This is a selection of music composed by USSR artists from 1976 to 1995. The cover picture has been taken from the cover of the album Oiseaux Des Plaines Russes by Борис Вепринцев. I prepared this playlist right after my second (Ella) was born and during pandemic times, hope you enjoy it.
This is a a selection of Czechoslovak music from 1974 to 1994. Please enjoy!
Tracklist:
1. Iva Bittová – Proudem Mléka (1990)
2. Irena Havlová a Vojtěch Havel – Ta jemná gamelánie III (1992)
3. Richter Band – Křišťálové Ráno (1992)
4. Mirka Křivánková ▪ Jiří Stivín & Co. – Mlhavé Doteky (1985)
5. Jaroslav Kořán, Michal Kořán, Marek Hanzlík – Ta Naše Jediná A Nejlepší (1991)
6. The Ecstasy Of Saint Theresa – Her Eyes Have It (1994)
7. Energit – Jarní Rovnodennost (1978)
8. Zuzana Homolová – Sneh (1989)
9. Poloviční Chytání Richter Band – Čínský Potůček (1989)
10. Michal Kořán ft. Marie Steinerová – Meditace a moll pro samplované rádiové alikvóty (live) (1994)
11. Irena & Vojtěch Havlovi – Ledová Krůpěj Medová (1992)
Guest post by grandiose melodrama connoisseur René Kladzyk (Ziemba)
“The stars are not so silent As they seem They sparkle for you You’re gazing at me Knowing that up till now I never believed in love”
Songs in the air Everywhere Telling me up ‘til now I never believed in love”
Annie Haslam’s voice is a ringing bell at the center of Annie in Wonderland, a 1977 maximalist pop adventure created in partnership with Haslam’s then-fiancé Roy Wood (better known as a founding member of Electric Light Orchestra, The Move, and the terrifying frontman of Wizzard). Haslam’s first solo album Annie in Wonderland was a major sonic departure from Renaissance, the avant-baroque progressive rock band fronted by Haslam. While the songs of Renaissance also orbited around the soaring purity of Haslam’s voice, it’s with Annie in Wonderland that Haslam’s expression became overtly romantic, igniting this sweeping and grandiose pop melodrama of an album.
At times choral, at times outright bizarre and sweetly silly, Annie in Wonderland oozes with a sense of wonder and a playful mysticism. The nostalgic excitement of love is also omnipresent, and the fun had while making it eminently apparent. In a 1999 interview, Haslam comments that this is her favorite of her solo albums, and that recording sessions would frequently get held up by riotous laughter, with everyone on the floor crying laughing.
A loungey cover of “Nature Boy” reapproaches the standard with a cinematic mystery; I’m eagerly awaiting the femme James Bond reboot featuring this song as our heroine drives along the ragged cliffs of the Italian Riviera. Meanwhile the excellent “I Never Believed in Love” draws clear throughlines to more disco-inflected and glammy songs in Electric Light Orchestra’s catalogue, like the Xanadu soundtrack that would come out a couple years later. Of course Roy Wood’s influence can be heard abundantly throughout the record, as he produced, arranged, played the majority of the instruments. He also did the album art, which includes several hints at specific references to the recording process.
The romance and divine sensibility of Annie in Wonderland carries through in Annie Haslam’s later solo work, especially in standouts like “The Angels Cry” from her 1989 self titled album, and can be spotted in Haslam’s visual art as well. Her current website features intuitive paintings of songs, custom painted musical instruments, garments, and pet portraits, all cast in vibrant and multicolored hues evoking sensuous dream worlds.
Guest post by John Also Bennett (JAB / Seabat / Forma). JAB’s debut solo album Erg Herbe was released on Shelter Press earlier this year.
