Drifting Orpheus: A Plotted History of Musical Discovery

[DriftingOrpheus]

After witnessing BEA become an integral component of my journey of musical appreciation, I have decided, like many other well-traveled members, to create a diary.

Ideally, it'll consist of a healthy combination of meticulously thorough reviews and very informal musings.

Whatever comes naturally.

I can't think of a better way to begin this (hopefully) very lengthy journey, than with a tremendously moving record from Jazz behemoth Charles Mingus, "Let My Children hear Music" (1972).

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Let My Children Hear Music by Charles Mingus

Typically, a review takes shape for me after experiencing a potent record. However, on this occasion, I was prompted to step out of my comfort zone and produce a piece of prose. Its spirit is one that I believe is tethered to the album itself.

I do hope you enjoy it and stay tuned to see how this thread evolves!




"Finally coming to my senses, I walked on to my hell.
For long before death had called me, my end was planned.
Planned but well…"

- The Chill of Death

The wind tunnels that form in the clotted alleyways of the inner city usher various leaflets of promotional material across the asphalt, inviting trash collectors and the less fortunate to gigs which have already taken place. The draft doesn't discriminate either, collecting the cigarette smoke of the poetaster who gazes upward at the clouds that slice the sky and then towards the neighboring apartment buildings that bend inward, both imprisoning everything below and peering down at the inconsequentiality of it all. In a moment that seemingly lasts a lifetime, the rusted hinges of the rear door of the Damocles Club groan and a voice mumbles, "You're on in fifteen." The poetaster waits for the door to snap shut to inspect his cigarette to determine if its length can justify another quarter of an hour. After careful consideration based on years of experience and tobacco reliance, he deduces that he'll need another one around the eight-minute mark. He then, as is protocol, fumbles through his front pant pocket which houses a semi-crushed pack of Pall Mall (they were mild alright), confirming the amount of remaining aboriginals within the lining. After detecting the final three, his stare changes course towards his instrument, which no longer rested lazily against the rocky exterior of the Damocles. It likely had slid down to the pavement when the door closed, he thought, noting the decay of the effectiveness of its once pristine case. In his paranoia, as any player worth a damn would, he cracked it open to make sure his meal ticket hadn't been warped, or less likely, tampered with. It looked just the way it did when he loaded it into the case from within his Greenwich Village motel room. He remembered why it was out in the first place; It was on account of the fact that he couldn't make it sing like it did ten years ago, or three years ago for that matter. He still wasn't sure if it was the horn or his ears.

They came from all walks of life, some pampered and some pummeled by history's unbiased, grand design. They fit like jigsaw pieces within the Damocles, with those acting as corner pieces squeezing their frames into the aging venue's nooks and crannies, face out. Others sat peacocking at the bar, brandishing wads of green paper which furnished their own sense of dominion over the conglomerate. A handful of them would make nightly love to the billiard table, trying to conjure up enough bravado to look like Paul Newman. In truth, they all ended up looking like Art Carney. Despite their divergence, they all shared one thing in common, apart from the certainty that all who attended on this night had indeed done so before. Everyone in the box which masqueraded as a jazz club didn't come to listen to music. Now, the fifteen minutes was up and the poetaster had to dole out dulcet tones with only the sound of chattered indifference to feed off of. It was a noble profession in the same vein as a cabbie or bus driver. In all three cases, you wouldn't dare make eye contact.

This time, the door couldn't even be bothered to groan. Two firm bangs boomed, followed by an "Eleven o'clock!" The poetaster felt the satisfying clicks of the case's locks as he ended his detached longing into the trumpet's faded luster. He flung the mostly unsmoked cigarette into the partially lit shadow of the alley and trudged inside, his feet, as if anchors, with the discomfort of the trumpet's flex strap already coursing through his cognition. He finally reached the stage without any inkling of acknowledgment from the throng while staring at the provided stool for a good forty-five seconds. He felt heavy in that moment and wondered, just briefly, how this crumbling piece of wood supported him so many times prior. Then, he grasped the seat with two hands and set it to the side. He would stand tonight. The poetaster put his lips to mouthpiece, hesitated and glanced up with just his eyes. The pool sharks saw him out of their respective peripheries but never turned. The man at the bar thought about raising him a glass but thought better of it and just loosened his necktie; And, the little one, nestled into the corner, looked to his shoes and waited for the siren song to blare out, marking him safe from unwanted conversation. Like a dutiful soldier, the poetaster started at a patient tempo. It wasn't intended to coat the evening in melancholy, but rather to evaluate if an unusually grave processional would alert anyone to the atypical nature of the performance. However, the billiard balls loudly clacked, the glasses resounded firmly on the bar top and the squeaking of the corner table persisted by way of constant readjustment. Suddenly, as the poetaster became aware of the full scope of his alienation, he decided, like all who surrounded him, to retreat into himself.

It was then that the long sought-after sound of three and even ten years ago placed its comforting hand upon the poetaster's back as he played. He marveled at how the bell and the valves sparkled once again as he pressed the finger buttons, now free of resistance. As he stared ahead, the patrons became progressively amorphous and the previously paramount sounds of the Damocles faded into a faint memory of a monotone reverberation as he played more magnificently than he had ever done before. He thought, 'I might as well close my eyes." As the lids shrouded the old man's cataracts, he could see the alley, experience the touch of the remaining trio of Pall Malls and get the faint, telescopic smell of smoke. The wind swirled, as it did earlier, and sent his still embering cigarette into collision with a stray leaflet. He paid close attention to its text, which now was partially obscured by an upstart flame, which read, "Jazz Giants of Yesteryear: Nightly at the Damocles Club, 11:00 PM-11:30 PM."

