Solhorn ”Kredsbevægelsen” (År & Dag, 2019) – review by Wieland Rambke

The dominance of algorithms has come into being at breath-taking speed, particularly in the last 20 years. Coding as a creative tool is spreading fast among musicians, artists and designers, sitting in an odd position between strict science and artistic expression, between the subjective and the objective. Yet the nature of code is elusive: We never actually see the algorithms run. We can only see the outcome of a computer program, that which it ”returns”, but the actual process remains hidden.

With his piece ”Kredsbevægelsen” (”Circular motion“), Michael Mørkholt has created an art piece that is both installation and instrument: A camera is pointed at a screen. On the screen, the camera output is shown, and a feedback loop between input and output of the camera is created. Cause and effect become one and the same. The imagery becomes unstable, abstract, it falls apart into colored areas that are in constant motion, as lively as leaves in the wind. But the images as picked up by the camera are also run into a program that strips the image of its natural, visual nature, reducing the incoming video to a stream of numbers: The image is translated into digital information.

This information is then used to control the parameters of a MIDI-synthesizer. Moving the camera itself, and feeding it with different images, becomes a way of playing the synthesizer by proxy. It essentially denies the player full control in favour of the unforeseeable.

And so, a live-performance of „Kredsbevægelsen” means Mørkholt is seen interacting with the camera, shifting positions, pointing it here and there, finding sweet spots. The camera, highly sensitive to changes in light, becomes the interface for interaction with the code. But it also works as a sort of probing device for exploring the sonic possibilities of the algorithm. The resulting music starts to ripple in cascades, carried by warbling drones, accurately in tune with, and just as unstable as the images. It realises itself purely as tone: ”Kredsbevægelsen” does not suggest itself as a compositional tool. For this is not an illustration: The music doesn’t adorn the images, and the images don’t accompany the music. They are both expressions of the algorithm’s possibilities, of its inner workings, which means that none of the two takes precedence over the other. Here, image and sound are representations of the same principle as determined by the algorithm. And so, they stand on equal level.

The actual piece ”Kredsbevægelsen” is the feedback loop itself. Accordingly, the release is aware of the fact that it is a documentation, and a demonstration, but not a fixed piece of music: For the very nature of the piece is that it is code running, flowing, that it is always kept in motion by itself, and so, it is only fully experienced when performed. It is a living thing that can’t be fully captured. The recording presents us with a representation, an idea of what is possible with the system of “Kredsbevægelsen”.

Indeed, Michael Mørkholt himself calls it an art piece, and an instrument for performing, but he doesn’t call it music. As he himself puts it, the input images are a form of “graphical score”, and with this score ever-changing, so is the musical output. In other words, “Kredsbevægelsen” is an apt title for a piece that is in essential motion. It is like a kaleidoscope, where everytime you are looking into it, you will find a different image without an original form. Rather, there is an underlying principle that generates images of a certain form. It is that what makes kaleidoscopes so pleasurable and fascinating – everytime we are getting another glimpse of the possibilities of the kaleidoscope. And analogously, every performance of “Kredsbevægelsen” produces a unique variation that remains distinctly true to itself.

However, these considerations become irrelevant when playing the record itself. Once the image is lost, and the whole performative aspect is absent, what remains is music of a surprisingly organic character. Arpeggios are glistening cheerfully, deep synth-drones are keeping them from floating away. An internal game of checks and balances has been programmed to keep the individual voices of the music in relation with each other, tying them together into mutual significance. Programming the behaviour of “Kredsbevægelsen” was the actual the compositional effort. And it has succeeded into a very pleasurable result.

Info: The album was released in December 2019.

By Mikkel Arre

Ben Stidworthy and Mikkel Holm Silkjær met when their regular bands, Ought and Yung, toured together in 2016. They started a duo called Brooch and released their first 7” a year later.

Tomorrow the duo will release a six-track EP on Silkjær’s Shordwood Records. We have asked them three questions about the EP – read the answers and listen to the entire record below.

Both of you are in other bands. What made the idea of forming Brooch appealing to you?
”We never set out to start a band really. The first songs we wrote are the result of playing around with an organ in Aarhus and then being pleasantly surprised with how the full songs developed, especially because they captured a mood that was quite different from Ought or Yung. After that we really wanted to keep going because it was an interesting context to write music, and we kept making songs which were exciting to us. In many ways playing in other bands is a hindrance because of the time they take but we’ve learned a lot of lessons and grown as musicians through them.”

Has the duo format made it possible to explore sounds, styles or ways of songwriting that you can’t do with your regular bands?
”It’s interesting because we both play in four-piece bands so naturally there are less compromises to make. On the other hand we are more responsible for the decisions we make musically because we are just two people. Less input can lead to more creative songwriting or less creative songwriting but in the case of Brooch it feels like an honest expression of our voices, working together.

A lack of time has probably been the most influential factor in our writing process. We’ve only spent a total of ten days writing and recording music together, so far, so the experience has been intense and impulsive. Our songs are imperfect and strive to capture very specific moods and moments, which feels very possible with just the two of us.”

On “Birds”, you sing that “Predictable times are for a predictable life … I just need something to change” – and then the music does indeed change instantly from intense, driving rock to a lingering, almost neo-classical finale. What sort of change are you hoping for?
”Specifically, ”Birds” is about identity and a period of lost momentum but what else could you possibly want right now other than the full dismantling of capitalism in favour of a society based on solidarity, equity, and an honest mass effort at halting the destruction of the planet from climate change?”

Info: ”Brooch” is released via Shordwood Records on January 31. Brooch will play in Aarhus on February 7 (RSVP) and in Copenhagen on February 8 (RSVP).

Teksti-TV 666, Plan B, Malmö, 1. februar 2020 – koncertanmeldelse af Rasmus Søndergård Madsen

Det var min første gang på Plan B i Malmö, og hvilken debut! En lang, mørk gang fra en baggård, næsten i Rosengård, indbød ikke ligefrem til fest og ballade. Jo, ballade, men så heller ikke mere end dét. Alligevel var der noget helt særligt over lokalerne, der senere skulle rumme noget mere end bare en natklub, der åbenbart også skulle ske efter koncertslut. Der var højt til loftet til koncerten. Og hvilken koncert…

Finske Teksti-TV 666 er et ungt band med første EP-udgivelse i 2014, efterfulgt af et par EP’er mere og så den første fuldlængdeplade, ”Aidattu Tulevaisuus”, i 2018. De tre EP’er er siden opsamlet og genudgivet af finske Svart Records; den opsamling skal man, uden at blinke med øjnene, se at skaffe sig, hvis rock, krautrock og punk er noget for én.

Trods den unge alder har Teksti-TV 666 alligevel spillet en masse koncerter, og det hørtes og sås tydeligt. Koncertstarten, i et lokale afsides fra baren, startede ligepå og hårdt i et krautrockoutfit, der næsten kunne have gjort Neu! misundelige. Fire guitarister (!), en bassist og to trommeslagere lagde benhårdt ud i det rå miljø, men med en melodiøs og glad tilgang til situationen. Koncerten viste sig at blive en åbenbaring: en helt særlig måde at krautrocke på.

Jeg er en sucker for harmonier, for transcenderende konstellationer og for glæde på en scene, og Teksti-TV 666 var alt dét på en gang. Motorvejsrock og kærlighed – roadtrip med dem nu, tak!

Jeg er ikke en haj til finsk, heller ikke til svensk, men alligevel forstod jeg ALT, hvad der skete lørdag aften. Det, der skete, var kærlighed til musik, og publikum blev blæst væk. Hvis ikke de gjorde, var det absolut selvforskyldt. Der blev riffet, solo’et og rocket til den størst tænkelige guldmedalje. Både band, lydmand og publikum stagedivede og crowdsurfede, ligesom der blev moshet, pogoet og danset ud over det hele, næsten hele tiden.

Undervejs pluggede Teksti-TV 666’s medbragte lydmand en guitar i og tilføjede en femte guitar til mange af numrene. Og ved sidste nummer crowdsurfede han fra mixerpulten til scenen med sin guitar og tilbage igen, da det var slut.

På trods af at være finsk hoppede den ene trommeslager, mellem hvert nummer, op til mikrofonen, blot iført boxershorts, og proklamerede på svensk, hvad der lød som to ting: At vi måste knulla och at vi måste dö!

Men vi skal ikke dø, i hvert fald ikke lige nu. Vi skal rocke og bolle! Og vi skal rocke hårdt og bolle så meget, vi har lyst! Endnu mere, end vi husker det! Vi skal motorvejsrocke og bolle! Speederen i bund og nyde rockmusikken og bolleriet!

Af Peter Svendsen – fotos: Rafael Zajac, Balazs Popal & Moment Photo

I sin ottende inkarnation virker det til, at den aalborgensiske festival Northern Winter Beat har fundet sin retning, med fokus på mørke og kulde, hvilket fremstår nærliggende og oplagt efter 3 kolde, vindblæste og regnvåde dage i Aalborg.

I ceremoniel stil åbnedes festivalen i Aalborgs domkirke, Budolfi Kirke, ved en solokoncert med den hollandske lutspiller Josef van Wissem tidligt torsdag aften. Skibet af Budolfi var klædt primært i kolde røde og blå nuancer, da van Wissem indtog position foran alteret. Over 45 minutter blev Northern Winter Beat indledt med improvisationer over simple temaer, til en kold middelalderlig stonerfolk. Fokus var fortrinsvist på moderne strukturer, og som koncerten skred frem, blev det gradvist mere og mere tydeligt, at van Wissem nok bare gerne ville være rockstjerne. Han bevægede sig over i mere stringente afsluttede kompositioner, hvortil han leverede banale repeterende tekster, der endegyldigt umuliggjorde muligheden for at indtage rummet, som ellers burde være oplagt for van Wissems umiddelbare udtryk. Der var bestemt lagt en retning for festivalen, men desværre ikke med den sakrale oplevelse, som koncerten så ud til at kunne blive, på papiret.

Torsdagen var først og fremmest en rolig åbning på årets Winter Beat, hvor de resterende to koncerter blev afviklet i de kendte rammer på 1000Fryd. Britiske Ohmns og danske Hiraki stod for resten af aftenens program, og disse kunne for sin vis have stået som en ganske anden dag på den aalborgensiske punkvenue, uden tematisk at engagere sig. Førstnævnte spillede noget så neo-retro(?!) som garagepunk i 2020, men desværre uden videre bidrag til en i forvejen veludforsket genre. Hiraki spillede i nogen højere grad ind i den overordnede tematik for Winter Beat, med et langt mere koldt og angstfyldt udtryk. Desværre frafaldt muligheden for indlevelse i den kølige støjrock hurtigt, da bandet mellem de enkelte numre tog fejl af 1000Fryd og Grøn Koncert, og det hele skulle være fællesskål og bunden i vejret. Bevares, ikke et ondt ord om torsdagsdruk herfra, men det komplimenterede ikke ligefrem det udtryk, musikken sigtede efter. 

Torsdagens skæverter til side, fredagens program var hvor Northern Winter Beat for alvor skulle skydes i gang. Det var tydeligt på menneskemængden, at det langtfra heller var alle partoutbilletholdere, der havde trodset torsdagens regn. Fredagens første koncert var også festivalens første, hvor kapaciteten blev nået. I dette tilfælde siger det dog ikke så forfærdeligt meget, da Riley Walker spillede godt 20 minutter i Gråbrødre Kloster, et museum af et gammelt kloster beliggende under gadeplan i Aalborg Midtby. Tydeligt hjemmevant i solooptræden udviste Walker en bred beherskelse af folkgenren, med afsæt i både raga, outlaw-country og den obligatoriske Nick Drakeness. Walker crackede jokes og udførte sit håndværk meget dygtigt, men fandt aldrig rigtigt helt sin plads i settingen, mellem ruiner og gravfund, der fortalte om en tid, som folktraditionen ikke helt kunne skue tilbage mod. 

I Aalborgs Utzon Center stod et bord med modularsynths ydmygt klar til at forløse noget af det lovede potentiale. Med udsyn over Limfjorden var det store auditorium igen i år taget i brug til nogle af de mindre konventionelle koncertoplevelser. Med asketisk præcision fremførte Kali Malone en cyklisk meditation over frekvenser og svingninger, hvor de enkelte toner fik plads til at slæbe sig frem.

Malone formåede effektivt at overføre disciplinen fra sidste års fremragende udgivelse “The Sacrificial Code”, fra kirkeorgel til modularsynth og låste undertegnede i et tidsløst rum, hvor de dybe droner resonerede gnidningsfrit med det kun svagt synlige vandspejl bag hende, indtil tonerne ebbede ud og afviklede sig selv med samme naturlighed som de indtraf. Det var egentlig planen, at Malone skulle spille i Budolfi Kirke, men da orglet ikke kunne close-mic’es, blev hun flyttet til Utzon Centeret, og det endte med at være en fuldgod erstatning.

Programlægningen for fredag gjorde det umuligt at se særligt mange hele koncerter, specielt når man indregner transport fra scene til scene, hvorfor de næste timer gik med at se bidder af David Eugene Edwards, Maarja Nuut og Teksti-TV 666. Edwards gjorde ganske lidt for mig, dels på grund af travlhed, dels fordi det var svært at nå gennem menneskemængden til et sted, hvor jeg reelt kunne forholde mig til musikken. Derfor blev det til små 20 minutter af Maarja Nuut på Huset i Hasserisgade, hvor loopet violin, sampling og eventyrlyrik stod på programmet for et artigt siddende publikum. Musikken havde en umiskendelig baltisk vibe og mindede mig om den finske freefolk scene (Ikuisuus/Fonal Records osv), men kogt ned til fast form med barnlige eventyrmoraler.

Personligt passerede jeg gaden tilbage mod Utzon Centeret, hvor ungarske Hiedelem stod klar. Duoen er ny og gjort af hhv. Balazs Pandi (Merzbow, Keiji Haino, Thurston Moore, Mats Gustafsson) og Attila Csihar (Sunn O))), Mayhem) giver et indtryk af, hvilket lydbillede man skal forvente, og det var sådan set også, hvad de leverede. Vokalsampling og freetrommer med tung bund blev formidlet til en lille times avantgarde, der indædt forsøgte at skabe den onde stemning, men uden rigtigt at blive forløst. Csihar vekslede mellem blackede skrig/hvisk og ritualistisk messen, mens Pandi gjorde sit for at bryde eventuel form op, uden rigtigt at have noget at spille op imod. Der kan godt være potentiale i den her konstellation, men på aftenen fremstod det mest af alt som en af de avantgardekoncerter, hvor musikerne spiller lidt hvert for sig, på samme tid.