This mix was compiled as the second volume in my “Appel d’ Air” mix series, the first volume of which is available here. It takes its name from the Michel Redolfi album of the same name. I’m always looking for music that uses flute or wind instruments, open spaces, and environmental sound in tandem, even if these conditions are only met loosely. In this collection I included two pieces of music originally composed as environmental music for video games (“Inside The Deku Tree” from Legend of Zelda and a Resident Evil Save Room theme), both of which were designed to color the atmosphere of a virtual space, and both of which use flute (albeit electronic). Eva-Maria Houben’s “ein schlummer (a slumber)” uses flute and organ and their reverberations inside a large cathedral: the near silences between notes as the reverb tails off are as important as the notes themselves. I also included one of my own compositions, “Chanterai por mon coraige,” recorded in a decrepit mill in the French countryside, pictured above. Like many of the pieces included on this mix, the sound of the space in which the piece was recorded plays a role in the composition; in this case evening crickets and the churning of a nearby creek. You can download an mp3 version here.
Tracklist:
1. Daniel Kobialka – Organic Eternity (Excerpt)
2. Koji Kondo – Inside The Deku Tree (Legend of Zelda – Ocarina Of Time)
3. Mary Jane Leach – Downland’s Tears (Excerpt)
4. Vijay Raghav Rao – Raga Malkauns – Alap and Gat n Jhaptal
5. Jim Fassett – Symphony Of The Birds (Third Movement)
I’m 20 years old, leaning against a window of a train from London to Edinburgh. The two other guys I’m traveling with, young producers with MacBooks and MIDI controllers in tow, are sprawled out in the seats across from me, eyes closed, dead to the world. At the start of that year, I had put out an LP (my first) of music I had felt unsure of, spent nearly every weekend of my sophomore spring semester in a different city, spun into a whirlwind, eventually dropping out of college to tour full time. Now it’s summer and I’m abroad and unready, unable to slow my racing mind. Instead, I retreat into my headphones, staring out at the passing Highlands in all their viridescence. In my ears sits a lone voice over a tranquil bed of strings, the ghostly hum of a vibrato circuit on a guitar amp lurking: “step right up / something’s happening here.” Sleeplessness becomes body high as the sun starts to rise.
This is how I fell in love with Laughing Stock. That record, and later Spirit Of Eden, became instant companions through the months of endless travel and alienation that followed. The music of Mark Hollis would only hypnotize; it would help me process the change in direction of my life–a pointillist’s attention to detail, a fluidity I dreamt of possessing, a texture thick to the point of becoming a security blanket. Listening repeatedly, you feel as if you’re walking through an aviary of disparate songbirds, much like those depicted on the artwork, improvising in full awareness of their impermanence. In the midst of mental illness or writer’s block, I always use these records to recalibrate. To me, they’re sound of earth and sky meeting; above all, they taught me to embrace solitude through silence.
That silence is elevated even further on Mark Hollis, the solo record I arrived at later, quietly released seven years after Talk Talk disbanded. All electric instruments and studio magic are eschewed – instead, two microphones are placed at the front of the room, leaving the musicians in pursuit of their proper place in the stereo field as it was in the beginning of recorded sound. What we get, then, is that intimate, transcendental purity found in the films of Bresson or Tarkovsky or the music of Nick Drake or Morton Feldman–existing totally outside of time. Rather than utilizing chance and accident like the two preceding records, everything here was written down and scored–and somehow still, the music appears loosely structured, out of thin air, delicate as stained glass. Woodwind textures spurt, a harmonium breathes deep, cloistral voices whisper soft invocations. Often Mark’s voice will barely rise above the creaking of his chair or a ticking watch. You couldn’t find a quieter pop record if you tried.
In her essay The Aesthetics Of Silence, Susan Sontag describes art as “a deliverance, an exercise in asceticism.” She says:
…Formerly, the artist’s good was mastery of and fulfillment in his art. Now, it’s suggested that the highest good for the artist is to reach that point where those goals of excellence become insignificant to him, emotionally and ethically, and he is more satisfied by being silent than by finding a voice in art.
Of course, the relationship Mark Hollis had to silence was never limited to sound–he withdrew completely from the public eye to focus on his family shortly after this record was released. He would claim that the work behind him was so close to how he imagined music that he couldn’t possibly dream of how to move forward from it. Many of us held out for one more record, one more sign of life. It would never come, and even as heartbroken as I am now that he’s gone, to ask for more would be selfish. One listens to these records at least once a week and still learns from them.