The poetaster opened his eyes, which fell upon chaos from within the Damocles as smoke billowed and guests fled for the exits. As one would imagine, the club was far from up to code. Therefore, no sprinklers were engaged and the blaze flourished. With turmoil all around, the poetaster underwent a docile tranquility and played on. "This set isn't gonna finish itself," he assured. In the midnight black haze of the smoke, he had never felt more beloved by the still hanging pictures of Ellington, Tatum and Bird, of course. As the trumpet melted in his hands and hit the floor with a gelatinous thud, he reached for his notepad which he kept on his person for each and every performance. He flipped to the last transcription which read, "Village Vanguard, April 17th - 9:15 PM". He remembered what the doorman said to him the last time. It was written underneath the date as a reminder. "Don't get here too early, Max hates it when you hang around the place like a ghost." He closed the pad and calmly walked out the front door.

Standout Tracks:

1. Hobo Ho
2. The Shoes of the Fisherman's Wife are Some Jiveass Slippers
3. The I of Hurricane Sue

93.4
_________________
"It was a journey of a life..."

[Mercury]

excellent and unique first entry into this diary, Orpheus!

Keep it up.

You've inspired me to revisit that Mingus classic.
_________________
-Ryan

ONLY 4% of people can understand this chart! Come try!

My Fave Metal - you won't believe #5!!!

[DriftingOrpheus]

[DriftingOrpheus]

I had revisited this Gavin Bryars' masterpiece for the 111th anniversary of Titanic's descent into the Atlantic and it proved to be as arresting as ever.

One of the original titles from the Brian Eno-helmed Obscure records, 'The Sinking of the Titanic' is a journey into spiraling panic and dignified acceptance.

Too bad that Superior Viaduct bottled the 2022 vinyl repress.

Oh well...

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The Sinking Of The Titanic (1975) by Gavin Bryars

Royal Mail Ship Titanic was comprised of nine decks and three million rivets, fitted with a total of 29 boilers which fed two reciprocating steam engines and one low-pressure turbine that allowed the ship to reach speeds of up to 21 knots at a staggering length of just under 883 feet from bow to stern. She required three years to complete and her hardware was, and in many ways still is, a miracle of science and sat comfortably at the pinnacle of technological advancement when it first launched from Southampton in April of 1912. Her luxury accommodations and various architectural adornments were equally unrivaled and positioned Titanic as a mobile, sparkling rendezvous which out-twinkled the finest hotels of the stationary variety. Her promenade deck was surely the most winsome, featuring a myriad of ornamental configurations whose inspirations date as far back as the Renaissance Era. It was a structural phenomenon, a major artery of artistic design allowing the blood of inspiration to flow and provide oxygen to dreams. In hindsight, it became the most appropriate locale for an ending of tragic, Shakespearian proportions. How do you successfully compartmentalize and synthesize her indominable aura and legacy into a 25-minute piece of art? Or, better yet, does one even try?

Henry James Beauchamp, 28, 2nd Class
Dorothy Sage, 14, 3rd Class
Thomas Andrews, Naval Architect, 39, 1st Class

When Gavin Bryars first enrolled at Sheffield University, his primary focus of study was philosophy, which no doubt engrained within him an acute perspective, optimal for when the eventual transition into music beckoned. He began his ever-evolving, sonic trek by dabbling in the world of jazz, employing the upright bass as his instrument of choice, first traditionally, then tinted with a sheen for the avant-garde. Like many visionaries, his taste for the conventional soon withered, as did his interest towards playing. It wasn't until a move abroad that his artistic sensibilities would come into full focus. He briefly studied under the minimalist icon, John Cage, and rapidly gained an esteem for the uncolored edges of sonic exploration. He returned to England soon after to pursue a teaching role at Portsmouth College of Fine Art. Here, he would pen his most significant and enduring work, a monument as much as it is a marvel, firmly in tune with the ship it honored.

Jack Phillips, Marconi Wireless Operator, 25, Crew
Augusta Charlotta Lindblom, 45, 3rd Class
Henry Michael Mitchell, 71, 2nd Class

Titanic was equipped with 16 watertight bulkheads, ones that fatally didn't rise above E deck. This caused the unimaginable amount of water rushing in, as a result of the 300-foot gash which parted her double hull, to spill over each of these watertight compartments in succession, dragging Titanic's bow underneath the waterline. The promenade deck, once grounds for regalia and soirees, would soon be a scene of hysteria and stampede for the better portion of two hours and forty minutes. Despite the myth, Titanic's marketing never brandished an "unsinkable" moniker, but her inexorable descent into the icy Atlantic remains a chilling exemplar of nature's dominion over the impudence of man. As dinner jackets, newly-molded china and suitcases in abundance homogenized with the sea, in congruence to the legend, Titanic's orchestra played until they were submerged in order to calm their terrified fellow men and women. 57 years onward, Gavin Bryars would use this symphonic motif as the basis for his masterpiece.