Som en af de forholdsvis få, sad jeg koncerten ud, hvorefter turen gik tilbage til 1000Fryd, hvor Hviderussiske Molchat Doma (lyt her) havde indtaget scenen med solid, dansabel coldwave. Et pakket Fryd blev ført bag jerntæppet og transponerede til en lokation i Minsk ’82. Veludført og veloplagt show, hvor den karakteristiske kontrast i den drivende rytmik og den frostklare diskante guitar opførte sig lige præcis så østblok som genren dikterer. Anlægget på et rasende varmt Fryd fik lov til at fylde rummet, og trak specielt frontmandens intensitet med sig. Stensikker anbefaling til næste gang man rammer Minsk. 

Ligesom fredagen hævede niveauet betragteligt fra torsdag, så ville lørdagens program ligeledes leve op til diverse løfter. Mange af festivalens headliners lå på perlerække lørdag aften, hvor ruten for mange var Richard Dawson ind i Michael Gira ind i Kogekunst ind i Iceage. Langt hen af vejen var jeg selv på samme rute, dog med en betydelig afstikker, men det kommer vi til.

I bedste sendetid startede vi kl. 20.00 på Huset i Hasserisgade, denne gang med ståpladser, hvor den nærmest ufatteligt lave Richard Dawson indfandt sig med sin trio. Personligt havde jeg høje forventninger til denne koncert, i kølvandet på det nyligt udgivne album “2020” (lyt her), såvel som Dawsons ry som livenavn. Der er en skøn ironi og afmagt i Richard Dawsons materiale og optræden, som kommer til sin magt meget tydeligt ved Dawsons eget væsen. Der er en meget ublu ærlighed, som lige skal pakkes ind i en grunget lyd, der måske har til hensigt at skjule hvilke søde, skæve popmelodier, der ligger til grund for det hele. Sættet bestod primært af sange fra “2020”, med en afstikker til en lokal folkesang fremført acapella, desværre foran et knapt så disciplineret publikum. Det blev desværre kun til en lille time, hvor vi aldrig rigtigt nåede at se særligt dybt i sækken af Dawsons mange tricks, men altså, det var da et fedt rockshow med gode bangers. 

Jeg missede starten af Michael Giras sæt, men indfandt mig hurtigt i hans hårde, vrede greb. Mange af sangene stammede fra fra den seneste Swans-plade, “Leaving Meaning” fra 2019 (lyt her), og denne aften manifesterede Gir sig tydeligt som værende Swans ikke desto mindre. Det var samme mørke, kosmiske udtryk, det var samme musikalske tilgang, det var endda stadig ret højt, selvom det kun var Gira selv med en semiakustisk guitar. Selvom han ikke har den samme tyngde solo, som når han er med band, så er Gira stadig enormt krævende af ens opmærksomhed, dragende og fatalistisk. Der var igen enkelte problemer med publikummer, der ikke var taget til koncert for at høre musik, men overordnet var Gira i stand til at overdøve både ved volumen og indhold, men det holdt mig stadig fra helt at kunne trækkes ind til begivenshedshorisonten, og uden mulighed for det velkendte Swans-greb med at trætte lytteren ind i underkastelse med maratonkoncerter, forblev jeg i kredsløb. 

Meningen var herefter, at jeg ville begive mig ned på Utzon Centeret for at overvære lokale Kogekunst spille deres børnehavepispop i udvidet opsætning, men da jeg var nummer 142, der havde fået denne idé, var jeg forment adgang til auditoriet, der huser 140 mennesker. I aftenens anledning havde Kogekunst blandt andet taget et kor af diverse venner og bekendte med, hvervet freejazzminister Peter Ole Jørgens bag trommerne og overtalt P/A-almunus og saxofonist Henrik Pultz Melbye til at bidrage med både Careless Whisper og Interstellar Space. Det skulle angiveligt have været godt, hvis man tør stole på ordet på gaden. 

I stedet endte jeg tilbage på 1000Fryd, hvor jeg nu havde mulighed for at se et navn, som jeg spændt havde noteret mig. Der er visse forhold i livet, der gør sig gældende som nærmest en naturlov, og når der kommer musik fra Japan i min nærhed, så kommer det gerne ukritisk højt på min prioriteringsliste, og dette gjorde sig også gældende for WaqWaq Kingdom. En duo bestående af Shigeru Ishihara (DJ Scotch Egg) og Kiki Hitomi (King Midas Sound) der spiller dubbet, knækket tribal techno med en forkærlighed for shinto-mytologi (lyt her).

Klædt i neonfarvet tyld åbnede de sættet med at smække 1000Fryds anlæg på overarbejde. Det var ikke alle, der var helt klar på lydniveauet, hverken den ekstremt tunge bas eller de skærende støjflader DJ Scotch Egg lagde over, men for dem, der holdt ud og fik vænnet sig til trykket, endte det i et skizofrent fest-trip, hvor shamanistiske ritualer og gabber fik lov at stå side om side. Som japanerne har det for det vane, så gik de vel et godt stykke ud over, hvad mange ville anse for konventionerne og var aggressivt indstillet på at skubbe til folks opfattelse af, hvordan denne technofest skulle afvikles. Efter at have givet de tilbageværende publikummer en guided tour i, hvordan man fester i Japan, lukkede WaqWaq Kingdom ned med et par minutters øresønderrivende noise, som kun japanerne kan lave det. Bedste koncert til Nordic Winter Beat 2020.

Jeg rundede festivalen af med et gensyn med Københavns mest populære countryrockband Iceage, der langsomt og metodisk førte et fyldt Studenterhuset ved hånden rundt i deres diskografi. Der er i virkeligheden ikke forfærdeligt meget at sige om Iceage, der ikke allerede er blevet sagt, og de overbeviste også mig, igen. De spiller som et rockband, de opfører sig som et rockband, og denne lørdag aften var de et pisse godt rockband. Det var en værdig afslutning for undertegnedes Northern Winter Beat 2020, der viste sig som en festival, der i højere grad end før har formået at præstere et individuelt sammenhængende udtryk.

For første gang kunne festivalen i sin ottende inkarnation meddele udsolgt, og dette må tages som en stor cadeau til den nye retning, hvor Northern Winter Beat forsøger at gå balancegang mellem det bredt indbydende og det smallere, mere udfordrende. Det er ikke alt, der har været lige vellykket, men ambitionsniveauet er højt og tillader også rum for at tage chancer, og det er heri, man finder både skuffelserne såvel som de store oplevelser. Niveauet var generelt enormt højt, kunstnerisk, afviklingsmæssigt og tematisk, og jeg tror bestemt, det kan blive endnu bedre, nu hvor profilen på Northern Winter Beat for alvor har fundet retning.

Info: Nothern Winter Beat er arrangeret af 1000Fryd, Huset and Studenterhuset. Næste års festivaldatoer er 28.-30. januar 2021.

Interview by Alexander Julin Mortensen, photo by Matthew McArthur Williams

The Scottish, Copenhagen-based producer Perko debuted back in 2018 with the release “NV Auto” on likewise Scottish label Numbers (Lanark Artefax, Peder Mannerfelt, Randomer, etc.). On February 7th, Perko returned with his sophomore release, the 8 track-long “The City Rings”. While the release, according to Perko himself, may be characterised by more smooth sounds than his debut, “The City Rings” still demonstrates his skills and taste for sharp sound textures as well as his abilities to fuse energetic club elements with a dark, even “introspective” mood, as he also puts it himself. Compared to “NV Auto”, “The City Rings” may present smoother sounds at numerous points. Yet, in general, the release still exhibits a cold – and intriguing – sonic sharpness.

“The City Rings” also shows Perko incorporating various soundscapes from Copenhagen into his electronic compositions, while the track “Grounds” consists of a collaborative exchange of field recordings with Australian producer and DJ Lia T. The release thus encapsules and embraces the fact that (interesting) music is never merely created in an isolated studio, but is often the manifestation of the given musicians’ place in, and inspiration from, a broader environment – for instance socially, politically or ‘just’ aesthetically, by focusing on and applying the sounds of their specific everyday lives. On “The City Rings” Perko seems to acknowledge and draw upon the implicit assumption that we do indeed live in a world of sound – a world of music, that can also be modelled and used in other auditive contexts. I’ve therefore interviewed Perko about his use of field recordings, his other thoughts behind “The City Rings”, and his practice in general.

P/A: Have you tried to achieve something sonically different on “The City Rings” as opposed to your former EP? If so, what?

Perko: “I guess this record is a further exploration of the themes and ideas explored in “NV Auto”. The last EP has quite a light, airy feeling whereas this is a bit darker and denser. This wasn’t necessarily a conscious decision but it’s nice to have this contrasting mood between the two releases. This one also feels “sharp”, whereas when I think of “NV Auto” the sounds and timbres are quite “rounded” and smooth.”

P/A: ”The City Rings” starts and ends with, respectively, an intro and an outro. Was it important for you to create a record, which somehow worked as a coherent whole, rather than merely a collection of songs?

Perko: “As much as I love dance 12s, I think there’s a good opportunity now to create longer, more considered records. This is especially important in an age of curated streaming playlists which remove all sense of place and narrative from albums. Even though it’s a relatively short listen, I hope I’ve been able to create something cohesive, which is an engaging listening experience. The “Intro” and “Outro” act as bookends for the record. They help bring out the themes of the music, and put focus on particular elements within the songs.”

P/A: Tell me about your collaboration with Lia T: How did the idea behind the collaboration on “Grounds” come about?

Perko: “There was no real idea behind this track. It just came about, which is often the best way for these things to happen. Lia was living in Copenhagen at the time, and we were talking a lot about field recordings. We were both making a lot of recordings on our phones and sent them back and forth.

The bulk of the song is made from unused synth recordings made in Glasgow 2016 – 2017, which I recovered and resampled. Then Lia sent me some recordings and extra synth productions which worked perfectly underneath. It came together really quickly and easily. I am super happy to have her on the record. Collaborations are something I’m trying to do more of in the future.”

P/A: Do you think in terms of emotions or atmospheres when composing? If so, which emotions and/or atmospheres have you tried to create on “The City Rings”?

Perko: “When composing I usually start with some small textures or sounds, so emotion isn’t something I consciously think about from the get go. How I’m feeling definitely comes out but I’m never sitting down like ‘Ok, I’m sad about this thing, let’s make something moody.” My composition process is fairly long and laborious so the emotions and atmospheres playing out tend to be things I’ve felt over a longer period of time, rather than day-to-day experiences. 

This record feels pretty dark and introspective though, so I’ve probably been bummed about something.”

P/A: When did you get the idea for “The City Rings”? Did the final outcome in any sense end up different than you had expected it to?

Perko: “The name comes from a quote from a book called “Sonic Experience: A Guide to Everyday Sounds”, which I borrowed from Emma (Solid Blake). I’d had the name and quote noted down a long time before I started any of the music, but about 75% of the way through making the record it clicked that this was perhaps a good summation of the ideas and themes I was exploring.

It also happens to be the name of the new Metro line in Copenhagen. Total coincidence.

I usually let the music dictate the direction things are going when deciding on a final tracklist, so I had a pretty good idea of how I wanted it to turn out once the bulk of the songs were finished. The “Intro” and “Outro” were the last things recorded.“

P/A: Could you explicate which aspects of Copenhagen that inspired you to do this release? Did any specific sounds/noises or locations inspire you in particular?

Perko: “I’m more inspired by cities and spaces in general, but some spots I really like in Copenhagen, and recordings of which made it onto the record are my garden in Christianshavn, Heimdalsgade (just outside the old Percy Records store), Refshaleøen (down by the water), Utterslev Mose and Stadsgraven.

I appreciate how many quiet, green spaces there are here, so easily accessible in the city. You can be on a busy street and have a secluded spot right nearby.”

P/A: How has Scotland – musically as well as in a more general sense – had an impact on your sound or your approach to composing? How does it manifest on “The City Rings”?

Perko: “I spent my formative musical years in Scotland, so it has left its mark, however this is slightly hard to pin down. Glasgow is similar to Copenhagen in that they are both relatively small cities with compact creative communities, so you end up with a lot of crossover, and are exposed to many different styles of music. This has led to me drawing from lots of different things when composing, and developing my “sound”. Parties and labels there like Concrete Cabin, FWDK, 12th Isle and All Caps were instrumental in this.

I think it was Hudson Mohawke who said Scotland has so many good producers because the weather is shit, and there’s not much else to do but stay inside and make music. The same could probably be said of Copenhagen.”

P/A: Which other artists have inspired you, both in general and specifically on your latest work?

Perko: “Hard to say specifically about this latest work, but in general some artists, labels and other things I’m inspired by are Parris, Young Echo, Mother, uon. Exael, Gigsta, Bake, Concrete Cabin, Klaus, ANA, Low Company, Mark, Tobias Kirstein, Sofie Birch, Felix K, Oceanic, Peter Cusack, Jacob Kirkegaard, Acting Press, Ossia, SUED, Sports & Central, Lil Mofo, Sähkö, Graham Lambkin, Quasimoto, Jon K, Porn Sword Tobacco and DJ Stamina’s Rave Tapes archive.

Parris, Klaus and Quasimoto especially have been pivotal in shaping the way I think about sound.”

Info: “The City Rings” was released on Numbers on the 7th of February.

Alexander Holm “GiVa1G” (Sensorisk Verden, 2019) – Review by Macon Holt

Known for his work with Vid Edda, Group 4K, Young Brag amongst others, the prolific Danish sound artist, Alexander Holm, released “GiVa1G” last year, the first album under his own name. “GiVa1G” is a high concept suite of pieces that draw much of their material from field recordings made on an expedition to study the dwindling oak tree population of the forests of southern Norway in collaboration with ecologist, Ross Wetherbee. The result of this process is a subtle and engrossing work that reveals much more about our present environmental conditions and our entanglement in their production than many other pieces of similarly themed sound art.

This record is an overtly ecological piece of sound art; a designation that tends to garner kudos in certain critical circles but should also spark should raise scepticism. As a critic, my interest tends to be piqued more by pieces that seem unable to resist ecological readings (e.g Billie Eilish’s “all the good girls go to hell”) than works that overtly state that they are to be understood as such. To me, the former illustrates the actually occurring breakdown of the illusory separation between nature and society; the imposition of which is what got us into this mess in the first place. Whereas, at times, the later can seem like we are just decorating our descent into this catastrophe for the amusement and absolution of a smug art crowd. A crowd who’s being on the same page as the scientific community with regards to climate change for years has done nothing to halt the coming horrors. The burden of proof for such overtly ecological work to tell us or make apprehensible something about the ecological conditions of our world is often too high. Why address this issue through sound art as opposed to science or more direct activism? What do these obscure recordings do that other acts cannot?