A little over twenty years later, the music industry has eaten itself. As a discovery platform, streaming services reduce even the most unorthodox music down to exclusive, rudimentary listening contexts– dinner parties, “mood boosters,” “lo-fi beats to study to”–as if it wasn’t bad enough that they barely compensate. Young artists online hardly thrive, if ever, on transparency and instant validation–to keep your work close to the chest is somehow to become estranged; we assume the role of “wearing” our music beyond simply letting it sing for itself. At the time of writing this, I’m holed up finishing a project that I struggle with keeping a secret. I’m sometimes so swept up in considering how and where it’ll be placed–contexts that I can’t control, try as I might–that I forget to be honest with myself. I listen to the work my hero left behind and I hear a vision of sound uncompromised, a commitment to the organic, an atmospheric intuition, and those troubles are kept at bay. I’m forever indebted to the standard Mark Hollis set and am inspired to stay true to all of the grey areas. I only hope the people introduced to his work for the first time this week will stumble upon a similar solace.
If this is your first listen, wait for a quiet moment to press play. In his words, “You should never listen to music as background music.”
Trained as a jazz pianist since childhood, Akiko Yano has gone on to establish herself as an extraordinarily singular and iconic songwriter, singer, pianist, and performer. Her 1976 debut record, Japanese Girl, was shocking to listeners accustomed to the wispy, subdued sounds of Japanese idol pop, incorporating her sense of humor, unrestrained joy, and technical skill as a pianist and improvisor. She went on to collaborate extensively with Yellow Magic Orchestra and Ryuichi Sakamoto, touring with YMO as a keyboardist in the early 80s. While making her own highly idiosyncratic and genre-bending records, Yano collaborated with Pat Metheny, Lyle Mays, Little Feat, Rei Harakami, Japan, David Sylvian, Thomas Dolby, Kenji Omura, Anthony Jackson, and many others, while also composing songs for Rajie, Manna, Kimiko Kasai, Chiemi Manabe, and many memorable commercial music scores. Today she has released 27 full length records and still performs regularly in New York City, where she lives. One of her most celebrated early works, Tadaima, is forthcoming as a reissue from Wewantsounds, marking the first in a series of reissues of Yano’s cult-following favorites. It’s available for preorder here, and tickets for her upcoming New York show with Seiho are available here.
Hello, Yano-san? This is Patrick. I’m so happy to be speaking with you today. How are you?
I’m good, thank you.
Great. Let’s get right to it! Since Tadaima is getting reissued, I’m curious about your impressions of it now. Looking back on it, what do you think you were trying to do with this album?
That’s a good question. It was released in 1981, right after I made a kind of hit, “春咲小紅” (Harusaki Kobeni)—which was included on Tadaima—so everyone was expecting a really nice, catchy pop album. But I didn’t want to be like that. I didn’t picture myself as a pop artist. So I did what I wanted. (laughs) In its own way, the sound is still really catchy and pop. I still really love this record, actually.
Yeah—it sounds to me like you were taking a slight turn away from, for example, your previous record ごはんができたよ(Gohan Ga Dekitayo), which had YMO on most of the tracks. Whereas on this one you’re incorporating more styles…
Right.
It’s a little bit more like your earlier albums, but taken in a different direction. Adding new wave, jazz, the children’s poems. I’m really interested in “Rose Garden.” It’s got an Okinawan influence, right? Is that Tsugaru?
Yeah, it’s a mixture of a lot cultures. “Rose Garden” was…I’m trying to remember. I wanted to incorporate Japanese traditional percussion. That’s the main source of the sound. I also added more pop and Japanese festival sounds, like Omatsuri. Kiyohiko Semba plays percussion on the song. He’s real.
You grew up in Aomori—do you think this had a big impact on your musical taste? I know it was an influence on your first album, Japanese Girl.
When I lived in Aomori, I didn’t listen to min’yō—the really traditional Japanese folk music that Aomori is famous for. Back then, I wasn’t interested in it yet. The first time that I appreciated that I grew up in such a musically rich place was right before I made Japanese Girl. So I revisited Aomori musically, and I listened to min’yō a lot. And then I made “津軽ツアー” (Tsugaru Tour), one of the songs I wrote based on the Tsugaru min’yō.