Salli Helena Rosblom, 2, 3rd Class
Henriette Yvois, 24, 2nd Class
Toufik Nakhli, 17, 3rd Class

Bryars originally planned for 'The Sinking of the Titanic' to be purely conceptual and free of the limitations that a tangible performance would provide. Nevertheless, Bryars eventually performed the piece in 1972 with its first revision surfacing in 1975. It's often viewed as an open work, consistently subject to re-toolings and re-imaginings, yet, the conceptual framework stays intact, akin to the still majestic, but ghostly shipwreck located 12,500 feet from the trough of the waves. Bryars was intrigued by the peculiar concept of how the orchestral sounds of Titanic's players would locomote when rendered subaqueous. Put simply, how would they sound if they were able to play until they met the ocean floor? As the music would theoretically distort, morph and provide a very divergent timbre, the reverberating sound waves would serve as one final sonic footnote, a siren song and elegy for the once mighty ship to be accompanied by during its final descent. Using the hymn 'Autumn' by Barthélemon as a skeleton, a piece present during the sinking by witness testimony, Bryars translated his initial theory into classical composition. The first rework was featured as the inaugural release in a decet of albums on the Brian Eno-founded label 'Obscure Records' in 1975. On it, Bryars plays a dual role of conductor and pianist, as he captains a weighty, solemn procession shepherded by strings which sound as if they have been in use since 1912 and keys befitting a piano in a dilapidated chateau which strike heavily and originate from a floor above and two rooms over. There's a pulsating hum which envelopes the piece in its entirety that aims to simulate the water's annulments which results in a shadowy, yet tranquil experience that furnishes an idea of a bleak, yet dignified acceptance of death. This assimilation into liquid continues for nearly a half hour, broken only briefly by the attestations from survivor Eva Hart, when finally, the damp resonance ceases from a place below and no longer in sight. It is, without hesitation, a triumph of aural intention and realization which offers consistent treasures upon re-visitation.

Engelhart Cornelius Ostby, 64, 1st Class
Eric Rice, 7, 3rd Class
Emil Christmann, 29, 3rd Class

The record's B-Side has received acclaim and has carved out a place of reverence in its own right. 'Jesus' Blood Never Failed Me Yet' is less an art project and more of a humanistic observation set to music. Anchored by an audio sample of a destitute reaffirming his allegiance to God, the song is fairly more traditional than the title track, save for the inclusion of minute escalations in the instrumentational flow. The set of players return from 'Sinking' and the musical coloring remains unaltered as they craft another circular, albeit less oxidizing auditory space. Swelling strings coalesce into a autonomous power source only halting for a brief moment as plucked guitar strings dance above them as if they were native to a nautical lullaby. Its relationship with the former track isn't directly analogous, yet it does occupy emblematic territory. It doesn't strain one's imagination to make the connection that it could resemble the last words of a doomed passenger, life jacket-clad and clinging to debris, requesting absolution in the face of the impending hereafter. Bryars' composition expertly paints a portrait of a regretless sage, singing to the starless night, kept warm in the glassy waters by faith alone, defiant in the face of 'Titanic's' colossal vortex.

Aloisia Haas, 24, 3rd Class
Arthur Webster Newell, 58, 1st Class
Captain Edward Smith, 62, Crew

Who could have imagined, as those who stood on Titanic's port side in anticipation of her maiden voyage, the kind of lightning rod the steamer would become for art, literature, music and film? It's easy to forget, while some had their personal effects taken to their room and others were being checked for lice, that the ship that would carry both subsets, man and woman, rich and poor, was made of iron. It was, at the time, an inanimate object with the sole purpose of passage. Now, it's a ghost, a shadow and a vivid memory in the minds of those who never walked her decks. It lies at 41°43′57′′ N 49°56′49′′ W. Today, with modern technology, we can view what remains of the vessel. You'd swear you could see it breathe, iron and all. Even if it wasn't 'Nearer My God to Thee', the truth endures, Titanic's musicians played to the end. We can only hope it sounded this beautiful.

Standout Tracks:

1. The Sinking of the Titanic
2. Jesus' Blood Never Failed Me Yet

91.8
_________________
"It was a journey of a life..."

[DriftingOrpheus]

We advance from a record on a Eno-founded label (Obscure Records) to an Eno masterpiece proper.

'Another Green World' (1975) came to me at a time where my musical taste was fully in flux and on the verge of a full metamorphosis and, in many ways, a maturation.

Brian Eno's compartmentalization of sounds and sonic imagery has always fascinated me and 'Another Green World' was at the core of that enchantment.

I think it's one of those musical artifacts which harbors primordial DNA while simultaneously being a journey far ahead of its own time.

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Another Green World by Brian Eno


Perhaps there is no figure who approached music as a science more capably than Suffolk's sagacious Brian Eno. Eno, the preeminent sonic architect, crafts his tiniest compositions with the delicacy of an artisan with his most grandiose and longform exhibitions resembling sprawling city blocks designed for optimal traversing, with each street name and traffic sign strategically plotted and placed. It seems as if any resulting emotional potency is unintentional, or at least, coincidental. Eno never sought out a comfortable groove in which to ride out his over fifty-year career. Instead, he opted to eschew convention and complacency, hell bent on meeting fresh, uncultivated sediment which was ripe for exploration. After opting out of Bryan Ferry's gyrating, glam force majeure, 'Roxy Music', Eno's subsequent musical forays produced far less immediate and less carnal fruits. Often categorized by complexity and an inherent pension for the abstract, his first pair of solo efforts embraced the unconventional, just as Ferry's project had, but now it was on his own terms as he set coordinates for the great beyond. It wouldn't be out of line to declare that nobody quite looked at music the way that Brian Eno did and, by 1975, he had severed the tendrils of his peers and was ready to deliver a idiosyncratic, alien, and career defining artifact.