So suffice to say, I approached “GiVa1G”  with some trepidation. On the surface, nothing about this project gave me a reason to set aside my prejudicial criticisms. From the wooden USB amulet engraved with the albums name, to the low fi field notes and diagrams found in the A4 PDF booklet,  “GiVa1G” appeared to me to be a project that was, like most eco sound art, both worthy and irrelevant. This interpretation definitely affected my first listening to the record but repeated and more focused listens helped the most interesting ideas at play in “GiVa1G” to emerge.

“GiVa1G” is less a record about the dwindling oak tree population of forests of southern Norway, than it is about the experiences of the techno/natural assemblages – the ways the complexities of the world around us are converted into computable data – by which we come to know this. This is a record about the confusion and horror of the slow subtle and inexorable signs that have preceeded the ending of this world. We hear the processes of life continuing while, simultaneously, diminishing in ways that would not be apparent were it not for the focused framing provided by this album. The 49-minute run time is like a real-time microscope highlighting the persistence and degradation of life processes that would otherwise go unnoticed were it not for the specialist techniques and equipment that have been brought in to investigate them. On “GiVa1G”, we hear matter becoming meaning as we hear trees struggling to thrive in the world we have inflicted upon them.

What sets this album apart from similarly focused projects is the attention it pays to the process of measurement and abstraction that makes the situation facing the oak trees apparent to us in the first place and that make such sound recordings possible. We hear science fiction sounds, which evoke the means of carving up the world into data that can be computationally interpreted, placed in an uneasy parallel relationship with the soundscapes of those organic processes under examination. In the opening track, “y.vast”, we hear snippets of distorted incidental conversations from the field recordings fade into the pulsing flows of liquids that course through the root systems on the tracks that follow (“(*back) front” and “PX1”). Through this arrangement, we are able to hear ourselves as alien visitors. This is even brought out in the mix. The clear high pitched beeps, pulses and whines of the tools these visitors have brought to study this environment are always kept a world apart from the low-end noises of life-in-process. But despite this apparent separation, we know that frequency, like the natural and social worlds, is a continuous spectrum.

The record isn’t presenting this division to reify nature. This is not a rehash of a story of humanity’s fall from natural harmony as we find in the likes of Phillip Glass’ bombastic “Koyaanisqatsi”. Indeed, it is from the seemingly modest scope of a study of how the changing environment is affecting this corner of the world that we are provided with a new perspective on the artificial and ideological nature of the perceived separation between the social and natural worlds. Because if these worlds were truly disconnected, then the measurements of the “alien” equipment would not be able to offer the meaningful descriptions of the coming dissolution that they do. This album is a small sci-fi short story about a survey crew measuring the demise before the dark dystopian epic to come. The most haunting track on the album is the final piece, “grio numbers (*-*)”. A pulse of laboured breathing marks the passage of time between semi-regular scans. The breathing struggles harder and whimpers like a wounded animal before fading into the background of human observers going about their business of dispassionately recording a living thing in inexorable decline. 

In Alex Garland’s film adaptation of the book “Annihilation”, trees and moss fuse with human bodies to produce an uncanny horror by resituating the human being as nothing more than the same kind of organic material it believes itself separate from due to its ability to consciously observe it. An odd thing happens while listening to Holm’s album. When you look at some of the photos of the mutated and aborted trees in the booklet, they look just like the beautiful horror nature of “Annihilation”. The only difference is that this time it is us who have mutilated the trees.

“GiVa1G” was released by Sensorisk Verden on June 28 2019.

Af Viktor Retoft, redaktør på Balthazar – tidsskrift for filmkritik.

Da jeg oprindeligt så Mati Diops “Atlantics” var noget af det første, der slog mig, filmens soundtrack. Filmen begynder realistisk, næsten dokumentarisk, med en afbildning af senegalesiske konstruktionsarbejdere, der klager over manglende lønudbetaling. Da soundtracket første gang optræder, skabes der et auditivt kontrapunkt til denne – ved første øjekast – realistiske, visuelle fremstilling af hårdt, fysisk og uretfærdigt arbejde i udkanten af Senegals hovedstad, Dakar. Underlægningsmusikkens synthflader og repetitive melodier har en distinkt kosmisk karakter og antyder dermed fra begyndelsen et overnaturligt lag til denne fortælling; et lag, som først senere i filmen kommer mere eksplicit til udtryk på billedside og handlingsplan.

Det er producer Fatima al Qadiri, som har komponeret underlægningsmusikken til den fransk-senegalesiske instruktør Mati Diops spillefilmsdebut. Filmen havde premiere i hovedkonkurrencen på Cannes Film Festival sidste år, og Diop blev dermed den første sorte kvinde til at deltage i festivalens hovedkonkurrence. “Atlantics” endte med at vinde festivalens næststørste pris, Juryens Grand Prix.

Qadiri selv er født i Senegal af kuwaitiske forældre. Hun blev født i Senegal, eftersom hendes far på daværende tidspunkt var udsendt som diplomat i Dakar, hvor han boede med hendes mor, kunstneren Thuraya al-Baqsami. Derved må dét at komponere soundtracket til en senegalesisk film have været et drømmejob for Qadiri: Mindet om en film kan antage samme status som tidlige, svage erindringer eller som en drøm. Set gennem denne prisme kunne man sige, at Qadiris arbejde med musikken til “Atlantics” er resultatet af en forarbejdelse af minderne fra hendes første spæde år i Senegal, og at musikken af denne grund har karakter af det drømmende, æteriske.

Det er nok af samme grund, at Mati Diop i interviews har fortalt, at det kun var Fatima al Qadiri, hun havde i tankerne som komponist til filmens soundtrack. Qadiri har bl.a. forklaret til magasinet Film Comment, at hun og Diop deler mange af de samme grunderfaringer, og at deres samarbejde derfor næsten kunne tænkes som forudbestemt.

På et kompositorisk plan adskiller soundtracket sig en del fra Qadiris tidligere musikprojekter. Rent tematisk kredser “Atlantics” dog om flere af de samme emner, som hun selv tidligere har beskæftiget sig med i sin musikalske praksis. Qadiris diskografi tæller adskillige konceptalbums: militærikonografi- og fetichisme udlægges på “Desert Strike” (2012), orientalisme og appropriation på “Asiatisch” (2014) og politivold i USA på “Brute” (2016).

Jeg tænker, at filmmusik er konceptmusik. En anden person dikterer fortællingen, karaktererne, miljøet og stemningen for én. Der er kort sagt allerede fastlagt en ramme, hvorfra musikeren så må udfolde sig kreativt. Som nyslået filmkomponist indskriver Qadiri sig også i en substantiel samtidstendens, hvor prominente eksperimentalmusikere skriver filmmusik.

Man kan bl.a. nævne Broadcasts soundtrack til “Berberian Sound Studio” (2012) eller Colin Stetsons heftige soundtrack til gyserfilmen “Hereditary” (2017). Et andet eksempel, som især er værd at fremhæve, er Daniel Lopatins (alias Oneohtrix Point Never) samarbejde med Safdie-brødrene på deres to film “Good Time” (2017) og “Uncut Gems” (2019). Især i “Good Time” antager Lopatins toner en næsten materiel karakter i filmen, da de inciterende gennemtrænger hver en scene: Ligesom Robert Pattinsons hovedkarakter, Constantine, er tilstedeværende i næsten hvert skud, er Lopatin det ligeledes på lydsiden.

På samme måde – dog mere stilfærdigt og underfundigt – kan Qadiris underlægningsmusik til “Atlantics” siges at materialisere sig i filmens visuelle væv. Dette mere end et klassisk soundtrack ville gøre, eftersom denne type underlægningsmusik ofte blot eksisterer med henblik på at forstærke både filmens følelsesimpulser og handlingernes effekter på seeren – eller som ledemotiver til at manipulere og henlede seerens opmærksomhed.

“Atlantics” legemliggør den marginalisering af arbejderen og flygtningen, som finder sted i den tid, vi lever i; en periode, man kunne kalde postkapitalismens tidsalder. Den viser det spektrale ved kapitalens evindelige cirkulation – hvordan denne er atomiseret ud i hele verden – og demonstrerer samtidig, hvordan det 21. århundredes nøgne liv per excellence, flygtningen, følger den samme uanseelige bevægelse. Filmen viser det liv, som er gjort ikke-menneskeligt, den evindelige genkomst af flygtningens spøgelse i samfundslegemet. Den udstiller kapitalens slagskygge.

Dette er ikke nødvendigvis et nyt tema i filmregi. Diop trækker på især portugisiske Pedro Costas urbane beskrivelser af de kapverdiske immigranter i Portugal, men også Claire Denis’ filmkunst genkaldes, når man ser “Atlantics”. Denis’ film kredser ofte tematisk omkring forholdet mellem den ekskluderede og den inkluderede, hvilket ofte formidles igennem et poetisk filmsprog, der dog igen gennemtrænges af en uhyggelig stemning: I nogle af hendes mest kendte film benytter hun sig endda af troper fra genrefilmstyper som vampyrfilmen, noir-filmen eller sci-fi-dramaet med henblik på at understrege det uhyggelige ved marginaliseringen og ekskluderingen. Skelsættende ved Diops tilgang er til gengæld den ømhed, hvormed hun skildrer disse triste skæbners tilværelser i kapitalismens randområder.

Hvordan komponerer man så underlægningsmusikken til en sådan film? Selvfølgelig stræber man efter en stemning af horror (filmens genrebetegnelse kunne måske være “Postcapitalist Horror”?). Qadiri fremmaner en stemning af både uhygge og ømhed gennem brug af både luftige og tunge synths, som glimrende supplerer filmens spøgelsestema. Soundtracket består hovedsageligt af forskellige gentagende melodiske mønstre og lag af synth; en stil, der kunne betegnes som avantgardistisk John Carpenter. Det er dog dette simultane moment af ømhed og uhygge, kærlighed og kapitalisme, håb og død, der gør det særegent.

To temaer går igen på soundtracket. Det første er “Souleiman’s Theme”. Dette tema består af flere lag af luftig synth og et instrument, som kunne være en kora, hvis repetitive klimpren lyder som et loop, og derudover en dyb, basagtig synth, som minder om lyden af et tågehorn.

Det andet er “Qasida” – i de tre versioner “Nightmare”, “Sunset Fever 1” og “Sunset Fever 2”. Qasida er det arabiske ord for ode. Her skyller wavy synthakkorder ind over lytteren, og en melodi, der vækker en stemning af mystik, føles som svedperler ned af ryggen. Forskellen på de tre versioner er Qadiris brug af effekter. “Nightmare” er distorted, på “Sunset Fever 1” leger hun med dubbede ekkoeffekter, mens “Sunset Fever 2” gør brug af nogle mere trance-agtige virkemidler. De tre versioner af temaet markerer tre forskellige momenter i filmens narrativ, og især dette tema er medfortæller i filmens overnaturlige univers.

Soundtrackets mest voldsomme nummer er “Yelwa Procession”, som består af lag af isklare synths, der skærer ind over hinanden i en både frygtindgydende og smuk blanding, og som samtidig akkompagneres lyden af kvinder, der synger og klapper – en lydrest fra filmens bryllupsscene. Nummeret er den nok bedste gengivelse af den følelse, der rammer én, når man ser en flodbølge nærme sig i horisonten, som nogen synthesizer ville kunne frembringe.

De mange ansigter og stemninger, som det dybblå hav indeholder, synes at have været Qadiris røde tråd, da hun komponerede musikken, og ligesom det Atlanterhav, som portrætteres i filmen, så emmer Qadiris soundtrack både af håb og håbløshed, ømhed og vold. Også uafhængigt af filmen fremstår det som et eminent ambientalbum, på trods af at instruktør og dens soundtrack-komponist deler så mange fælles erfaringer.

Info: “Atlantics”, eller “Atlantiques” på fransk, er den fransk-senegalesiske instruktør Mati Diops spillefilmsdebut, som havde premiere 16. maj 2019 i forbindelse med Cannes Film Festival. Den blev vist én gang i biografen under CPH:PIX WEEKEND (d. 20. November 2019). Den kan nu ses på Netflix. Soundtracket udkom d. 15 november 2019 via Milan Records.

PS. Hvis du er interesseret i at vide mere om selve filmen, kan Lars Skovgaard Laursens fyldige artikel “Atlantens smukkeste monster” hos filmmagasinet Skuelyst varmt anbefales. I øvrigt skal det anføres, helt apropos, at musikmagasinet The Wire i deres martsudgave har sat Stetson, Qadiri og Lopatin i stævne for at tale om soundtrackets svære kunst.

Randi Pontoppidan & Christian Rønn “Head¨Space” (Chant Records, 2020)
– review by Giuseppe Pisano

This record came as an unexpected surprise to me. Two very prolific Danish artists, Randi Pontoppidan and Christian Rønn, bring us a collaborative album that feels like a natural musical experience, maieutically emerging from some sort of metaphysical connection and then shared to the audience, rather than a planned out, structured album of songs.

Yet there are songs, or are there? I would say so, as the musical outcome of each piece shapes different moods, settings for the performative act to happen. Different and diverse ones, not a single stream of consciousness but rather careful watercolor pictures, that in a very abstract way communicate complex but precise states of being.

On one side the wonderful vocal skills of Randi Pontoppidan – recently nominated for the 2020 Steppeulven award as the best vocalist in Denmark – provide a personal and totally new reinterpretation of the bel canto. Keeping her clean voice on top, but carefully generating a contour of molecular tapestries of electronic micro-gestures that elaborate counterpoints and interesting dissonances. On the other side, the coherent geniality and the good taste of Christian Rønn, playing with chords and timbres, constantly shapeshifting inside a form, like people we meet in our dreams that we can recognize but whose traits are indescribable.

Yet the two musicians are acting like one, by choosing timbres that easily blend and can afford contrast without making it a feature. They enact the reification of their instruments that merge into a singular musical idea. This process might appear clearer in pieces such as “Blackberry” or “Gamma”, but I find this incorporeal marriage even more successful in the most structured pieces, such as “Waterproof”, in which several regular but different pulses constitute the anatomy of the sexy and crooked gait of a big construct. A golem, slowly wandering around.

Personally, I very much enjoy the use of electronic sounds throughout the entire album. A subtle presence, very coherent, nestled between the two musicians and mirroring their behavior, that results in broken, diaphanous doppelgangers, always showing different faces and enriching the complexity of the musical discourse.