You recorded Tadaima at Sound City in Tokyo, with Sakamoto, Takahashi, Yuji Nakamura on bass, Tsuchiya, and Hideki Matsutake. I’m curious about what the sessions of writing and recording these songs were like. Did it differ from some of your other albums? Was it difficult, or a fun atmosphere?
It was so easy to work with those guys. The bassist, Nakamura-kun, was new to me, but he was very nice, so I decided to tour with him and Tsuchiya-kun, the guitarist. The drummer was Shuichi “Ponta” Murakami. It was a more live-oriented band, and we had fun. It was the biggest tour that I ever had.
What I like about your music is, even on Gohan Ga Dekitayo, which people think of as techno-pop…I just listened to it again, and it really is live. You know, it’s a live sound—everyone’s playing their instruments…it’s kind of disco.
I think playing with YMO cultivated that aspect of it. I didn’t have any experience playing in an even rhythm, which is the basis of the techno-pop. But, since I was 10 or 11 years old, I had been playing jazz, and…what do you call it…
Improvising?
Yeah! Improvising. Improvisation is my passion. It’s my nature. And so, especially Tadaima and Gohan Ga Dekitayo, those records are kind of the basis of this sound and music that I’m doing right now, like Welcome to Jupiter. They’re a mixture of improvisation and a more pop-oriented sound. I still love that mixture.
Yeah, even when you use synthesizers, it feels very organic, I think.
I was into more machines and engineering, operating synthesizers and electronics in the ’80s. (laughs) After the digital synthesizers came out, I gave up.
Yeah, it seems as if you sort of pulled away. I wanted to ask about the song “いらないもん” (Iranaimon). It’s an Onuki Taeko song, and it’s not really characteristic of her style. I’m curious how it came together.
Well, originally it was a very nice ballad. Of course, she’s one of my favorite writers. She’s amazing. (laughing) I was thinking about a more radical way to do it, so it would differ from a more typical Onuki Taeko song. It ended up being one of the most avant-garde things I did.
I love how intentional that move was. I know you’ve interpreted other Onuki songs, like “海と少年” (Umi to Shonen) and “Oh Dad” you did on Elephant Hotel. And you also have a new single with her?
Yes. I sing with her in an authentic way. (laughs) We’ve known each other since our late teens.
I want to ask a little more about “春咲小紅” (Harusaki Kobeni). It’s this joyous, energetic song with strings and bubbly textures. You’re a jazz musician and improviser, so I’m wondering, when you do these really catchy pop songs…I have the sheet music to the song, so I recreated it on my computer and I was listening to the chords under the melody. And to me, there are really interesting tensions with the melody. Are there ways that you sneak jazz and improv into these pop songs? Because to me, compositionally, they don’t sound like typical pop songs.
Hmm…interesting. When it comes to “Harusaki Kobeni,” I was thinking only about the commercial aspect of it, since it was a lipstick commercial.
Oh, so they asked you before you wrote the song?
Oh yeah! The words came first—they were written by Shigesato Itoi. Then I wrote the song. I remember now. It was a competition with other artists, and I think I won. (laughs) Back then, writing a commercial was one of the most effective ways to get people’s attention.
Right, you have a bunch of commercial music songs. Some of them were chosen after they were released, right? Like “ラーメンたべたい” (Ramen Tabetai).
Right, Myojo Foods used my song. To be honest with you, I really enjoy writing commercial songs. And it was well-paid. (laughs) Often they would give me a lot of creative freedom, so I really enjoyed it.
To me they fit in with your other music, too, and it seems like you usually included the songs on your albums. I was curious about this one song “Isetan-tan” from Go Girl. I know there was an advertisement a few years ago where you redid the song. Did they ask you to redo it?
No. I just did it for myself. Isetan department store is one of my favorites, and was also my family’s favorite department store. I was practically raised in Isetan. (laughing) Actually, I wrote two songs for Isetan—the other one is “Isetan-tan-tan!” I’m a devoted customer.
Around this time, you were also writing some great songs for other artists. You wrote “みどりの声” (Midori no Koe) for Rajie, and “Gotanda” for Manna.
Oh my god, how do you know these songs?
Because…I’m definitely a music nerd.