'Another Green World' commences with 'Sky Saw', a serrated, buzzing entity with a taste for the dissonant. 'Sky Saw' is the first of a line of tracks linked by DNA and could only exist as mysterious fauna native to an entirely different cosmos. The robotic, ory instrumentation employed makes it seem like a fashionable dance track at a futurist discotheque. When Eno's vocals finally penetrate the aluminum atmosphere, it ends up jarring in a way that's welcomed. It's the lone piece of humanity amidst a mosaic of auditory gadgetry and a stark introduction to record's genetic code. Second track, 'Over Fire Island', contains a far more earthy timbre, largely centered on percussion and wet bass. It wouldn't be out of place at a tribal soiree but the whirring coda ends the dream and places you squarely back into a chilly reality. The track briefly embodies a memory of an AI recreation of native music, yet without a discernable, anthropomorphic soul. The most urgent cut on 'Another Green World' has to be fourth track, 'St. Elmo's Fire'. It's catalyzed with uptempo, accelerative energy with Robert Fripp's proggy guitar solo flooding over the dam and washing overtop of the rest of the components. It's a brilliant approach to the art of the earworm and a visionary compromise between the horizon-less limits of Eno's sonic fantasies and the hard line of pop music's rigid boundaries. The album takes a nefarious turn on 'In Dark Trees' with Eno as its lone captain. The sensation of tumbling downward is tactile, as the shallow, unloving electronic drums dutifully chug on, unswaying throughout the track. It's a brief showcase, but by the end of it, you'd swear you were subterranean and devoid of the sun's kiss. Fifth outing, 'The Big Ship', doesn't include a vocal feature from Eno, a trend that carries throughout the majority of the record. In it's place, a tangible sense of scale is meticulously constructed. The track harbors the qualities of an iceberg, with it's peak gloriously basking in warmth the sun, while the base is left to remain untraversed and unable to be properly gauged. Eno's synth work is frothy and luminous, bestowing the honor of "most winsome" onto 'The Big Ship'. However, its aesthetic beauty is perched above the aforementioned impression of scale and labyrinthian real estate held below like oil resting comfortably on top of the sea. The track is gigantic to the ear despite its minimal instrumentation and Eno's excellence creates a cognizance of a world uncharted between the notes.

The most sugary offering on the record is 'I'll Come Running', which bottles a domestic, romantic syrup into a nearly four-minute nocturne, à la The Beatles' 'When I'm Sixty-Four'. The frolicking piano, which strides to and fro, projects a sensation of repetitive bliss and the notion that life's banalities make for gratifying exertion when in service of a special someone. It's strangely human for Eno, or perhaps, deceptively snide. Side one ceases with the title track, a brief , patient transitional that pokes its head out of the clouds just to be quickly shrouded once more. Eno's 'Desert Guitars' parabola as the track comes and goes like a sun shower. Side two, unfurls with a pair of wordless pieces with alternating physiology. 'Sombre Reptiles' is charged with locomotive energy powered by pistons set to world music of the Peruvian variety. Its straight-line fidelity is in stark divergence with follow up tune, 'Little Fishes', which effectively meanders in a way which could easily harmonize within the confines of a sound studio or underneath an electron microscope. Possibly the most apropos moniker on the LP, the track's prepared piano conjures an image of a minnow swimming up and downstream, susceptible to the gentlest of currents. It's clear by this point that Eno is reserving ample space for some of his most three-dimensional soundscapes. Track ten, 'Golden Hours' surely contains helium, as its carefully batted around expertly by Eno and Fripp. It also holds some of the album's finest lyrical pearls as Fripp's guitar solo sews the track shut with thin kevlar. Subsequent track, 'Becalmed' sounds as if Eno has harnessed the full weight of artificial placidity as the track swells and shrinks at the moments most opportune. Impressively, the music remains terrifically pastoral while also sounding akin to a deep-space, cosmic happening. 'Zawinul/Lava' plays like a wise man recounting an ancient prophecy or event responsible for population bottleneck, with more than a hint of dread as fretless bass drops leave the back door open for distant howls propelled by the wind. It's a musing piece that depicts what's coming and what has occurred without a moment's thought for the present. Eno carves out one more slot for a ballad, as to not drift too far into the ether, but even Eno's narratives inject a dose of the illusory. 'Everything Merges with the Night' depicts a love affair, but in which stage we never know. It's as if Eno wrote a treatment for a couple he viewed on a canvas, no doubt one with soft, pastellic edges. Our subject has been "waiting all evening or possibly years" as Eno's piano ensures us that the character is not displeased or even losing patience. Finally, the record concludes with 'Spirits Drifting', which feels evocative of an ending, yet strangely behaves as if it could run parallel to the entire album. The synth work does indeed achieve spectral ambience, but the track functions more effectively as the main mode of transit for the lost souls of Eno's gaseous, nearly imperceptible world of sonic dominion.

When entering the studio for what would become the third record under his stewardship, Brian Eno was without much of a foundation, save for the knowledge that he had begun to tire of the rock's dependent formula that still lingered on his previous two efforts. His lack of sonic provision actually proved to be a strength in the studio as it aided in the construction of a fossil which relished its own formlessness and supernatural ideology. As the sessions commenced, Eno's vision began to take shape, a vision that permeated like a vapor while remaining stoic and shapeshifting with no classification able to weigh down its ascent. 'Another Green World' was indeed the composer's first step into a new paradigm, where music was kinetic and a naturally occurring element with conscious, sonic landscapes capable of forming their own chemical makeup. It marked the beginning of four-decade long pilgrimage to a haven of musical liberation which had long thought to be bestiary. It was a place that married well with Eno's disdain for the shelters of sonic conventionalism and it's a dimension that he has yet to bid adieu to.

Standout Tracks:

1. The Big Ship
2. Becalmed
3. St. Elmo's Fire

92
_________________
"It was a journey of a life..."

[DriftingOrpheus]

I've always been magnetically drawn to artists (and more specifically vocalists), who are staunchly idiosyncratic and don't wilt in the face of convention.