Some sections have desertic hints, some pieces – like “Ultraviolet” – contain gentle funky bits. At times loops of chords make some twisted isorhythmic blues appear, that remind me of the delicate floating of Mike Cooper’s guitar.

In conclusion, “Head¨Space” is a very enjoyable musical experience in which many different instances of a practice conflux and play together, touching on different genres and expressive modalities, and showing a very high degree of expertise and consciousness. The ability of branching out, choosing and including while carefully avoiding the clichés of improvised music – too often treated as a genre of its own rather than a process – is definitely nothing to take for granted, and the two musicians do an amazing job in this regard.

If I am to point out one single flaw, it is perhaps the duo’s tendency to always occupy every empty space. The rarefied qualities of many of the sound materials truly are charming but they could have worked even better if the two musicians had translated them into behavioral cues, enhancing the tension of the few solo moments in the album even more. Moments that feel musically extremely precious but aren’t always managed at their best, and which risk to break the magic on more than one occasion.

Feature/Interview by Macon Holt

“Danish politics are the mother of this record”, Peter Voss-Knude told me in a small cafe around the corner from the Museum of Contemporary Art in Roskilde, where his new exhibition, “The Anti-Terror Album”, manifest both as an exhibition and a record, has just opened. He is of course referring both to recent policies that have seen threats of refugees having whatever valuables they were able to hold on to confiscated by the state; or the recently scrapped plans to house “unwanted” immigrants on a deserted island; and pernicious projects like the infamous ghetto laws. He went on to explain that simply living in Denmark, he feels constantly surrounded by this terrorizing discourse that spreads and amplifies the threat of terrorism. Indeed he sings as much in the lyrics to the funk-pop track “Nasty Fruit (Wake You Up)” from the album showcased in the exhibition as he declares a desire to acknowledge and change “all the embarrassing politics that our nation is a symptom of”. This track, in combination with the record’s opener, “A Racist Nation”, kicks off the narrative of “The Anti-Terror Album”. The first track builds tension with blurry acoustic and synthesized atmospherics in combination with spoken word accounts that offer a lay of the land before being released by a driving beat and heavily distorted, more declarative and less circumspect vocals. Voss-Knude cites the British breakbeat and house group Baby D as a major influence and while that is certainly present throughout the record, and to an extent on the album’s opener, something else seems to happen when dance-oriented music is filtered through political anguish. “A Racist Nation” is a track that tries to grapple with the pain of political disillusionment about a status quo that has, for the most part, been so good to you but at the expense of others. It becomes something of a mission statement. In this way, its distorted vocals and synthesized atmospherics are somewhat reminiscent of a turn of the century Radiohead track like, “Packt Like Sardines In A Crushd Tin Box”. But while the the band’s anti-imperialist sentiments seemed outlandish in the world of June 2001—an apathy they captured with the song’s constant refrain of “I’m a reasonable man, get off my case”—almost 20 years after 9/11, Voss-Knude is looking to build a new consensus to help us escape the weaponization of a politically inflated sense of terror. This is why he adds a conciliatory note to his declaration that Denmark is a racist nation; “I wouldn’t say this to you if it wasn’t completely true”. 

The exhibition itself is set up as a listening space with couches and coffee tables covered in the supplementary material and evidence of Voss-Knude’s investigation and exploration of war-on-terror-myth-making. There are two large charcoal murals, the most striking of which is a near-exact copy of the poster for season four of the TV show “Homeland”, which features Claire Danes’ CIA agent as the only face looking towards the camera wearing a flowing and loose-fitting hijab amongst a sea of dehumanized women in burqas. The show has been severely criticised for its incessant depiction of muslims as terrorists. Of course, while the promotional material for the show tries to point to its star’s individuality by depicting her as the lone source of colour surrounded by grey conformity, complete with a brilliant scarlet headscarf, by rendering this image in smudged charcoal, Voss-Knude has blurred this distinction. If, as the original poster posits, the women around the protagonist have sold their personhood to a corrupt theocracy, this rendition retorts, how is Danes’ CIA agents’ allegiance to maintaining the American empire any different?

Around the corner from the listening space, in a darkened hallway on a black velvet pillow atop a pedestal, rests a crown of glass neon tubing – in a shape reminiscent of the Danish Emergency Management Agency (DEMA) logo – coursing with a blue electrical current that runs harmlessly toward the finger of those brave enough to cross the roped barrier to touch it. And in another room, a video plays of the journey taken by the boulder of rose quartz that rests on the street outside the museum; Voss-Knude’s answer to the terror blockades that adorn the town square “cunningly” disguised as flower boxes. You can see the spectacular stone from the exhibition space via a strategically placed telescope. Voss-Knude told me, after I spy him approaching the gallery via this surveillance apparatus, that on busy days it is remarkable to see how people interact with the stone. They touch it, stroke it and even kiss it. There is not really anyone around on the day I visited the gallery, but if it is true perhaps he has cracked the problem of having anti-terror defences that don’t fill the public with terror themselves in the way those produced by the commercial security industry do. However, as Voss-Knude points out, the unique properties of quartz have previously been utilized by the military to make battery-free radios as they convert radio waves into electricity. I can’t help but wonder if we have managed to step outside of the military-entertainment-complex at all?

However, any slight concerns one may have about the provenance of the quartz stone are dwarfed by the problematics of the prize piece of ancillary material Voss-Knude has scattered around the exhibition space. It is a document called “Krisøv 2017” (Crisis Exercise 2017), which was commissioned by DEMA to train through reenactment those who would respond to a terrorist attack in Denmark, and which Voss-Knude has gained access to, translated and made available to exhibition-goers. It is a piece of pulp fiction posing as a reasonable well-researched resource for security services. What is remarkable, however, is that this prose was ever convincing to anyone at all. This is especially true given that, when Voss-Knude interviewed the author of the document – the identity of whom he is reluctant to proffer lest the systemic critique of this project be turned into a witch-hunt – the author said he based most of the story on the show “Homeland”, which as previously mentioned has a controversial, jingoistic and racist way of depicting “the war on terror”. For Voss-Knude, this was something of a “Freudian slip” revealing the symbiotic relationship between depictions of Muslims-as-terrorists in the media and the limits of the military/intelligence imagination. While this connection is perhaps unfortunately predictable, what makes it all the more bizarre in a Scandinavian context is that the only example of a terrorist attack of the scale depicted in Krisøv 2017 was the massacre on Utøya in 2011, which was conducted by a Norwegian white supremacist. So one is left to wonder are the authorities preparing for actual threats or what they have seen on TV?

More unsetting still is the role that some kind of apparent sexual jealousy seemed to play in the production of this document, which one could argue has echos of an anxiety characteristic of white supremacist ideology itself (e.g the trop of “they are stealing our women”). In amongst all the tortured imagery of black/dark equals bad in the novella, we also find this description of an undercover would-be Islamic terrorist:

When quizzed as to why the author had chosen to include this, he told Voss-Knude that “he had been getting over a stormy relationship at the time” and the writing this had been “therapeutic”. Aside from the horrorshow of allowing the security services to develop anti-terrorism practices using a document so saturated with personal emotional pain – practices which will disproportionately affect the lives of thousands of people in Denmark with merely a tangential relationship to one particular religious tradition or who happen to have an ethnic background associated correctly or not with that tradition –, Voss-Knude points to another deeper problem. The fact that it resonated with its intended audience to the extent that the document was actually used for its purpose rather than scrapped as the piece of racist psycho-sexual melodrama it is, points to the wide appeal of the distorted world view it reveals. As Voss-Knude astutely points out in the foreword to the translation of “Krisøv 2017”:

Voss-Knude argues that these postulates constitute a wider cultural atmosphere that renders the incoherence of a project like “Krisøv 2017” largely invisible to those who commissioned it. And it is with this wider and more complex view that Voss-Knude began to ask, who was actually responsible for the terror he was feeling?

The Anti-Terror Album is not Voss-Knude’s first engagement with the conditions of contemporary conflict trauma. Since the mid-2010’s, he has been working in cooperation with the Danish Defence Force on auto-ethnographic musical projects intended to break down the communicative gap between the traumatic and intimate experiences of combat veterans and the civilian world. This project titled both whimsically and multivalently, “Peter and the Danish Defence”, has resulted in numerous albums and performances with songs exploring the complex intersection of emotions that military service produces for those who go through it. The music itself on these records is diverse but with a kind of live orientation, suggesting it is meant to be experienced as moments of profound human connection. But where much of Vol. 1, particularly tracks like “March”, “You Trained me” and “I Don’t Read”, wouldn’t sound out of place on a Xiu Xiu record, Vol. 2 seems like an attempt to utilize the possibilities of pop, with disco ballads like “Let’s Talk about the Moon”, smooth jazz numbers like “Oh, The Fight” and indie jams like “Community of Risk”. But what stops these records feeling like a melange of influences is Voss-Knude’s masterly vocal performance, which provides a certain consistent, if multifarious, point of human contact. Secondly, there is also the way lyrical ideas weave their way through the record mutating as they go. For example, the notion of camaraderie between soldiers as love between men is articulated with a certain triumphalism on “Oh, The Fight” but on the later track, titled “The Love Between Men”, the idea now comes across with much more pain. 

This technique has followed him on to “The Anti-Terror Album”, a record of unapologetic pop, drawing at times from R&B, electro pop, ballads, stadium anthems with some experimental sound collages to give the piece a conceptual through-line. All of these genre expressions have been given form by the deft production skills of Mads Brinch Nielsen, who somehow manages to give a certain consistency to the record while carving out a distinct identity for each track. It would seem part of this has to do with his control of the interplay of the bass element which strikes a perfect balance between intoxicating force and polished pop clarity. Part of what motivated this engagement with the genre was a desire to show that “pop songs don’t have to just be about heterosexual love”. Instead, Voss-Knude told me, he wanted to engage with pop’s capacity as a folk music to address the folk devil the political class have worked to transform Islamic terrorism into over the last two decades.

Nowhere is this motivation more evident than on the tracks “The Wound of Cinema”, which features vocals from the co-writer of many of the album’s songs, Angel Wei Bernild, and “The More”. The former, through its lyrical directness, static melodic lines juxtaposed with intense screaming, is reminiscent of the early work of Owen Pallett or the The Postal Service, whereas the latter is like a repurposed version of William Orbit era Madonna, for the purposes of a structural critique of media representation. These songs directly take on the feedback mechanisms between racist media representations and racist public attitudes that lead to the atrocious artefact that is “Krisøv 2017”. But the mood is then switched up again on the following track, “I’m begging you” which starts with a recording of a conversation about the media coverage of terror attacks before breaking into something carnivalesque, a la The Flaming Lips, with Voss-Knude singing, “I’m begging you, rewrite this shitty story”. 

While the politics of this record are clearly critical of the state apparatus of anti-terrorism, Voss-Knude’s understanding of the problem is far from simplistic. He told me that actually more than anything he wants to communicate the feelings of doubt that surround these issues, and that it is largely the absence of doubt that makes anti-terrorism discourse so problematic. This is definitely reflected on the complex emotional journey of the record. He told me of the first time he played the finished record for his best friend and his sister and how the reactions of these listeners would change completely from one moment to the next. Listening to one song they would be dancing, laughing and shrieking for joy, but with the next track, they would be on the floor in tears or some confounding combination of the two. This is exactly what Voss-Knude is after; as he terms it “the crydance”.  He sees the crydance as an opportunity for a release from the terrifying discourse and atmosphere of anti-terrorism. More than anything, he thinks this paradoxical response provides an opportunity for one to also get a sense of the absurdity and terror experienced by the muslims who suffer the direct consequences of misrepresentation. On top of this, in the throws of the crydance one can at once recognize the multiply entangled tragedies of terrorism and the wars nominally in response to it but that such mourning is insufficient if we are to overcome the impasse. Indeed, as important as it is to recognize the pain of this situation, to only focus on the catharsis offered by tears could easily lead back into the logic of violent reprisal with the purgation of emotional anguish providing merely the space to plan the for the next strike. This is why the tears must be met with dancing because dancing can complicate the simplistic narratives of the politics that surround terrorism. Through bodily intoxication with rhythm and bass, and the recognition of others around you undergoing a similar experience, the demarcations of political narratives can be confounded. The fragility of this fleshy existence is set against the potential ecstasy of communal corporeality. It’s an experience that no campaign promise can ever hope to capture. Kudos again here must be extended to Brinch Nielsen, who’s careful bass production has helped to make an album ostensibly about the problematics anti-terrorism discourse into something sexy. Or put more precisely, the record is able to utilize and expand the erotic capacities of pop music to libidinize (or make the listener feel deeply invested in and connected to) the project of dismantling the racist politics of anti-terrorism.

“Let’s talk about schizophrenia”, Voss-Knude said to me in the depths of our conversation. For him, this condition seems to perfectly encapsulate the entire issue of anti-terrorism. What got him thinking on these lines were conversations with soldiers during the Danish Defence project and the revelation of the Spotify playlists that they would use to pump themselves up while on patrol. While we find the usual genre suspects like aggressive metal (though I’m sure Rage Against the Machine would be less than thrilled about their inclusion), what strikes me as odd is the inclusion of the likes of dance-pop artists like Lady Gaga and Katy Perry. But then from the perspective of something like Steve Goodman’s Sonic Warfare, this makes perfect sense. The structured focus on bass and volume in these tracks can allow the listener to escape the sense of self that may otherwise cause one to hesitate in the infliction of violence or to become anxious with nothing but the sound of a desert breeze to listen to. Here we have the counter illustration of the insufficiency of crying alone. If tears without dancing can only serve to reinforce the existing narrative, then dancing (or dance music) without tears can, in these circumstances, only serve to help those doing the dirty work of nation states to disassociate from their actions. Playlists like this capture the schizophrenia of the war on terror as young soldiers are at once expected to be Western brand ambassadors and efficient killers; the music just helps to provide a more fluid transition between these modes of being.

“Safety is the Child of Terror”, is arguably the coup de grâce of the album. The title is taken from an appalling quote of Winston Churchill’s and serves as a perfect encapsulation of the infantile colonial mindset that permeates anti-terror discourse and leads to the production and acceptance as reasonable of materials like “Kriseøv 2017” and TV shows like “Homeland”. The track starts with a funeral dirge before the introduction of a disco beat puts the philosophy of this “great man” of history in his place as being incapable of understanding the wealth of human experience beyond narrow political self interest. Again, however, Voss-Knude is unwilling to let condemnation be the limit and wants to respond to the schizophrenic demands made of us (fear the terrorist just enough to feel safe to consume on the market) in kind. While performing the song at the release party, Voss Knude recounted to me how he broke into the song to say “Winston Churchill is Dead, but do you know what he said? He said safety is the child of terror. Now, I don’t know what that means but it’s really, fucked up!”  But to avoid this momentary rant morphing into the two minutes of hate, he interrupted it with profound joyful silliness: “Let’s dance the pain away, shake your belly, shake your belly.” This again was the logic of the crydance at work. It is not enough to replace the folk devils put before us by the political system with more critically defined folk devils. We need a sense of joy to strive for together beyond this terror.