Yeah, you’re officially a nerd! (laughs) Oh my god, oh my god.
That’s why I was asked to do the interview, because they know I’m a nerd about this stuff. You did some songs for some pop idols too, like Hiromi Go, Tsukasa Ito, Seiko Matsuda. They’re always interesting artists. How did these songwriting spots come about? Did you like writing for other people?
I always enjoyed it, yes, but it was never my idea—they would always come to me. Maybe it was because they wanted something out of the ordinary.
Ah, I see. To me, they seem like they could have been your own songs. Rajie, Manna, those are some of my favorite albums. The Rajie track is so cool.
Really? I’m glad to hear that. And also…oh my goodness. In the ’80s my children were still young. My daughter was born in 1980, so I was really busy raising children and taking care of house chores. I couldn’t go out and tour. Being able to work from home was the most convenient, so writing songs for others worked out well.
So, during the late ’80s, during Japan’s bubble era, you’re releasing albums like 峠のわが家(Touge no Wagaya), Welcome Back, Love Life, and you start exploring this jazzier, airy pop-rock sound. And even before you moved to New York, you had been working with New York musicians like Anthony Jackson, Pat Metheny, Charlie Haden. Other people were going in a new direction, creating more highly produced, mechanical, dance-oriented music. I wonder, was your music reflecting or rejecting this bubble era in Japan? Were you turning away from it?
Hmm. I never thought about the connection between economic events and my music. (laughs) But as I mentioned, I was spending more time with my family and in ’86 and ’87. I took a year and a half off of music to focus on my family. During that time I was just a music fan, a music listener. So I listened to what I wanted to hear, and it was jazz. When I started making music again, I decided to follow my nature, and Welcome Back is one of the results.
Do you think your approach to songwriting changed a little?
The approach to songwriting was the same, but I think the sound was more weighed on improvisation.
I really like a lot of your ’90s music. It sounds really open and deep to me. I think these people you chose to work with, like Anthony Jackson, Pat Metheny—they’re not just great at their instruments; they also have a unique character, a unique voice.
Yeah, and I really appreciated that they agreed to play with me! Eventually, you know, they became my life-long friends.
Image courtesy of Midi Inc.
I wanted to ask a little about a frequent collaborator of yours, Haruomi Hosono. I know you worked together in the ’70s, and it seems that you reconnected with him on Reverb in 2002. And you’ve covered many of his songs, like his Happy End songs on Granola. What about his music speaks to you?
I only can say that his music is his music. It’s a mixture of so many cultural and musical references. But once he sings his songs, it becomes his music. He’s the originator of his own sound, and his voice is so expressive.
You both have an appreciation for different types of folk music, and you both have this playful quality. A quirkiness. Is that true, do you think?
Well, both of us love old songs. I think he can be more of a critic of those ’30s, ’40s, ’50s songs. He knows so much about it. So when we play together, we pick something from that era. A lot of the time it’ll be music that I don’t know, but what he picks is always so interesting and so funny, so good. I love his taste.
I know you two did the Akiko Yano and Tin Pan Alley Satogaeru live shows, and I think I read in an interview with Hosono that he was worried about being able to keep up with you during the show.
Well, sometimes he fools himself, like “I’m too old to play,” things like that. But of course it’s not true. Especially right now, he’s really up and running.
He definitely is. So, let’s see…in the United States, and I think everywhere outside Japan, ’70s and ’80s Japanese music has become somewhat of a phenomenon in the past decade, maybe thanks to YouTube. It’s become this inspiration for musicians and graphic artists—they had no idea this world of music existed. Even in Brooklyn, there’s this Japanese record store called Face Records. It’s a store in Japan, but they opened a shop this year in Brooklyn. They have your records; I see them on the wall.
Really? Wow.
Yeah, it’s crazy. Have you felt this resurgence of interest in your music?
Um, I think I’m kind of an object of interest. But, more and more, when I play in New York City, I see more and more American people coming in to check out my music. So, that’s an interesting tide to me.