Björk is a true auteur in every sense of the word, in that, her music tends to have a engrained, cinematic quality while also never bleeding into a place of complacency.

The perfect marriage of uniquity and widescreen-exhibition is consummated most deftly on 1997's Homogenic.

It served as the foundation of the singer's twinkling sonic identity, but also was forward-thinking enough to cultivate a self-sustaining ecosystem for innovation.

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Homogenic by Björk


Iceland was settled in 874 AD and to this day, only one percent of its geography is cultivated. It's a domain consisting of kaleidoscopic variance when regarding its terrain, with its dramatic contrasts consisting of majestic national parks and prepossessing waterfalls living shoulder-to-shoulder with domineering glaciers and arid, lava deserts rife with volcanic ash. It's only fitting that the country's preeminent musical export synthesizes her homeland's eccentricities into a sonic approach that becomes more and more idiosyncratic as the years elapse. When diving into Björk's music fresh-faced and fully minted, there is often the distinct absence of a harbinger which fuels an ever-evolving discography that can only be described as chameleonic. The euphonious auteur is comfortably more than "that strange songstress from Iceland". More accurately, she's the physical and spiritual embodiment of the beguiling island: ancient, serpentine and seemingly omniscient. These descriptors have never been more apropos than on 1997's 'Homogenic'

It's all there, unclad and unshrouded on the album's cover, as the singer appears adorned with stoic wisdom and unconventional elegance, born of unknown origin. The music to complement the artwork adopts the chillier sentiments of the portrait as opening track, 'Hunter', eschews the predominantly warm overtones contained on the preceding album, 1995's 'Post'. The track fizzes in as pulsating bass arrives to provide the track with infrastructure. Soon after, Björk's detached, aversive vocals greet the listener to elucidate a steadfast direction and an unswerving desire to take herself into a new era, both personally and creatively. There's a hint of the singer looking to her past and a self-reflective look at her musical image up until this point, which was staunchly pacifist and rife with angelic innocence. She recognizes, "I thought I could organize freedom, How Scandinavian of me!" A visage is forming of an artist who no longer pulls her punches and is ready to blaze her own path and new sonic identity with a track that is equal parts human and android. With all compromises forgone, Björk slips into the realm of soul exposé for subsequent track, 'Jóga'. From its genesis, the track is laid softly on a bed of strings which, along with the singer's fluttering voice, soars away from the confines of a darkened cavern and into the shimmering sun. She declares, "Emotional landscapes, They puzzle me, Confuse; Can the riddle get solved?; And you push me up to this state of emergency; How beautiful to be." The track is a dedication to her friend, Jóhanna Jóhannsdóttir, as its trip-hop production and string orchestration gives the song ample punch as well as dynamic contrast. It's the most potent composition on 'Homogenic' and, according to Björk herself, "the fiercest love song she has ever written". Swiftly, the bombastic heights of 'Jóga' recede into the soft cradle provided by third track, 'Unravel'. If 'Jóga' was a fearless declaration of admiration, 'Unravel' is a vulnerable, dithering examination of how admiration is lost across distances and how making love repairs the wounds. Björk coos, "While you are away, My heart comes undone, Slowly unravels in a ball of yarn." There's a dove-like idealism at work here, but the ever-present specter of inevitable failure betwixt the ominous tones of the organ and fairy tale sonic landscape is never absent. It's a realization which blisters into full-blown acrimony on the swaggering, peacocking fourth track, 'Bachelorette'. The track unfurls like a wartime processional, carving out a path on which Björk espouses her essence and decries the indifference of her lover, which reverberates with far more vigor than that of a veiled threat. She professes, "I'm a tree that grows hearts, one for each that you take; You're the intruder's hand, I'm the branch that you break". Flanked with a full orchestra at the ready, which plots footsteps in periodicity with hammer-struck chords, 'Bachelorette' is the songstress at her most agitated, dauntless and dangerous.

As the raging waters of 'Bachelorette' wane, fifth track 'All Neon Like' peers out from under its shelter at the remnants of its predecessors scorn. The piece uncoils with fragility as the sun escapes the blockage of the clouds and begins to softly warm the frozen landscape as the track's confidence builds as the ice sweats. It's another love song, but not one of frustration, as Björk offers comfort to her susceptible inamorato. Practically uniform in tempo, 'All Neon Like' remains patient as waterlogged percussion compliments incorporeal keys and the track effectively remedies, just as the singer promises. The second side of the LP invokes the trip-hop escalation of '5 Years', a more subdued echo of the sentiments of 'Bachelorette'. Once again, a refusal of commitment takes center stage as robotic, looping keys form the skeleton of the track as the skittering drum motif dances alongside of the singer's postulations. "I'm so bored with cowards that say they want; Then they can't handle," she affirms as the sublime, understated strings steer the track to its boundary. Seventh entry, 'Immature', is an introspective manifestation of Björk's exasperations. Despite being one of the record's least-interesting inroads from a sonic standpoint, its thematic importance is never in question within an LP which not only seeks to compartmentalize the world around her, but also rectify Björk's own instabilities. After a septuplet of chapters residing firmly on the sullen side of the emotional spectrum, the bouncy, utopian paradise that is 'Alarm Call' comes as a breath of fresh air. Partly a love letter to music and an unfettered celebration of life, the track portrays the youthful exuberance of an artist reborn, fortified by pain and more acutely aware of the subtle joys when juxtaposed with her hardships. 'Alarm Call' arrives with a tone that recalls distant wind chimes and is ferried out by a guttural scream of defiance. This emphasis on rejuvenation accelerates with vitality on 'Pluto', the LP's most outlandish statement. The properties of the track are remarkably propulsive, as heavy electronic influence galvanizes as Björk's poetry is content to remain forthright and unambiguous. "Excuse me but I just have to explode; Explode this body off me", she exclaims. Despite being arid in terms of accessibility, 'Pluto' remains one of the record's unspoken delights. Antithesis plays its final hand on the LP's final hour, 'All is Full of Love'. As the track carefully paddles through a thick fog into view, Björk's tender delivery embodies the sage wisdom of an ancient being ripe with divinity. The eponymous calls and responses are cocooned by a wall of sound reminiscent of a swarm of insects, but not any native to a place on earth as the harpsichord signals the existence of a cherub realm all its own. It's a dizzying, satisfying coda to a record wrought with pugnacity. The payoff is the personal baptism of its author as she shovels proverbial coal into a creative furnace which has fully and irrevocably liberated.