It is a striking and unusual thing to have a pop album be the centerpiece of an art exhibition but it speaks to the nature of the problematic Voss-Knude sees as central to our time. He told me that he doesn’t feel he and his work fits well into the art world or the pop music world. However, for him, and I am inclined to agree, neither of these fields seems up to the task of navigating the issue of terrorism on their own. On the one hand, as already mentioned there is a pervasive idea that pop music is only good for hetrosexual love songs. On the other, the art world may be producing incisive critiques of problematic discourse for the cultural elite but very few people actually get to incorporate them into their day to day lives. Meanwhile popular TV shows like “Homeland” are filling the heads of future centrist politicians and their voters with a racist understanding of terrorism. So I admire how Voss-Knude has worked to game the system, by using the autonomy afforded to him by the art gallery to make and promote a record anyone can listen to on the streaming service of their choice. His work may even find its way onto algorithmically generated playlists and for a moment he will be able to whisper in the unsuspecting listeners ear: “I re-focus on what threats to keep. Wealthy castles are floating by and immigrants are blamed for this injustice. It’s a decoy”.

When Voss-Knude tells me he is thinking about moving into reality TV, I’m not surprised. As an artist his work has been characterized by putting himself forward to meet people where they are while not compromising what he believes and knows to be true. As we parted, my mind was awash with the possibilities of this one man insurgency coming to disrupt the comfortable black and white narratives upon which so much of this nation’s politics is based. But even with this disruption he would be coming to them with the kind of openness that is actually required to win “hearts and minds”. I look forward to catching a preview for his appearance on a mainstream TV show as he introduces the audience to the crydance.

Info: The exhibition “The Anti-Terror Album” is open until May 6 at Museet for Samtidskunst (Museum of Contemporary Art) in Roskilde.“The Anti-Terror Album” was released January 20 by the museum. 

Af Emil Grarup

Producer og musiker Anton Lenander udgav d. 14. februar sit andet udspil under aliasset Ingrate på det københavnske pladeselskab Anyines. EP’en, som hedder ”With A System in Mind”, er et bastungt konglomerat af techno, IDM og jungle og har – ligesom sin forløber, singlen ”Crypto Poser/The Enigma” på Oli XL’s selskab W-I – en eksperimenterende og legesyg indstilling til de førnævnte genrer.

Så legesyg, at jeg næsten vil snige mig til at sige, at “With A System In Mind” er sjov. Ikke komisk, men sjov; en særdeles vigtig forskel. Det sjove ved “With A System In Mind” er, at den virkelig giver los, at den giver fanden i konventionerne på en måde, der lyder fuldstændigt gennemført. Hvilket står i skarp og spændende kontrast til meget andet, der sker på den danske scene for elektronisk musik disse dage – selvom der også brydes med konventionerne, er det oftest med en vis form for finskåren subtilitet, der komponeres med en ømfindtlig porcelænshånd snarere end med alle fingrene på keyboardet.

P/A: Du har tidligere udgivet tre EP’er under aliaset Kid Antoine. Hvilken ligheder eller forskelle ser du mellem dette projekt og dit nuværende projekt, Ingrate? Og hvorfor skiftede du pseudonym?

AL: “Navneskiftet markerede et tankeskift i min måde at anskue verden på, et forsøg på at kunne navigere i musikken og livet på en federe måde. Det var jo ikke, fordi jeg havde gang i noget helt vildt stort med det tidligere projekt, så jeg så det ikke rigtig som en stor ting at ændre navnet på det – eller starte et nyt, hvilket jeg egentlig mere opfattede det som. At gøre det til en stor beslutning synes jeg ville være et udtryk for en forskruet forståelse af relationen mellem min musik og dens omverden.”

P/A: Hvordan har din arbejdsproces set ud i forbindelse med tilblivelsen af ”With A System in Mind”?

AL: “Min arbejdsproces er ret fragmenteret, da jeg over de sidste par år har arbejdet meget undersøgende uden udgivelser in mente. Jeg mister ret ofte min lyst til at lave og lytte til musik, så jeg tager lange pauser, der går med at lave alt muligt andet. Når jeg endelig arbejder på musik, prøver jeg at gøre det på en sjov, upresset og undersøgende måde. EP’en er stykket sammen af forskellige resultater af de undersøgelser kogt ned i den simplistiske form, som klubmusikken tillader. De første demoer lavede jeg for over to år siden, og for nylig færdiggjorde jeg dem samlet over to-tre ugers tid, da en sammenhæng tegnede sig. Villads og Aske fra Anyines var med helt fra starten af, hvor de viste interesse i at udgive noget af det materiale, jeg havde liggende, så jeg vidste fra start, at det havde et hjem, hvilket jeg er dem meget taknemmelig for.

Set på mikroniveau arbejder jeg med at finde og lave samples og lyde, som jeg synes skiller sig ud på en måde, hvor min smagssans bliver lidt udfordret. Det må godt ligge på kanten af et sted, hvor du ikke er helt sikker på, om det er kikset eller cool. På den måde forsøger jeg også at undgå at foretage valg ud fra min underbevidsthed af musikreferencer, ved at holde mig lidt på kanten af sædet hele tiden. Hvert track får sin egen lille gimmick, et unikt schtick. Det er jo så grineren, at man kan have en mening om et track på baggrund af, hvilket clap der bliver brugt, eller hvordan kickrytmen er programmeret, og klubmusikken er virkelig en af de kulturer, hvor vurderingen foregår allermest på de præmisser, hvilket jeg synes er ret sjovt at arbejde med.”

P/A: Kan du pege på nogle specifikke temaer, der har interesseret dig i arbejdet med EP’en? Nogle specifikke inspirationskilder? 

AL: “I vilkårlig rækkefølge; Instagram stories, gæstelisten, taxaer, selvet, når man står og snakker ude foran Mayhem, rygerum, at kigge ud af vinduet fra et fly, Twitter, køen til Berghain, lufthavne, kamera-klistermærker og røgmaskiner.”

P/A: For mig at se er den måde, hvorpå du betoner de rytmiske elementer i dine produktioner, rimeligt særegen – i hvert fald i dansk regi. Ser du sig selv som en del af en scene eller et fællesskab – nationalt, såvel som internationalt? 

AL: “Jeg har mange venner, som laver musik, og der er da nok en fornemmelse af noget fællesskab dér, men for mig er det relationer bygget på så meget andet, end at man synes, éns venner laver fed musik. Det betyder ikke, at det ikke er fedt at bakke hinanden op, hvilket jeg om nogen har brug for, men for mig skal relationer helst skal bygge på andre ting end en slags æstetisk sammenslutning. Der er folk, jeg sender musik frem og tilbage med, som jeg ikke ser så meget i virkeligheden, og her er der måske flere ligheder mellem vores musik, men at se sig selv som del af en “scene” tror jeg er ret usundt. Det danner nemt nogle lukkede kredsløb af idéer og hierarkier.”

P/A: Både EP’ens titel og dit eget pseudonym kunne indikere en art samfundsmæssig indignation. Hvilke tanker har du selv gjort dig om dette aspekt? Har musikken et politisk ærinde? 

AL: “Gennem min navngivning af musikken tillægger jeg den helt klart nogle små symbolske værdier og motiver af større eller mindre politisk grad. Måske ligger mit fokus lidt mere på livsførelse end direkte politik. Jeg synes tit, jeg står i situationer, hvor jeg har svært ved at gennemskue andres intentioner og måske også mine egne i forhold til mange ting i livet. EP’ens titel spiller lidt på, at den er lavet til et urealistisk stort lydsystem, men også, at alt i livet kan lægges i systemer, og at vi tit handler ud fra de her systemer, både bevidst og ubevidst. Vi forsøger at forstå andres systemer og komplicerer vores egne igen gennem de interrelationer, der opstår i møderne mellem dem.”

Info: “With A System In Mind” udkom d. 14. februar 2020 på Anyines.

By Macon Holt

“If no one fits in,” said Martin Messell to me in his studio in Nørrebro, Copenhagen, “then maybe we don’t have to worry about fitting in.” We were talking about the concept behind his first album under his surname as an artist’s moniker, “Ligesom Rigtige Mennesker”. In translation, the title has a certain ambiguity as it can mean either “just like real people” or, as it is listed on Bandcamp, “just like real humans”.

When I asked Messell about this, he laughed and explained that he thinks both versions can work for different moments on the record as the music explores the various levels of alienation from feeling like a freak in the crowd to hardly feeling human at all.

While this may all sound quite bleak, the music on the record instead offers a complex, and in turns frightening, tender, beautiful, desolate and warm picture of what it is to feel yourself on the outside of all the life around you looking in. In some hinterland between plunderphonics, glitch, synth-wave, drone and sound art, Messell’s debut album offers a moment’s respite from the certainty of your own inadequacies. There is a comfort to be found in the washes of orchestral samples, thick detuned synths and candid vocal snippets captured on smartphone microphones but it’s never permanent and never totalizing. Something always comes to disrupt the calm or sour the atmosphere but likewise, these unsettling moments are never the end of the story. As listeners, we are caught in an ever more granular dialectic between sampled and synthetic, between obedient rule-following and intuition, between self and other and between how you appear in your mind and how you appear to the rest of the world. 

But this turmoil is far from evident in the person Martin Messell who sat across from me during our interview in his studio. While the surroundings of this dishevelled repurposed industrial space point to a kind of angst-ridden cool, the polite, friendly and open young man projects an affect that seems at peace with the world and his place in it. An affect that must be of vital importance in his day job helping underprivileged youths to learn to write and produce their own music. Overall, his calm, which never teeters over into being aloof or spaced out, could be described as well adjusted. It is a calm that gives the impression of one who has a certain familiarity with the potential darkness of navigating this life but who has not so far succumbed to a feeling that it may be inescapable.

Something of this ethos seems to be present on the third track on the album, “Næsten” (“Almost”), which serves as something of a pivot point on the record. While the first track, “Hinanden” (“Each other”), with its distorted bass, garbled low-fi vocals and implicit pulse is reminiscent of Fuck Buttons minus the late-00s scene-kid aggravation, and “Perspektiver” (“Perspectives”) offers a charming respite of sampled woodwind, “Næsten” dives into the main themes of the record. At the start, the bounce of the previous track has been perved albeit as if it has been run through a ring shifter. But after about a minute and a half, it drops down as if keeping up with the systems it has been running has suddenly become unsustainable. At that moment it is overcome by an unremittingly gorgeous synth pad that starts to sour, moments after coming into being, as the strands that comprise the harmony immediately begin to drift from one another. As its title suggests, “Næsten” is a track that almost holds itself together but at the same time is prevented by some other force from ever entirely falling apart. As the track comes to an end—stuttering like there was some brief dispute about whether to pull the plug on this almost human-machine—the material up until now has been recontextualised with a certain fragility. Whatever is to come after “Næsten” can only be understood in the context that the mask of fitting in with the apparent way of the world is slipping.

For Messell, the use of microtonal scales in combination with more conventional diatonic harmony is one way to explore the artifice, anguish and pleasures of fitting in or behaving just like a real person. While this wasn’t the plan, this is where his musical instincts took him at a time in his life when these issues were occupying his mind. Having previously studied musicology, Messell is fully aware of how arbitrary the particular tuning and configuration of Western harmony is. Despite what many on the internet may claim about what frequency concert pitch should be tuned to, the justification for this isn’t built purely on laws of physics, but also preferences, practices and traditions. However, while in the mid 20th Century engagement with this perspective lead composers like Iannis Xenakis to abandon these systems as a means of musical organization, Messell’s work seems implicitly critical of this arguably reactionary move. Just because these standards of musical beauty aren’t universal and as such can and should be challenged, doesn’t mean they are without value. Quite the contrary, the process by which these standards come to be understood as such implies bonds of community, communication and shared empathetic understanding as much as it does elitism and exclusion. 

However, just because these systems of musical expression are not perfect reflections of an underlying universal harmony doesn’t mean they are without value. On the contrary, it is exactly because these systems have gaps and inadequacies, and can fail that we are able creatively to communicate with each other at all. If there was some final key through which we could access the ability to entirely accurately understand each other and ourselves, the notion of communication would cease to be relevant and all that would remain would be the observation of facts and data. This is where the glitch aesthetics of the record play an important role. It is through the failure and errors of each articulation and the attempts to repair and stabilize that we can apprehend the effort and earnestness of wanting to be understood. This is made all the more difficult when all we have at our disposal to attempt to cross this impossible gap are the tools we have inherited. This idea is made palpable by Messell’s use of orchestral and choral samples, which literally borrow earlier emotional articulation in order for Messell to attempt his own. By taking up the musical means of the past and manipulating them, Messell neither claims the superiority or inferiority of the position of being on the outside looking in at the world of real people. Instead, “Ligesom Rigtige Mennesker” problematizes this dichotomy one track at a time.

At least this what I get from the tracks “Forventingen Om” (“The Expectations of”) and “Inden Længe” (“Before Long”). The shifting locations of the breathy sounds on “Forventingen Om” seem to be working through the final kernels of this unsolvable dilemma before emerging on the other side of some profound revelation with a drop that lands like a nostalgic ache. But it is an ache that you can finally see for what it is and no longer confuse for the true direction your life should take. The metaphor shifts a little on “Inden Længe” during which we surface amongst a vast seascape finally able to bask in the warmth of the sun. The fluid nature of these sonically evoked surroundings is revealing of a central truth that most people, if not everyone, feels themselves on the outside looking in at times. Whatever else might separate us, we all share an uneasy relationship to the heuristically designed tools we use to try to bridge the gap. 

The final and title track on the record, “Ligesom Rigtige Mennesker”, rightly serves as a culmination of this journey. The opening of the track takes low-fi sting and vocal samples and treats them in a similar way to The Caretaker. By using these larger chunks of sampled material, there is a newfound comfort in embracing certain shared conventions here. New spaces of communicative possibility have opened. But it is on the second half of this sprawling track that this new comfort finds fruition as a sampled motif weaves in and out of detuned synths that glisten almost aggressively in a manner reminiscent of “Ravedeath, 1972” era Tim Hecker. If at the beginning of the album Messell was worried that he could not understand the communicative codes that would allow him to enter into the fellowship of real humans, he has now come to the realization that attempts to navigate in this confusion are all any of us have. And the complex beauty of our collective partial failure can be stunning.