Part of of the reason I’m asking is because on your latest albums, 飛ばしていくよ(Tobashite Iku Yo) and Welcome to Jupiter, you started working with these electronic producers, like Seiho, tofubeats, Azumi Hitomi. It seems like they’re inspired by the music you were making in the ’80s. I’m curious if more techno producers are contacting you.
Actually, I requested them.Working with these younger, more techno-oriented musicians was the idea of one of my staff. And Rei Harakami was my—is my buddy.
Yeah, making music with him was so special. But he’s gone, and I had kind of given up playing with techno musicians. But these younger musicians are so eager to make new music, and I really love their attitude. I really enjoyed all of them.
This show you’re doing with Seiho—you two did a remake of “Tong Poo” together. Are you going to revisit more of your old songs with him?
Yeah, I think we’re going to do a couple of old songs. We’re going to talk about it this weekend, actually. (laughs)
I’m curious about your interest in synthesizers and sound design in general. Your very first song on Japanese Girl “気球にのって” (Kikyu ni Notte) features a very prominent, expressive Arp synthesizer line. And then on Welcome to Jupiter, there’s “モスラの歌” (Mosura no Uta) and “颱風” (Typhoon) where you have these synth textures—and then you worked with Harakami, Makoto Yano, Sakamoto, Jeff Bova—musicians who are known for their sound design. Do you think synthesizers and sound design are an important element of your music?
I do. Right now, I don’t have much time to develop or research these machines, or how I could make my own music with those machines. But I always have a sound vision in my head. I never lose it. All I need is the right person to help me to make those sounds in my head real.
I see. So you describe the sounds you’re after?
Yes. Right now, I have a really good guy, Hideyuki Fukasawa, in Tokyo. I really enjoy working with him.
Is he on any of your recent albums? Is he on Welcome to Jupiter?
Yes. Also—this is kind of a sneak preview, but I recently got to know Reed Hays. He’s an amazing synthesizer player and producer. He released two albums, and he works with his classmate. Their band’s name is Reed & Caroline, and they’re making records under Vince Clarke, from Erasure. I think you’ll like it.
What else has been inspiring you lately, musically?
I still love old American root music. I really enjoy the new songs of Boz Scaggs. The blues.
I haven’t heard his very latest, but I’ve heard some of his recent records, and they’re very cool. I like his old stuff too, a lot. I know your album Akiko has a lot of that sort of roots sound. T Bone Burnett. Did you listen to the new Jon Batiste? His new album is produced by T Bone.
Really?
Yeah. You might like it. Something else I wanted to ask about is how some of the last songs on your albums, like “Rose Garden,” “てぃんさぐぬ花” (Chinsagu no Hana), “Little Girl, Giant Heart,” “おおきいあい” (Ookii Ai)—they give a feeling of courage and hope, like a marching song. They seem to be inspiration to go out and face the world. Do you like to end albums on an uplifting note?
Mmm. That’s something I’ve been thinking about over the past few years. I’ve been making music that’s exactly what I want to make, what I want to hear. But slowly I’ve been realizing, “Wait a minute, I need an audience, and the reason I’m here is that there’s always someone listening to my music.” So I’m becoming more focused on the audience—sometimes I even picture myself as an audience. I really enjoy, for example, blues, and other kinds of depressing music, dark sounds; but I can’t listen to them all the time. Eventually, we need to be encouraged by music. Music that uplifts you is really powerful.
That’s what I like about your albums—they’re never the same all the way through. They’re different styles, different genres. I never get bored. It’s unnatural to listen to only happy songs.
Yeah. It’s like eating a variety of foods—music is the same.
OK, well, I think we can wrap this up. I just want to thank you so much for speaking with me.
Oh, thank you so much. I really appreciate that you’ve been a longtime fan of my music.
It’s easy to be. You have so much. It was a bit scary trying to cover it all. I didn’t cover it all, but you know, little parts. Thank you, Yano-san. I’m looking forward to seeing you at your show next month.
———————————————
Thanks to Akiko Yano, Patrick South, Matt Robin, and Wewantsounds for
facilitating this interview. Text has been condensed and edited for clarity.
This is a selection of Argentinian sound experiences between 1976 and 1998. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks.
