got me pondering field recording practice and how it can be understood to correlate with other forms of sonic art.

It seems to me that field recording is much like photography - some of it is artistic, and some isn't (journalistic). The line between the two is often blurred severely. Similarly, field recordings are used functionally, as well as being archival material. What I find particularly interesting is the new(ish) kind of artistic field recording exemplified by labels like and/OAR. This kind of practice seemed worlds away from the documentary style of Cusack; figuring out why this is is a bit of an issue.

The first reason seems to me to be to do with the recording's position relative to its source location. Artistic field recording on CD is necessarily removed from its source; Cusacks sounds were directly linked to their sources by the means of a map. Voegelin suggested this added a temporal element to what was essentially a static visual image; and beyond that the location is 'evoked' through a combination of the sound and the view from above.

The second reason seems to be the motivation lying behind the work. I assume that most of the work on and/OAR exists because it sounds interesting (or at least, the sound is judged on an aesthetic plane somewhat removed from its source context) - the idea being here that when the sounds of an environment are appropriated into an aesthetic structure they obtain a further reality, separate from the 'actual' reality they depict. This 'imaginary' structural reality of the work may or may not incorporate aspects of the 'actual' context; needless to say, aesthetic judgement usually operates on a different plane to socio-political assessment of a situation (the latter occasionally being incorporated into the former). Cusack, on the other hand, is not particularly interested in the aesthetic worth (from his point of view) of the recordings - at least, not as long as this aesthetic worth can be considered any different from the information present in the recordings of the source they depict. Cusack's aesthetic then is, literally, documentary - the 'beauty' of 'beautiful' information given to the listener through sound about a surrounding. This beautiful information is also conveyed through interview on several occasions - with participants describing unrealised sounds in their memory.

Though Cusack showed a devotion to sound (and has done his entire career), what was evident from this project was its larger social implications. It is rather inappropriate to call the Favourite London Sound project an 'artwork' - at least, it seems to me to be so. Cusack would say that this probably was unimportant to him - indeed, he seemed indifferent to whether he was actually an artist at all.

I do sympathise with Cusack's position (particularly when it aligns with my own sonic taste, as in his recording of a Nightingale by a electricity substation, or recordings of Old Jerusalem), but I came away from the talk wondering whether my own, largely removed aesthetic sense (which I use to measure and judge sounds I hear, things I look at, or for that matter any sensory experience) was inadequate because of its isolationism. My tendency to divide experience into aesthetic and non-aesthetic was artificial... (but I mean, let's face it, you can't judge everything all of the time, there's too much experienced by the human brain, you have to take a break!).