Through the course of our interview, Messell is keen to go into details about the journey of translation that has taken place to produce the sounds on the record. Samples have been made unrecognizable through their recontextualization, whether they are the found sounds of the orchestral archives, his own candid recording from day to day life or whole tracks that needed to be transformed into stems. To me, this seems to point to a certain paradox in the experience that this album explores. How can those who feel themselves to be unable to understand the social codes of the proverbial real people understand their outsider status without understanding something of the codes?

This question would appear to have at least two possible answers. The first is the heartbreaking injustice of being made to feel excluded by others who want to keep you out. This exclusion is then often transformed into a self-loathing directed at a perceived inadequacy. But I think in Messell’s case the perception of this paradoxical problems stems from being able to switch between the systems of meaning-making that surround him. It is how he is able to work with kids to make rap songs about their friends one day and then high concept sound the next. And it is how he is able to navigate and transform these diverse sound sources when making the later. Indeed it is the extent to which he understands what is going on around him that leads him to objectify it. And it is hard to feel you belong to an object.

Furthermore, when you look at things with enough attention and are truly open to the experience, you will always find things you don’t understand. This can be dispiriting at times but as “Ligesom Rigtige Mennesker” shows, it can also be a chance to discover something new.

Info: “Ligesom Rigtige Mennesker” by Messell is the first release from the label Textur. They will release the debut record form the band Ester later this Spring.

An essay about pop music and the climate crisis with Grimes as a case study. “Miss Anthropocene” is out now on 4AD. Written by Macon Holt.

Grimes, Claire Boucher, C, or indeed the eponymous “Miss Anthropocene”, has gone to a lot of trouble to invent alter egos for herself as a part of her creative practice. But reading the swathe of not-mad-but-disappointed reviews of her most recent album, you’d be forgiven for wondering what the point was as so many critics seem more focused on pointing to the perceived gulf between the Grimes they had constructed in their heads over the last decade and the Grimes we actually have. That said, her new record – on which Grimes cast herself as the Goddess of the climate crisis, who encourages us (humanity) to “burn twice as bright for half as long” in a cosmic rave towards entropy – was always going to be met with some antipathy. But, aside from the occasional, and surprising, dressing down on technical grounds, and the equally surprising high, albeit predictably tempered, praise from other publications, the lukewarm reception “Miss Anthropocene” has received in many publications seems curious. In amongst the debatable claims about the overall patchiness of the record and what can only be faux concern about its apparent celebration of villainy, there seems to be a desire for the record and the ideas it contends with to be equivocated out of discursive existence. This is not because the record and its ideas are saturated with transgressive misanthropy, however. Instead, it seems that what is uncomfortable about the villainy of this personification of the climate crisis is that all it needs to destroy us is for the banal horrors of capitalist postmodernity to continue.

I don’t want to get into the weeds of speculation about what personal circumstances have led Grimes to make “Miss Anthropocene”. I have no desire to spend time going over the obvious problematics of the lead practitioner of an ostensibly progressive artistic project being in a relationship with a pseudo-messianic-union-busting-billionaire. These problems are both obvious yet impossible to sufficiently interrogate. Furthermore, similar problematics are inherent to all pop music produced at the level at which Grimes operates. The entanglement of pop music production with not only the reification culture as capitalist commodity but also concrete exploitation is already well known and will not be overcome by a well-argued essay. So if we want to consider her recent work in more specific terms than just another Adornian critique of the culture industry’s mode of production, we need to take that as read. 

What I want to do in this essay is to buy all the premises that Grimes has put forth on this record. If Grimes claims this is an album that presents the climate crisis from the perspectives available to its own anthropomorphised malevolence, then I want to go along with this. From there, I want to propose that, with the exception of certain specific points of critique, much of the lukewarm critical reception the record has received has less to do with the record’s music or its execution of the underlying concepts and more to do with how it feels for many critics to be made a part of the object of an artist’s work. Especially when that object is your own impending destruction. In short, I want to try to be less suspicious of the artist’s motives, which I doubt I will ever know or be able to influence, and instead turn my suspicion on to the critical discourse of which I am a part. So the question is if Grimes is the villian what does that make us?

When the UN’s 2018 IPCC report came out with the findings that we have to take urgent and drastic action over the next 12 years if global warming is to be limited to an average of 1.5ºc, there seemed to be two main types of reaction. The first was an obvious mixture of horror, despair and fear. However, the second reaction, which could in subtle ways be combined with the first, seemed to take some solace in the concrete nature of the task before us and the apparent invention of success criteria. (The fact that little has been done to attend to these criteria is, apparently, neither here nor there). It was as if the complexity of global warming and its chaotic secondary and tertiary effects had become a manageable series of goals; a checklist to be worked through. The literary theorist Timothy Morton had previously coined the term “hyperobject” to describe phenomena that, like global warming, are so vastly distributed in space and time that they defied human comprehension. The irony, of course, is that in doing so Morton had provided thousands of art academics with a way to skip over the complexities of environmental disintegration by deploying a simple term that is fun to explain and is often received with nods of approval while clarifying very little. Hyperobjects allowed the climate crisis to be objectified for a certain set of critics and artists. And for others, the IPCC report did the same.

I would like to suggest that despite its sonic fictional tropes, “Miss Anthropocene” does the opposite. Instead of focusing directly on its ostensible topic and trying to encompass everything about it in manageable, affirmative concepts, it looks at the issue somewhat askant. Rather than producing a set of anti-Earth Songs, Grimes has produced a series of affective investigations into the feelings of living in a world that is likely coming to an end. We have the melancholy depths of despair on “Delete Forever”, the gleefully problematic sexualization and romanization of masochism and “violence” on the track of the same name. There are further, uncomfortably close, explorations of suicidal ideation and depressive delirium on “You’ll Miss Me When I’m Not Around”. Then there is the apocalyptic rave of “4ÆM” and the sinofuturist hip-hop track, “Darkseid” – the latter of which features the most explicit expression of the record’s themes. On this track the threats facing us are made all the more haunting by showing just how quotidian they are. “I live with my ignorance / And walk slowly, unconsciously toward death / All my little struggles form a quiet and stable structure like the bubbles / Stay still on the surface of my daily life”. However, because these lyrics are delivered by the, previous Grimes collaborator, Taiwanese rapper, Aristophanes (listed on the record as 潘PAN), in Mandarin Chinese, there is a little distance between these ideas and the comprehension of the average anglophone listener.

The most conceptually interesting moment on the album is perhaps also its most musically subdued, the ballad “New Gods”. The track is only a little faster than a dirge with heavy piano chords that sound like they are collapsing under the weight of the languorous implicit tempo. Within the context of the record, the somewhat cliché lyrics take on a deeper resonance. Lines like, “So I pray, but the world burns / And still you need to come first”, point to obvious ecological themes and the inexorable problems of a world that prizes convenience over sustainability. But where this sentiment could risk slipping into sanctimony and admonition, it instead falls into an interesting kind of despair. The kind of despair that has caused her to reach out for the titular “new gods” in the age of secular (post)modernity. But while these new gods may appear like saviours – and in the moment of desperation, there is not much required of these pseudo-messiahs to maintain this illusion – in actuality, these new gods are the plastic trinkets and fossil fuel-intensive networked images that have been produced by the same means of extractive commodification of planetary resources as the aforementioned petty conveniences. For example, Google may have developed a machine-learning algorithm that can both provide Grimes with experimental synthesizers and make their search engine carbon neutral but it then turns around and sells that algorithm to oil companies to help them find the last of the fossil fuels in the ground so they can put them into the atmosphere. 

All of this serves as a set up to the seemingly inevitable complete defeat on “Before the Fever” (a title that has only become more relevant since the album’s release), which declares itself to be “the sound of the end of the world”. The lyrics are a narration of apocalyptic events as they unfold. Grimes’ low vocal register – a stark contrast to the kawaii chirping and ASMR-like whispers that have characterized the performances on most of the tracks so far – illustrates the depletion of human agency in the face of these circumstances. That said, there is something cathartic about this track. As humanity fades out, it seems to open up space for new forms of life to proliferate. “There is hope” as Kafka put it “but not for us”. A point which is underlined by the album’s closer “Idrou”, a track that is so upbeat that it must be happening somewhere else in the universe. Or else it is in the fading consciousness of those last humans still alive as their brains flood themselves with serotonin as they suffocate in the now toxic atmosphere. The lyric “I wanna play a beautiful game / Even though we’re gonna lose”, however, offers up a sober contrast to the prelapsarian joy of the music that surrounds it. Indeed, it would seem to perfectly sum up the bargain many of us are making with our lives at this very moment as we try to imagine a future while the forecasts for it become ever bleeker.

If we take the premise that villainy is at play on these songs, then what kind of evil is this villainy committing? Despite the actions of the character, Miss Anthropocene, in the sonic fiction of the record, it is not that Grimes is making the impending and ongoing collapse of the world’s climatic systems come about. And nor has she induced us to bring about our demise, despite the letter penned by her character. This is not an immediate kind of evil. Instead, it appears to be evil in the sense used by Georges Bataille to describe the capacity of literature to confront readers with the gross inadequacies, omissions, contradictions or hypocrisies of their social order. To return to Kafka, his novels and stories pointed out how the totalizing spread of bureaucratic rationality was ultimately based upon nothing but could destroy one’s humanity all the same. On “Miss Anthropocene”, Grimes is pointing to the disjunction between the actual scale of the crisis before us and the impotence of our bad conscience about it. And indeed the second order impotence of moralizing from such a bad conscience.

In a media and discursive environment that seems to function (by which I mean sustain itself and make a profit) solely by producing moralizing hot takes about, often real, problems, a record that points to the impotence or even unhelpfulness of this way of engaging with the world can only be understood as evil. However, because this evil is not directed at a third party but rather at the very producers of media discourse itself, it doesn’t really serve the maintenance of the status quo to go on an all out attack in response to Grimes as if she were a villain. She has already claimed that ground for herself by creating her alter ego for the album. So instead the move is to diminish the work and make it irrelevant. The upshot of this is ostensibly feminist publications speculating on the influence of her boyfriend on the themes of the record as if Grimes were not capable of noticing the climate crisis on her own. This response was already predicted by Grimes and is articulated in the refrain of the track “My Name is Dark”. Though it is cast as the angel of death talking to God, the venom of the lyric “Unfuck the world, you stupid girl, you stupid girl”, would seem to extend beyond this specific narrative context. It is as if she is actually parodying future critics, who, while they would never say it outright, seem disappointed that her record is about the complex pleasure and pains of living in this moment rather than rallying people to do something about it.

As mentioned in the opening to this piece, it would seem the problem with “Miss Anthropocene” as climate crisis pop is more about the apparent gulf between the Grimes we have and the Grimes many in the world of music journalism have produced in their own imagination. The implicit demand made of Grimes in this lyric from “My Name is Dark” is that she should somehow use the power of her music to save us from the biggest ongoing disaster of our times – as if such a thing were possible – and that the record she actually made was her willfully eschewing her responsibility. As noted by the musicologist, Robin James, such demands are often made of female artists to fulfill a sort of socially accepted position in relation to important issues. James found an example of this in the way Rhianna’s post-Chris Brown record “Unapologetic” was called “post-ethics” by one critic because its overall tone was melancholic rather than defiant. With “Miss Anthropocene” there would seem to have been this implicit expectation that Grimes was to become our heroine to rescue us from our fate, despite her explicitly stating that she was the villain. So “Miss Anthropocene” stifled this expectation. It does so, however, not by working to accelerate our demise but rather by exploring how it is going to feel to go through the awful things that are likely going to happen. And by not pretending that she can prevent it by means of song.

The most galling part of this for some is that she also points to some potential modes of enjoyment that could result from the coming horrors. Galling because by the nature of its causes, those who will get to experience these pleasures are likely those that comprise the pseudo-messianic-union-busting-billionaire class and their hangers on, which Grimes now is. Indeed a friend recently said to me that he can no longer enjoy Grimes’ music because to him it sounds like the work of a contemporary Silicon Valley Leni Riefenstahl, aestheticizing the plutocracies of the present to pave the way for their thousand year reign and the disasters that will bring. And in a way I agree. Just as Riefenstahl produced and glorified the visual grammar of the fascism of the Third Reich, Grimes is playing with a certain kind of fascism in her work. Or perhaps more accurately, Grimes is playing with the forms of enjoyment that are only accessible through a certain kind of Silicon Valley fascism. And while this troubles me, I think Grimes may actually provide a certain window into the world of those who can do something to at least mitigate this situation but so far have, effectively, chosen not to.
It is not that Grimes has become the puppet of her pseudo-messianic-union-busting-billionaire, instead he has inadvertently exposed some of his desires to us through her music. Desires that have spilled over into culture more generally and need to be catalogued and critiqued. Because if we are to intervene in this process of environmental disintegration, we need also to do as Foucault claims we must and track down all the varieties of fascism that constitute our everyday lives. To do so, I think these desires are important to attend to – the superyachts, the gated mansion communities built with oil money, the innovations of sweatshop electronics and the crazy sexual abstractions all this produces. This desire – and its appeal which extends far beyond those who will ever actually be able to actively participate in the form of life it produces – is part of what has brought us to the brink of the end of the world. And those most responsible are starting to worry about that fact. It’s spoiling the fun. These concerns will motivate members of the pseudo-messianic-union-busting-billionaire class in the decades to come and we need to pay attention to how they react. Both in terms of developing political counter strategies but also as a way to examine an infectious form of desire to dominate and extract, to appreciate power, that has helped to bring about the almost end of the world. In short, “Miss Anthropocene” requires a better class of critics, if we are to unravel the specific kind of villainy her music reveals.

Essay by Holger Schulze, professor of musicology at the University of Copenhagen.

Can you hear the coronavirus? What does it sound like?

Recently, some compositions which used data gathered from the coronavirus, stirred up some conversations among listeners, composers, musicians, scientists, engineers, and artists: the “Proteine Counterpoint Sonification”.