Tracklist:
1. Hebe Rosell – Lacandonia (1995)
2. Roberto Détrée – Sonne (1982)
3. Lito Vitale – Un Paseo En Chindirica (1991)
4. Comedia – Los Días Antes a Melina (1989)
5. Claudio Caldini – Celebración I (1989)
6. Litto Nebbia y Mirtha Defilpo – Los Motivos Del Azul (1979)
7. Pedro Aznar – Azul 20 Música Para Ballet (Obra En 10 Movimientos) (1987)
8. Fernando Kabusacki – Una de Estas Noches (1998)
9. César Franov – La Charola (1987)
10. Lito Vitale con Mono Fontana – Río Limay (1993)
11. Hebe Rosell – Viento II (1995)
12. Guillermo Cazenave – Aries (1988)
13. Nebbia, Baraj y González – Algo Muy Sano (1987)
14. Gabriela – Altas Planicies (1991)
15. Quique Sinesi y César Franov – Olía (1987)
16. Los Músicos Del Centro – Canción Para Dario (1982)
17. Jorge López Ruiz – El Viaje De Dumpty (1976)
We don’t talk enough about the potential of the pop LP, as a form, to construct a kind of auditory theatre. Hounds Of Love, Big Science, Hejira, A Wizard A True Star, Jordan: The Comeback (which I’ve written about here before), more recently Blonde and Blood Bitch–these are records that build distinct sound-worlds track to track, display personalities so disparate, observations so tart, that you’re quick to forget they’re all coming from the same voice. And yet, the cohesion (where does it come from?) still exists.
For all intents and purposes, Jane Siberry’s sophomore LP No Borders Here is such a record. The title tells you everything you need to know before you press play–here she is acerbic, energetic, anxious, socially awkward and beguiled by the people she encounters with the same eye for detail present in Rousseau’s jungles. We step-ball-change between time signatures and synth flourishes as quickly as we shift perspectives from deluded waitresses to enigmatic dance class partners. The storytelling feels like the work of someone too well in tune with the anxiety of urban dwelling (in her case, Toronto) but also able to escape it. For the gearheads reading, you’re not going to find more advanced LinnDrum or Fairlight programming on a record marketed as “new wave.” You’re just not. Sorry.
I could go on about the thickness of the sound palette here, but I don’t want to give the game away, so I’ll end with a quote from Renata Adler’s Speedboat–what I feel to be this record’s literary spiritual sister–that I think sums it all up:
Speech, tennis, music, skiing, manners, love – you try them waking and perhaps balk at the jump, and then you’re over. You’ve caught the rhythm of them once and for all, in your sleep at night. The city, of course, can wreck it. So much insomnia. So many rhythms collide. The salesgirl, the landlord, the guests, the bystanders, sixteen varieties of social circumstance in a day. Everyone has the power to call your whole life into question here. Too many people have access to your state of mind.
Give this a front-to-back listen like you would for any of the aforementioned records, and then go watch this tour documentary and revel in how beautifully she presents this record in a live context (those headset mics! those backup singers!). I’ve seen Jen write this a lot, but it bears repeating here: if this record is for you, it’s definitely for you.
At a time when self-care is as much a multibillion dollar industry as it is a punchline, it seems wise to look back to a more substantial model for the articulation and maintenance of self. I’m confident that no better an example can be found than Jeriann Hilderley’s wonderful 1978 avant-folk record, Jeritree’s House of Many Colors. Jeritree is both persona and methodology, one that Hilderley inhabits and directs. Coming from a tradition of sculpture and instrument-building, she describes her work as “ritual dramatic music (creating conscious space that is healing, releasing and expressive), women’s music (diving deeply into my own womoon-self for the materials…) and creative music (creating a whole new world of meaning that comes out of the particularities of my existence).” Healing, specifically healing oneself through self-directed activity, is a central theme.
I haven’t found a lot of biographical information on Jeritree, save for the wooden yet enchantingly solipsistic jacket text. The LP was distributed by Kay Gardner‘s Wise Women Enterprises in Maine and lists a P.O. Box at Madison Square Station. 1978 was an extraordinarily generative time for the downtown music scene, which would soon give rise to New Music America, an annual nomadic festival showcasing New Music. House of Many Colors is a record equally at home with the Takoma stable as it as among members of this scene who experimented with vocals, such as Shelley Hirsch, Kirk Nurock, and Anna Homler.