The Highlands of Iceland, home to the aforementioned volcanic desert, can only be traversed in the Summer, or put differently, when the weather permits. The stingy accommodations made by Mother Nature make it impossible for plant life to survive in the region , except for areas along the shoreline of glacial rivers. They're formed by the gradual melting of centuries-old chunks of ice, which finally manifest themselves as flowing, kinetic bodies of water which aid in the production of a scarce amount of flora. These glaciers have been Icelandic mainstays for thousands of years and their mass dwindles with each passing year as a result of the dramatic effects of global warming brought on by human industrialism. Björk's relationship with members of the human race has had its own share of traumatization. However, in her case, she didn't melt or wither in the barren, molten wasteland. Instead, she found the water.

Standout Tracks:

1. Jóga
2. Bachelorette
3. Unravel

93.9
_________________
"It was a journey of a life..."

[DriftingOrpheus]

Scott Walker is my favorite creator in music history. There is, perhaps, no figure who has charted a stranger path through the industry than the former teen idol turned dedicated recluse. The stratospheric metamorphosis of his sonic template really is something to behold, but it has the tendency to alienate many from the complete journey of his discography.

Walker's late-career output, despite it being willfully challenging, is objectively brilliant. On 2006's 'The Drift', his ability to construct cavernous, evocative soundscapes is frighteningly effortless, especially so, when you consider the unorthodox subject matter that's being contextualized. 'The Drift' isn't a eleventh-hour career renaissance, but rather, an artifact from a genius who, with age, has grown more and more indifferent towards fragility.

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The Drift by Scott Walker


In 2006, a documentary on the musical life of Scott Walker was produced. 'Scott Walker: 30th Century Man', its title taken from a 'Scott 3' track, begins with narration from Sara Kestelman comparing the mythic tale of Orpheus, the Greek hero endowed with extraordinary musical prowess, to Walker's career, as the opening chords of 'Cossacks Are' ring out. It's said that Orpheus' skill could enliven and enchant not only people, but trees, rocks and the inanimate at large. Orpheus was able to convince Hades, Greek god of the dead, to relinquish the hero's beloved Eurydice with just the call of his song. The fabled maestro was the only mortal to return from the underworld and rejoin the likes of the living. Orpheus returned just once, Scott Walker has done it countless times. The notoriously undefinable figure found the Elixir of Life and was resurrected in 1984 with 'Climate of Hunter', in 1995 with 'Tilt' and most notably in 2006 with 'The Drift'. It was the latter that long held serve as his most experimental, ethereal and nebulous point, plotted on a map of increasingly unstable, scorched Earth. 'The Drift' places a heavy emphasis on imagery, much of it nefarious, discomforting and calling upon past horrors for inspiration. He bakes in percussion motifs powered by fists upon meat, wood blocks cascading into wood blocks and the union of hammers and well-pummeled steel. Yet, he christens his appropriately sinister, 13th studio effort with an aura that remains idiosyncratic. After all, who could produce music like this other than Walker? Who would dare even try?

Scott's much lauded voice is no longer the pristine, nimble entity which once danced gracefully atop oceans of orchestral merriment and crystalline, sonic soundscapes. Walker's voice, yet still powerful and imposing, is weather-beaten, strained and distinctly operatic. The transfiguration began in earnest on 1995's 'Tilt', however, here, Walker has completed his conversion into a decidedly tragic, tortured and spectral organism. He exists now, not as a separate presence isolated from his music, but rather a byproduct of its potent, thematic futility. Opening track, 'Cossacks Are', typifies the malefic overtones of the record to come, unfurling with a snarling, tumbling guitar spine, fused firmly with a stop/start drum motif which creates a dizzying sensation of circling dread. Walker's motives on 'Cossacks' are vaguely political, despite never being explicit. There's a glimpse of a warning that a black cloud of returning fascism is on the horizon. Walker cites quotes from an investigation regarding the war crimes of former Serbian President Slobodan Milošević, which included the murder of his political adversaries. Walker prophesizes on future unrest to come by bellowing, "Cossacks are charging in, charging into fields of white roses." The weighted, punishing 'Clara' follows, a lachrymose romance told from the lips of Benito Mussolini's mistress, Clara Petacci. It's markedly obscure but Walker has found himself determined to venture further and further into the gray. The track is distinctly sectional, alternating between swirling, pulsating percussion and soft spoken words from both Walker and guest vocalist, Vanessa Contenay-Quinones. It may be the most visceral nightmare featured on 'The Drift', yet, Scott has described it as a fascist love song. It's easy to forget amongst passages of what sounds like congregating insects and vicious body blows. The dichotomy of Contenay-Quinones's serene vocals and the hellish soundscape spearheads the thematic intentions of the song. "Sometimes I feel like a swallow, a swallow which by some mistake, has gotten into an attic and knocks its head against the walls in terror," she laments. Petacci followed her lover to her death, opting to die alongside him and shooing away safe passage. 'Clara' is a fully-realized account of misguided, unshakable loyalty to an insidious, but powerful bigot. It's an absolute stroke of virtuosity.