This sonification was produced by the engineer and material scientist Markus J. Buehler and his team. They claim to have generated the sounds from original data stemming from the virus, following a sonification method for proteins which they described in an article from 2019: A Self-Consistent Sonification Method to Translate Amino Acid Sequences into Musical Compositions and Application in Protein Design Using Artificial Intelligence:

»The vibrational frequencies are transposed to the audible spectrum following the musical concept of transpositional equivalence, playing or writing music in a way that makes it sound higher or lower in pitch while retaining the relationships between tones or chords played.« (Yu, Qin, Martin-Martinez, Buehler 2019)

Sonifying a virus
Their method demonstrates some of the fundamental steps for sonification: gathering data, assigning rules of transposition or transformation of these data entries into audible sound events (cf. Hermann, Hunt, Neuhoff 2011), organizing these sound events into a time-based structure that listeners of a largely westernized, vernacular music culture may recognize as ‘musical’ – and that allows for a new, scientific insight into the material. This last point is, allegedly, the main goal of a scientific sonification.

The results of Buehler and his team sound quite pleasing. One listener to the Soundcloud upload commented: »Reminds me of Chinese meditation music.« You might recognize the sound of a lute, a spinet or even a japanese koto. The tempo is somewhere between lento and larghetto, there is a constant pulse and a counterpoint; it has a character of minimal music and some listeners might even be reminded of Johann Pachelbel’s iconic “Canon and Gigue in D major“, that has been used recurrently to represent a notion of cosmic universality and unity between all lifeforms and all natural and cultural processes. Some listeners, hence, seem to have expected a more threatening sound – but of course it does not sound threatening: a biological process of viral expansion is only actually threatening from the perspective of the affected lifeforms, not from the perspective of the expanding virus. The expectation that a sonification of a virus potentially carrying deadly diseases would also sound threatening and deadly, is a deeply anthropocentric one: an expectation that treats a scientific sonification like an aesthetic artifact, a musical composition. Yet, a scientific sonification is not a musical composition.

However – and that is really the main flaw of this sonification, I‘d say – there is not really a scientific insight to be gained from it, at least not from what I heard or read or understood. The six pieces presented remain largely in the realm of somewhat pleasing sonic artifacts, with various references to existing musical genres and sound designs. As a result, the main goal of sonifying any dataset, the goal to gain new insights into the material, is not really achieved.

So, is this sonification then closer to a musical composition? And what would we expect from it then?C

Composing a pandemic?
As listeners we surely would expect something completely different from an actually contemporary, artistic interpretation of the coronavirus than from a sonification. In this case, the aesthetic decision for certain sounds or musical structures would then not be camouflaged by an often failing argument of being directly determined by a dataset and not by a producer’s personal decisions: whenever the personal is hidden underneath a notion of the objective, neutral or even the arithmetic, one can be very sure that deeply personal inclinations and idiosyncrasies will have a much stronger and unmitigated impact in the end. This means that also producers of sonifications are actually mainly composers of a certain kind, with certain aesthetic preferences and aversions, maybe even obsessions and definitely also a particular personal style and sonic or musical aesthetic (of what quality or of what expertise we would then be able to discuss).

In case of a clearly musical representation some of us would probably expect it to sound indeed threatening and to represent – obviously in a refined and aesthetically interesting and challenging way – the phenomena of social distancing, masks, hand sanitizers and gloves. It could even include in its artistic and instrumentalist techniques some of the harsher symptoms one does apparently experience when fallen ill with the lung disease of COVID-19 such as troubles with breathing and a persistent pain or pressure in the chest. Maybe the musical material of circular breathing techniques could be employed, explored, skilfully disrupted and expanded in such a composition?

Other listeners might wish to hear more of the punctually decreased social activities in public places that seem so characteristic for social life these days. A hum of looming danger, underneath all of our activities – at times louder, then almost inaudible – but in general not a musical structure, more an arithmetic display of expansion and decrease that avoids the more trivial illustrations. Such a composition could then maybe sound like this recent record by Thomas Köner: “Motus”. The hum of the pandemic.

But maybe we wish even to recognize the sound of getting in touch through one of the videoconferencing tools that dominate social activities under Corona. I am thinking here of the strange effect that through these tools two, three, five or ten people can interact with each other, sonically and visually, and each of them can be seen and heard in totally different rooms and environments. Sometimes the characteristics of these rooms are wiped out, but in many more focused productions of a higher quality, one can actually hear the switch between and the mash-up of these various room acoustics: a quite unusual experience for a lifeform like ours that is not yet familiar with teleportation.

For me, personally speaking, this mash-up of room acoustics is perhaps the strongest sonic signature of the pandemic these days: a sonic icon of being bodily distanced yet socially even more connected (and I haven’t even yet touched upon the painful class struggle between precarious gig economy workers on the streets and the privileged self-quarantined in larger mansions or spacious appartments: the actual challenge for any musical piece might lie precisely in this struggle).

Viral Science Communication
All in all, I would claim this sonification by Buehler and his team serves primarily the purpose of science communication, which is fair enough. It needs to be compared, understood and interpreted as a sonic equivalent of the visual representation we all know so well by now (a grizzly, fluffy ball with loads of scary and bright red triangular spikes attached to it), crafted by Alissa Eckert and Dan Higgins for the CDC: an iconic design, ready to be used for communication purposes across all media and publication formats. But neither the visual design nor the sonic design of the coronavirus is a means of research or a tool for further insights, right now.

How could one then employ sonification for a more scientific purpose in this particular case? One proposal came recently from the sound designers around Rainer Hirt: they proposed a series of single sounds for the single most important constituents of the coronavirus and their activities. So, they designed the »Spike Glycoprotein, the Hemagglutinin-esterasem, the Matrixprotein, the Envelope, and the ssRNA und N-Protein« and they subsequently combined so-called »audio scenes for 4 major processes within the viral infection cycle: (A) Attachment & entry, (B) Replicase protein expression, (C) Replication & transcription, (D) Assembly & release«. These individual sounds and scenes now indeed could help to identify and to analyze the activities of the virus; I am still not sure, what insight could be gained; however, it seems to me that these sound dewigners propose primarily a sonic repertoire that can now be used by researchers, designers, artists. It offers, if you will, a sonic toolbox for analysis less than an aesthetically pleasing artifact, ready for dissemination across all media platforms. And that is an inspiring and generative first step, in my understanding.

Aside from this, a sonification could also focus on the global spread of the virus and its acceleration: this could provide indeed deeper insights. Or a sonification of the actual propagation of a virus (or a plethora of virus particles) through one individual body’s various respiratory pathways, organs and systems. One could then even craft a sonic artifact close to this legendary sonification, almost two decades old now, developed and refined by Isao Hashimoto in 2003: a visualized and sonified sequence of all the nuclear explosions, their locations, and their home nations in the years between 1945 and 1998.

This piece offers – only through the method of sonification – a synopsis of events and of developments that one could not gain access and insight into in any other way:

Info: This article was originally published by soundstudieslab.org on 4. April. Read our review of recent Schulze’s book “Sonic Fiction” here.

Essay af Mads Hæsum Christensen

Det kan være svært at se, hvordan upopulær kunstmusik nogensinde ville kunne påvirke omverdenen og efterlade spor i populærmusikken, når den til tider opføres for et publikum, der kun tæller familie, de nærmeste venner og et par forvildede gæster, der alligevel går i pausen. Men noget af det, der kendetegner den akademiske beskæftigelse med kunst, er påstanden om, at den kan meget andet end at være blot underholdning. I stedet vil den ændre på noget. Den vilje til forandring udfolder sig ofte i former, som er “utilgængelige”: Avantgarden er uskøn, kompleks og sommetider ubehagelig. Den vægter nemlig sin egen autenticitet over et stort publikum. Avantgarder er jo netop karakteriseret ved en vilje til at overskride de almindelige grænser for den samtidige kunstforståelse, hvorfor de også ofte frasiger sig et stort publikum og bred anerkendelse – i hvert fald i første omgang.

At kunstmusikken har sat aftryk i nutidens popmusik kan virke som en absurd påstand, og kroningen af komponisten Arnold Schönberg (1874-1951) som ”den moderne musiks fader”, hvilket bredt anerkendes på universiteter, vil for de fleste andre virke som indforstået overakademisering og virkelighedsfjern historieskrivning. For hvordan sporer man en forbindelse mellem den tidlige musikalske modernismes komplekse tolvtonekompositioner i Connan Mockasins space rock eller i en lydinstallation af Tobias Kirstein? En direkte forbindelse er der nok ikke, og det kræver sikkert mange led – for mange til at opremse – at finde en. Til gengæld er det heller ikke nødvendigt at optrevle en sammenhæng. For ved at udpensle lighederne mellem tidligere tiders avantgarder og nutidig musik kan man også vise, hvordan kunsten kan sætte aftryk i populærkulturen gennem en slags ’trickle down’-effekt. I hvert fald understreger det, at noget avantgardekunst faktisk var forud for sin tid, fordi mange af de samme træk, som dengang var banebrydende, nu er basale greb i populærmusik.

Det er en dristig påstand, at komponisterne Pierre Schaeffer, Karlheinz Stockhausen og John Cage er endt med at påvirke nutidens musikgenrer. Men omkring Anden Verdenskrig bevægede de sig i fællesskab, men hver for sig, mod at frigøre komposition fra traditionel instrumentation, og i lidt større træk arbejdede de for en inklusion af al lyd som materiale, der kan bruges i komposition. Interessen i dagligdagslydes tekstur og klangfarve, der dengang var avantgarde, er i dag grundlæggende for både populær-, undergrunds- og kunstmusik. Her kan de samme samples genfindes i utallige og ugenkendelige kontekster, rent elektroniske lyde fra midi-keyboards, der er koblet til dagens unikke preset, optræder på lige fod med guitaren (der nu nærmest er et oldtidslevn), og musikken behøver ikke længere kredse om melodier og harmonik, men forholder sig friere for det tonefokus, der indtil 1900-tallet var stort set enevældigt i vestlig musik end nogensinde før.

Sampling anno 1948

Allerede kort efter 2. Verdenskrig ser man den første protoudgave af den sampling, som er til stede i stort set alle genrer i dag. Komponist og lydingeniør Pierre Schaeffer (1910-1995), der arbejdede for den franske nationalradio Radiodiffusion Française, havde adgang til avanceret lydudstyr og havde mulighed for at eksperimentere med optaget lyd. Her opfandt han konkretmusikken. Den kan høres i en helt tidlig udgave i “Etudes aux chemin de fer” (Jernbanestudier), der bare lyder som optagelser af toge i dårlig kvalitet – hvad det også er efter nutidens standarder – men for Schaeffer var der en dybere pointe. Han ville skille lyden fra dens kilde ved at gentage toglydene så mange gange, at man glemte, hvad den var, og til sidst blot hørte lyden i sig selv. Dermed kunne han nemlig bruge den i en ny kontekst, hvor den havde mistet sin betydning som lyden af et tog. Toglydene bliver i stedet til det, Schaeffer kaldte ’lydobjektet’ – lyden i sig selv – i sin “Traité aux Objets Musicaux”(1966).

Nogenlunde samme idé havde den tyske avantgardekomponist Karlheinz Stockhausen (1928-2007), der arbejdede med rent elektronisk produceret lyd. Netop denne banede vejen til samme endemål som Schaeffer. Fordi den elektroniske lyd ikke kommer – fra eller henviser til – noget i verden udover sig selv, følger der heller ikke nogen betydning med den. Dermed optrådte den allerede fra start uden konnotationer og betydninger – den var allerede lydobjekt.

I Stockhausens “Gesang der Jünglinge” er det helt nyt, at både optaget og rent elektronisk lyd er kombineret i et spøgelsesagtigt og mærkeligt velbalanceret, men for nutidens ører, primitivt udtryk. Redskaberne til at lave musikken var da også primitive og krævede både manuel klipning af båndene og sommetider manuel styring af hastigheden på båndoptagerne.
Af samme grund virker det måske overilet at trække tråde til nutidens sampling, hvor klippearbejdet er erstattet af copy+paste og tempoet nemt automatiseres. Men de tanker, der lå til grund for Schaeffers og Stockhausens arbejde, kan også genfindes i dag. Forskellen er bare, at man tager det for givet, at lyden kan bruges for lydens skyld. Se bare på et utal af Youtube-videoer, hvor producere arbejder ud fra dogmer som kun at bruge lyde fra vandflasker eller 808’s; hvor behandlingen af deres samples er så gennemgående, at det er ligegyldigt om hi-hat-lyden faktisk er en hi-hat eller et pust fra en drikkedunk.

På britiske XXYYXX’s album af samme navn fra 2012 genbruges vokaler fra andre numre i stort set ugenkendelig form. I “About You” er det Beyoncé og Zircon, der brillerer som de anonyme vokalister i pitchede og reversede udgaver. Pointen er nemlig ikke, at man skal genkende Beyoncé eller Zircon, for fokus er på, at det lyder godt i sig selv. Ligeledes er det slet ikke afgørende, om man kan genkende meningsgivende sætninger eller ord. Det afgørende er de karakteristika, der gør, at lyden lyder, som den gør. Det er den pointe, som Schaeffer halvtreds år tidligere var ved at spore sig ind på, da han beskrev ’lydobjektet’. For når man modellerer lyden – også bare minimalt – kan den stå tilbage i en form, som hverken har konnotationer eller betydninger knyttet til sig, og derfor gnidningsfrit kan bruges i nye kontekster. Se bare på tromme-beatet Amen Break, der er samplet mere end totusinde gange. Det er netop den fokus på lydens karakteristika frem for lydens kilde og betydning, som Schaeffer var fortaler for. Man ser det også i Daft Punks house eller rapgenren chopped’n screwed, hvor det ikke bare er enkelte instrumenter, men hele mastersporet med vokal og det hele, der modelleres og anvendes i fragmenter.

Et uddrag af forberedelsesinstruktionerne til Cage-værket “Bacchanale” (1938), hvor man blandt andet kan se, at der skal monteres en møtrik mellem 2. og 3. F-streng omkring 3 tommer fra strengenes dæmper. Stockhausen åbnede for en anden side af denne brug af lyden-i-sig-selv. Han var den pionér, der kombinerede de to verdener – elektronisk og akustisk musik – og viste, at resultatet ikke blev absurd, men blot var endnu et skridt imod at lyd kunne høres uafhængigt af sin kilde. Det er nok næppe nødvendigt at understrege, hvad den elektronisk producerede lyd betyder for musikken i dag, for klassiske rockbands og andre, der ikke bruger den i deres musik, er i dag undtagelsen, der bekræfter reglen. Den moderne musik er overvejende elektronisk (!), og det, som ikke er elektronisk i optagelserne, bliver det i efterproduktionen. At se fire gutter udstyret med guitar, bas, trommer og mikrofon er som at overvære et historisk skuespil om musikken i det 20. århundrede.