“Sea Wave,” the nine minute opener, is buttressed by rolling, cacophonous cymbal crashes. To say that these evoke, symbolize or otherwise represent the ocean’s violent cycles would be entirely wrong. These thunderous crescendos are waves. They physicalize the music, inscribing the body of the listener and binding her to its rhythmic imperative. Hilderley’s vocals are shimmering specters that emerge from the stereo and linger in space long after the record has stopped spinning. Less about communicating or aligning the song with a particular style or expressive mode, they are a kind of personal evidence in the offing. The album’s title number (alternately, “Symphony of Little Sprouts”) is shortened from a 30 minute ritual performance piece and is described as a “meditational healing chant.” For me, the true delight here is the final piece, “Through Your Blue Veil,” a stirring devotional tune in which Hilderley somberly returns her lover’s assorted virtues, somewhat tarnished (“I give you back your perfect mouth/Less perfect since I have known you”). Its emotional power is shocking, disarming, and without comparison.
Hilderley’s vocals work against the marimba’s casual agreeability, and, as is the case with Robbie Basho, I imagine them to be the record’s polarizing aspect. While the instrumentation is an ode to the sonic and psychoacoustic possibilities of the marimba, her mournful warble has more in common with jazz and soul singers, taking her project out of the folk register. Billie Holiday, Nina Simone, and even Maya Angelou’s 1957 one-off Miss Calypso all come readily to mind. Hilderley worked closely with recording engineer Marilyn Ries to “milk” the marimba’s rich overtones, drawing on Japanese, Mexican, African and Central American traditions.
The power of House of Many Colors is in many ways demonstrative, and it more closely resembles a kind of praxis than a display of artistic talent or ambition. Its politics operate on a broad formal level, without slogans or entreaties to identify or exclude. I am reminded happily of the experiments of Brazilian artist Lygia Clark, who by 1970 had given up plastic art for individualized psychotherapeutic encounters, or what she called “ritual without myth.” I can think of no better way to describe Hilderley’s stunning achievement.
This is a mix of mostly Spanish, Brazilian, and American orchestral pop music, largely from the 60s–cinematic songs that you would want to listen to while driving along a sunny coastline. It also includes some recent field recordings that I did on the Maltese coast, sounds of the mountains in the outskirts of Barcelona, inside the Barcelona subway, the jungles in Puerto Rico, and the mangroves of southern Florida.
Tracklist:
1. Waves in Dwejra Bay at the collapsed Azure Window, Gozo Island, Malta. June sunset 2018
2. Antonio González “El Pescaílla” – Chica de Ipanema
3. Antón García Abril – Sor Citroën
4. Breakwater in l’Escala, Spain. July afternoon 2018
5. Los Stop – El Turista 1.999.999
6. Augusto Algueró – Será El Amor
7. Frogs and a fountain in the Abbey of Montserrat, Spain. July night 2018
8. Henry Mancini – Party Poop
9. Canoeing in the mangroves, outskirts of Hobe Sound, Florida. August evening 2018
10. Papa Topo – Milano
11. Evinha – Estorinha
12. Alfonso Santisteban – Brincadeira
13. Crickets in a night hike by Collserola mountains just before raining, outskirts of Barcelona. July night 2018
14. Elsa Baeza – Dubeque Dublin
15. Antón García Abril – El Turismo Es Un Gran Invento
16. Taking the subway to rehearsal, Barcelona. July evening 2018
17. Alfonso Santisteban – Manías de María
18. Flipper’s Guitar – Coffee-Milk Crazy
19. Wildlife in Toro Negro rainforest, Puerto Rico. August night 2018
20. Me singing a vocal harmony
21. Le Mans – H.E.L.L.O.
22. Cicadas in Devil’s Millhopper, Gainesville, Florida; and weather forecast in Spain. August evening 2018
23. Marcos Valle – Êle E Ela
24. Stereolab – Miss Modular
25. ユキとヒデ (Yuki & Hide) – 白い波 (White Waves)
26. Los Mismos – Puente A Mallorca