Walker's appetite for obscure inspiration is wet further on third entry, 'Jesse', a track that finds parallels between the events of September 11th, 2001 and the death of Elvis Presley's stillborn brother. Pause quickly and internalize that. The thematic connective tissue that unites the two ideas are the immense voids that linger with their absences. Accompanying Walker's vocals is a crooked, malformed alteration of the famous guitar revs found in Presley's own, 'Jailhouse Rock'. It's a sluggish, hopeless confessional which ends with the narrator punctuating his profound loneliness by proclaiming, "Alive; I'm the only one left alive." Bouncing from one fever dream to the next, fourth track, 'Jolson and Jones' is an account of a pair of two crazed, post-limelighted showmen. Embedded within, the shaking of hands between the shuffling of feet on pavement and the panicked howls of a donkey is conducted. Valiantly, Walker is able to create a cohesive structure from these ingredients (and a damn good one at that). 'J&J' crescendos with the famous utterance of "I'll punch a donkey in the streets of Galway" proving that there is no gig or amount of degradation this pair of washed-up performers won't entertain. Subsequently, 'Cue' is a full itinerary in the life of a virus down to how it grows, mutates and spreads. Scott has also indicated that the track is a hazy rhapsodization on the philosophical concept of the self. I'll avoid rumination on the intricacies of those postulations for fear of doing a disservice to Scott's immaculate headspaces. However, 'Cue' is worth its 10-minute runtime for featuring the album's most ominous presence of unease. Late album entry, 'The Escape' represents a moment of abject oddness on 'The Drift'. It again accents a perceptible sensation of plummeting by way of the shadowy rhythm section. Conversely, it flourishes with airy outbursts of psychedelia. It's only fitting that the coda comes in the form of Walker (I still can't believe it's him) performing a Donald Duck impression by way of a Bugs Bunny quote. "What's up, Doc" is intended to be a reference to a Mel Blanc car-accident induced coma, spring loaded within a track designed to detail a Jewish Rabbi witnessing a car bombing. You got all that? There will be an exam. It's an incomprehensible piece of music. The album comes to rest with 'A Lover Loves', a subdued acoustic guitar vehicle with heavy production stripped away. It's as if the record is a wounded animal seeking respite from fight-or-flight. A beautiful conclusion, but not without some of Walker's creative curiosity.

There's a tried and true formula for solving complex problems. Turn it on its side and look at it from a different perspective. That's the simplified way of summarizing 'The Drift'. Walker examined issues that captured his interest, made origami from them and presented them to the world in a shape which only he could conceive. The record doesn't gain its gravitas from the mere act of going off of the sonic deep-end. It's a captivating collection of songs because of the author's ability to synthesize the ugly, horrid and just plain odd into stirring tapestries. Walker has eschewed the term 'songs' when describing the album's chapters. A cynic would likely label that as self-importance or ostentation. However, a closer look at the man and his boundless humility would quell those accusations. Scott, at this point in his career, was practically a flesh-bound vessel for inhuman beings hard-pressed to tell tales of woe. How a human being reaches that state of consciousness is sure to remain a mystery, but as long as albums like 'The Drift' continue to arise, the vast, undiscovered arctic plains of creative exploration will need to be mapped. Unfortunately, Scott's dead and the remaining land will need a new Magellan, but he managed to chart a lifetime's worth of territory while keeping a detailed, frightening and thought-provoking travel log. 'The Drift' is his circumnavigation.

"Into pockets unstitching so weighted with pins,
Into eyes imploding on mazes of sins."

- Jolson and Jones

Standout Tracks:

1. Clara
2. Cossacks Are
3. Jolson and Jones

90.7
_________________
"It was a journey of a life..."

[Fischman]

[DriftingOrpheus]

[DriftingOrpheus]

As much as I herald Brian Eno as music's most enlightened designer, I think the title of electronic music's mad scientist supreme has to go to Cornwall's own Richard David James. Many were introduced to the enigmatic sovereign by way of the hypnotic, soothing sounds of "Selected Ambient Works 85-92" in 1992. However, in my view, his latest full-length artifact represents the notoriously shadowy figure in his most impressive form. Sonically fusing his analog foundations with a danceable, but plainly-edged sheen is one of his finest accomplishments and is a synthesis which is unfeasible to many contemporaries. 2014's 'Syro' was met with warm feelings from most critics, when relating to both the quality and timbre of the music within, however, it bafflingly eludes classification as James' masterpiece. Why that is, I cannot begin to discern. Then again, we know Aphex Twin loves a beguiling mystery just as much as the next person.

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Syro by Aphex Twin

The Aphex Twin reddit community comes adorned with the tagline, "The Man, The Myth and the Pseudo-Transcendent Beats." All three aspects have their own exclusive rabbit holes. The story of the prodigal son of electronic music from the southwest of England comes fastened with as many legends and myths as one could fathom, almost equalling the astronomical size of the catalogue itself. One of these anecdotes implies that the "Twin" referenced in his moniker is an homage to his stillborn brother who arrived three years prior to the man himself, to which his mother maintained that "the next one will be him". Who could forget the testimony that at age 11, he designed a program that created music for a ZX81, a pre-historic home computer that was not capable of producing sound, for which he was paid 50 pounds for his trouble. Would we really be astonished if these tall tales were more veracious than what common sense would have us believe? When he's not embedding his own face into spectrograms of his music or dropping hundreds of tracks on Soundcloud coyly under the guise of his user18081971 pseudonym, he's enjoying a career renaissance nestled away in his home in Scotland. Cornwall's own Richard David James' latest album is a masterpiece and a stirring testament to his brilliance all these years later.

RDJ has adopted a slew of sobriquets throughout the years, names like AFX, Polygon Window, The Tuss, GAK, Power-Pill, Caustic Window and Bradley Strider just to name a few. However, for 2014's Syro, he stuck to the namesake by which we know him best. The sixth LP under the Aphex Twin umbrella is notably warm in timbre which comes as a stark deviation from his previous effort, 2001's Drukqs, which brandished prepared piano and dissonant drill 'n' bass passages. 13 years is an extensive amount of time to go between albums but RDJ's highly discernible refocusing is evident throughout Syro's hour-long runtime. Still, it's not like the beatsmith was entirely dormant during that time. Some of the bubbly, enveloping artifacts for Syro could be found in his 2007 release Rushup Edge, flying under the The Tuss flag. It's also important to grasp that James is an artist that is constantly curating his back catalogue for release at any given time, making his creative process impossible to timestamp and endlessly fascinating. RDJ solidified Syro's arrival by commissioning a zeppelin to fill the airways over London adorned with his logo. He always had a flair for the dramatic, or should that be the surreal?

The album commences with Minipops 67 (Source Field Mix), affectionately known by supporters as the "Manchester Track" due to its inclusion in a Manchester setlist in 2007. The official title certainly is fitting, as it's named after a line of drum machines produced by Korg in 1967. The music itself is bouncy, with careful weight applied behind each beat. This is no longer the face-melting acid and tribal drill 'n' bass more akin to a previous iteration of Richard. This is RDJ poking around with a scalpel producing surgical, sonic whimsy with a "kick-your-feet-up" sense of ease. The second track is the 10 minute Xmas_Evet10 (Thanaton3 Mix). It appears like a hissing fog and then combusts with soaked, waterlogged beats that lead into a gliding groove that shapes the track. This "Xmas" is comprised of several distinct sections, à la a Paranoid Android perhaps. What results is a cavernous journey and a surefire album highlight. Sixth track and album centerpiece Circlont6A (Syrobonkus Mix) is the most frenzied outing on Syro, announcing itself with a distorted, jarring vocal sample and traveling at a breakneck pace throughout its duration. It's a skittering, anxious soundscape while never losing the ability to be infinitely danceable across its six and half minute lifespan. As a culminating, tranquil reminder of RDJ's versatility, he bestows Aisatsana on his audience as the final track of the LP. A moving, minimalist piano piece that acts as a ray of sunlight that cuts through cloudy skies after a destructive storm of IDM and techno hysteria. Many have speculated that this is a dedication to his wife as the track is her name "Anastasia" in reverse. The piano is minutely reverbed and subdued as birds chirp in the distance and one can visualize the morning dew formed on the grass at your feet. A wholeheartedly beautiful way to end a record and a concrete monument to the talent of this wonderful artisan.

No matter what nom de plume, AFX or Aphex Twin, Polygon Window or Bradley Strider, there have been but a sparse few who have ever been more cutting edge and strikingly original than Richard David James. Between reinventing himself numerous times, going reclusive and plastering his grinning face throughout Chris Cunningham's nightmare fuel music videos, I'm quite secure in saying that RDJ has done it all. He's even had "Shakespeare" Kanye West try to steal his work and pass it as Yeezy's own. This is in fact the same artist who's had a single peak at number 16 on the UK Singles chart (Windowlicker) and also birthed an LP entitled Expert Knob Twiddlers. Save for maybe 1992's Selected Ambient Works 85-92, no album is more representative of the work of electronic music's most enigmatic personality than Syro. It's labyrinthian, inviting, warm, frightening and a scorching "fuck you" to those who questioned if RDJ still had it. It stands as nothing less than a modern masterpiece and a remnant of yesteryear in the exciting scope of current electronic music. "Let the old man show you how it's done," the record screams defiantly through wordless beats. It's a sound I'll never get tired of.

Richard has often shied away from interviews and recently even claimed that he will no longer partake in them at all, fueling the belief that we will never fully unravel and understand the phenom that he has been and continues to be. This addendum stands as one of my more personal verses. Richard's music has contorted my own personal definition of music and what sonic shapes it could embody. His melodic forays remain consistently alien to my ears and that's an indicator of a true innovator and pioneer. He wasn't the first to do it. He would surely credit the work of avant-garde legends like Brian Eno and John Cage as inspiration without hesitation. Still, despite subsequent imitators and spiritual legacy bearers, there's still no one who sounds quite like Aphex Twin. The man with the power to move you to tears with ambience or melt your speakers with his patented "Aphex Acid" will always be inherently special to me and my endless journey of musical exploration. Syro will forever be a key piece of that puzzle and Richard's work is an ever-evolving tapestry begging to be traversed. RDJ himself has never commanded praise of any kind. He's often self-deprecating, claiming to be "an irritating, lying ginger kid from Cornwall who should've been locked up in a juvenile detention center". A more appropriate description of the man would be a shimmering genius, musical mad-scientist the likes of which we may never see again. However, if it were up to Richard himself, he'd likely prefer an existence as a whisper that evolves into a subliminal wall of sound; An idea, in lieu of being human at all.

Standout Tracks:

1. Circlont6A (Syrobonkus Mix)
2. Xmas_Evet10 (Thanaton3 Mix)
3. Syro U473T8+E (Piezoluminescence Mix)

94.8
_________________
"It was a journey of a life..."