Den toneløse støj

John Cage havde også et udtalt projekt med sin musik. Han er nok bedst er kendt for et værk, der efterhånden er lidt af en kliché, 4’33” – der bogstaveligt talt er fire minutter og 33 sekunders stilhed (og i øvrigt kan opføres af orkestre i alle størrelser eller hjemme i stuen) – men som var faktisk slutpunktet for en musikalsk bevægelse, han foretog. Et led i denne bevægelse var at inkludere støj i musik. Tidligere havde vestlige kompositioner primært beskæftiget sig med toner og deres forhold til hinanden, og slagtøjet havde kun spillet en lille rolle (typisk i form af pauker eller lignende). Men for Cage var der et stort potentiale i de tonefrie lyde, som slagtøj kan lave, og derfor skrev han som én af de første (sammen med blandt andre Edgar Varèse, Karlheinz Stockhausen og Iannis Xenakis) musik udelukkende for slagtøj. Det resulterede i, at han i 1938 opfandt det forberedte klaver; han monterede f.eks. møtrikker og skruer mellem klaverets strenge, for at gøre det til et en-mands-slagtøjsorkester.

Ligesom Schaeffer og Stockhausen var Cage også interesseret i at frigøre kompositionsmusikken fra de traditionelle instrumenter ved at indføre et nyt, nøgternt fokus på lydenes unikke klangfarver og teksturer – blot i en anden form. Han var med til at åbne for den slagtøjsfokuserede musik, der ikke nødvendigvis skal bæres af melodier eller toner i det hele taget. En musik, der sagtens kan bygges på toneløs lyd.

Denne kredsning omkring slagtøjet som primærinstrument kan man finde i genrer som drum’n bass, for selvom navnet antyder noget andet, er det ofte mere eller mindre entydigt trommerne, der er i centrum. I dubstep veksler man typisk mellem tonefyldte, melodiske passager fyldt med synthesizere og drops, der groft sagt er en vilkårlig sammensætning af perkussive og toneløse lyde.

Det er heller ikke ukendt, at Soundcloud-kunstnere uden teoretisk musiktræning arbejder med lyddesign i en form, der ikke kræver indsigt i hverken harmonilære eller klassisk instrumentering. Den danske Bwoy de Bhajans første EP “2032” er et godt eksempel på musik, der er centreret omkring teksturer og tonefri støj. Her ligger der til gengæld et stort, fokuseret og tidskrævende stykke arbejde bag den verden af lyde, der optræder i musikken. Lyduniverset på ’2032’ er nærmest fuldstændigt frit for traditionelle instrumenter – i hvert fald i genkendelig form – og udgøres i stedet af u- eller måske overnaturlige lyde, der alligevel er organiske nok, til at man sommetider føler sig hensat til en vandring gennem en urskov på en fremmed planet (på svampe).

Samme forkærlighed for teksturer går igen i psykedelisk trance, darkpsy, forestpsy og de mange søstergenrer, hvor trommer og bas udgør bagtæppet i lyduniverserne. Danske Mantra Flows musik har antydninger af alt fra udefinerbart organisk natur, robotagtig industrialisme og apokalyptisk futurisme. Forskellige verdener smelter sømmeløst sammen til en homogen musikalsk flade, hvor lydenes tilsyneladende forskellige oprindelse er modelleret væk i produktionen. Mantra Flow ender ligesom Bwoy de Bhajan med et underligt meningsfuldt lydunivers, hvor alt er så mærkeligt, at ingenting stikker ud.

Selvom relativt få kender til de gamle avantgardekomponister, havde de alligevel fat i noget, og selvom de færreste nutidige kunstnere er bevidste om det, spejler deres musik mange tanker, der blev udtænkt for mere end et halvt århundrede siden. Kunst kan altså mere end bare underholde, tyder det på. Den kan åbenbart foregribe, hvad der vil ske i fremtiden, eller i hvert fald komme med bud på det. Så selvom modernitetens kunst ofte kan virke absurd, kan man med god grund tænke dens kunstnere som avantgardister i bogstavelig forstand; som fortropperne i krig, er de først til at blive skudt ned, men baner samtidig vejen for dem, der følger efter.

Af Nicklas Sørensen

Her er et udvalg af de bedste plader, der indtil videre er udkommet i år. Det er ikke et definitivt udvalg, men et udvalg fra min liste.

Fælles for lidt over halvdelen af titlerne på min liste er, at jeg har opdaget musikken via WFMU-radioprogrammet The Avant Ghetto. Et radioprogram, der efter eget udsagn ”wanders through heavy folk, pastoral noise, harsh jazz and other dimly lit cornes of the universe”.

Det var lidt af et tilfælde, at jeg faldt over programmet. I forbindelse med en aleneferie i en større dansk havneby i sommer fandt jeg mig selv i en Airbnb-lejlighed. Lettere patetisk opslugt af min egen ensomhed, en velsmagende IPA-øl og min fedtede tablet. Ser mig selv taste ‘Pat Metheny’ ind i søgefeltet på WFMU’s hjemmeside, og vupti popper en playliste fra The Avant Ghetto op. Pat Methenys glatte og friske ”New Chautauqua” i interessant selskab med navne som Hisato Higuchi, Willie Lane, Grateful Dead og Ton Vlasman. Pudsige, nærmest idiosynkratiske krydsreferencer, der vækker genklang i mit indre, blafrende lyttekartotek.

Jeg genkender noget her, men ved ikke, hvad det er, jeg genkender. Ud over det ugentlige radioprogram er der også et arkiv af playlister at dykke ned i, og The Avant Ghetto bliver fra da af fast inventar i min ugentlige lytte- og søgepraksis.

Når jeg laver en liste som denne, er der ikke nødvendigvis tale om et behov for at mene noget om, hvad der er de bedste udgivelser. Det er mere et udkast. En forsøg på at stille navne og titler op og se, om der skulle være en sammenhæng. Eller en mangel på sammenhæng.

Når det er sagt og gjort, så mener jeg selvfølgelig, at de udvalgte udgivelser har en vis kvalitet. På den måde er det så også et forsøg på at mene noget.

Steve Palmer ”Useful Histories” (Sunshine Ocean Bender Records/Deep Water Acres)
Guitaristen Steve Palmer har kreeret et instrumentalt, guitarorienteret værk, der trækket ubesværet på genrer som krautrock, psykedelia og ambient. Der er et strejf af folkrock i melodierne, der både kan fremstå meget ligefremme, men også forunderligt sammenvævede med resten af Palmers tilgængelige og originale lydtapet. Det musikalske udtryk tager afsæt i en spændende syntese mellem lettere baldret, dekonstruktiv lo-fi-æstetik og pastoral, psykedelisk opbyggelighed.

The Necks ”Three” (Northern Spy)
Man lytter til en The Necks-plade for at lytte til en The Necks-plade. Det er det idiotisk simple udgangspunkt, der kan medvirke til, at det ellers velkendte musikalske udtryk åbner sig for lytteren på ny. At man helliger sig lytteoplevelsen i sig selv. ”Three” lyder unægtelig som en Necks-plade; det minimalistiske fundament for relativt langstrakte post-jazzede improvisationer i det klassiske trioformat med klaver, kontrabas og slagtøj er stadig det samme. Det handler om det særlige ‘pace’ eller i tilfældet ”Three” om iscenesættelsen af dette ‘pace’. Det myldrende virvar af percussion på åbningsnummeret kontrasteres af klaverets mere magelige, modale melodiimprovisationer, og alene ved de to elementer opstår således en todelt tidsfornemmelse, der gør, at musikken står stille og bevæger sig samtidig. Man tror, man har hørt det før, og det har man måske også, men det var ikke det samme og så alligevel.

Dire Wolves – ”Flow & Heady” (Cardinal Fuzz/Feeding Tube) + ”I Just Wasn’t Made For These Set Times” (Centripetal Force)
To glimrende jam-psych-plader fra samme band med masser af murrende og stenet-grisk fuzzguitar. Vokal og violin indgår også som ligeværdige dele af det jammende udtryk. ‘Bardo Pond møder Fairport Convention’ var der én, der skrev et sted, og den beskrivelse rammer ikke helt ved siden af. Det er ikke nødvendigvis svært at få en god, tjaldet omgang syrerock op at koge, men det er en kunst at skabe et vedvarende flow af narkotisk, lytbar velsignelse. Hvor mange jam-bands bruger energien i deres skabeloner på at få tiden til at gøre arbejdet hen mod en muskalsk forløsning eller et punkt, hvor noget interessant sker, synes Dire Wolves at navigere i et andet bevægeligt terræn, hvor musikken og det mere eller mindre interessante hele tiden sker. Som i én langstrakt tåge af musikalsk prana.

Matt Lajoie ”The Everlasting Spring” (Flower Room)
Matt Lajoie står sammen med sin partner Ash Brooks bag selskabet Flower Room. Ud over at være yderst produktive på den musikalske front med et generøst output af digitale udgivelser og et væld af limiterede kassettebånds- og vinyludgivelser tilbyder parret desuden at lægge horoskoper samt dedikere personlige, kosmologiske lydværker til deres følgere og ‘subscribere’. På den måde har de altså hele New Age-pakken, men musikken spænder bredere end tvangsoptimistisk afslapningsmusik. Her er alt fra kosmisk ambient over syre-folk og astral kraut til nærmest dub-påvirkede, spirituelle lydmeditationer. ”The Everlasting Spring” kan ses som et foreløbigt højdepunkt i pladeselskabets samlede diskografi. I et solo-setup med guitar og loop-pedal tryller Lajoie sig på umærkelig vis ind i en nærmest landskabsagtig skønhedssøgen. Opløftende og fredfyldt. En tur i det grønne med ekkoer af Laraaji og Popol Vuh rungende i baghovedet og i den omgivende natur.

Jeffrey Silverstein ”You Become the Mountain” (Arrowhawk Records)
Titlen på Jeffrey Silversteins album refererer til den navnkundige amerikanske mindfulness-guru Jon Kabat Zinns ‘bjergmeditation’, hvor man visualiserer sig selv som et bjerg. Noget, der står upåvirket fast i landskabet, mens årstiderne skifter, og alt omkring det forandrer sig. Man accepterer forandringerne, som de er og ofrer dem ikke unødig energi. Lader dem blot passere. Silversteins zen-agtige output kan høres som et konglomorat af hverdagslige, hjemmeosende vibes og så en mere kosmisk glinsende aura. Det er nærmest astral country iført slippers og morgenkåbe. Det er rart og mildt. En lille rejse i et stort univers.

Mako Sica/Hamid Drake ”Balancing Tear” (Astral Spirits)
”Balancing Tear” tager tråden op fra ”Ronda” (2018), som dokumenterede det første samarbejde mellem Chicago-trioen Mako Sica og den legendariske jazz/impro-percussionist Hamid Drake. Hvor debuten var et ekspansivt trip ud i en temmelig unik form for orientaliseret syre-avantjazz, er ”Balancing Tear” et mere kortfattet værk. Virkemidlerne er dog stort set de samme: Transcenderende, twangy delay-guitar, længselsfulde trompetgestus, der til tider vækker mindelser om Miles Davis, når han er allermest ‘spansk’, hjemsøgende vokalbevægelser, og så de her cirklende lag af trommer og percussion, der balancerer i en umærkelig frihed i forhold til groovet – løst, men fokuseret, let, men dybt. Det hele emmer tiltider af en sørgende musikalsk søgen efter et forjættet, psykotropisk Morricone-landskab.

Info: Nicklas Sørensen er guitarist i bandet Papir. Han har desuden udgivet to soloplader og senest et duoalbum med Jonas Munk, “Always Already Here”.

Essay by Giuseppe Pisano

The outburst of Covid-19 is having disastrous consequences for everyone but, personally as one that works within the arts, I wanted to direct attention towards some elements that are pertinent in my field to understand how artistic communication – especially music which is mostly a live art based on performance – has tuned in this emergency and what are the countermeasures artists have adopted to face this crisis.

In the past days I’ve kept contact with the community of l’Asilo, an independent and politically active art production centre in Napoli that I’ve been part of, as well as the improvised music orchestra, OEOAS [Orchestra Elettroacustica Officina Arti Soniche], I play with. In addition to this, I’ve been observing a plethora of groups, pages, forums and communities to observe reactions and map the variety of moods these days.

Concerts and festival cancelled, venues closing. For many people that work as freelancers this means no income and very hard times ahead. The anxiety of the fight to maintain some sort of status and relevance inside the virtual public space is basically what caused the enormous surge of online events, streaming performances, concerts and podcasts that exploded on YouTube and Facebook as a result of the lockdown. It didn’t last very long. Soon these platforms were saturated with content, lost in that mare magnum of random utterances, listening suggestions and relentless advertisements.

In this situation, social networks are no longer merely a way to communicate the details of an event that will then happen in another space, with all its rituals, but it has instead become a cumbersome container into which artists need to adapt their work in order to make it fit. This generates a relevant array of political issues that touch upon artistic ownership, respect for artists own practices, income and logics of consumption.

Above all, artists should consider whether it is worth disseminating their work on platforms that are private, centralized and clearly operate such strict control on the contents that are published. On Facebook, every time we press the “share” button we are signing a contract, an IP License, that grants the platform “a non-exclusive, transferable, sub-licensable, royalty-free, worldwide license to use any [IP] content that you post on or in connection with Facebook.”
IP stands for intellectual property, and what we are agreeing to allows Facebook to make free use of whatever kind of content we upload. The non-exclusive term means that we are of course still allowed to post anything posted on Facebook also on other platforms, but the transferable and sub-licensable terms means that whatever we post can be used deliberately by other people on Facebook and by Facebook itself beyond the platform for many different purposes: these include surveying, monitoring and market analysis, but also censorship.
Moreover, deleting one’s account breaks the contract one has with Facebook but not the contracts Facebook has with others, making it possible for the website to still use all IP we upload that has been reposted by others.
Committing our work on such a platform and on such terms means to accept a strong superimposed structure of power, a structure into which we are all radically embedded and that drastically influences our lives and routines to the extent that we cannot even recognize it anymore. Many people are nowadays concerned about the visible surveillance devices adopted by several countries to manage the Covid-19 outbreak, while at the same time the invisible and apparently non-constrictive one we use daily is totally overlooked.

Another aspect worth considering is connected to what respect the work of an artist can have on such platforms. Live streaming shrinks space creating a new model of distance between artists and audience that is strongly asymmetric. On one hand the artist is a pure exposed output, naked, and deprived of the possibility to interpret the audience, on the other hand the audience gains absolute freedom of interaction, overriding the rituality of the performance and making it collapse. Listeners can zap in between things, leave and go, and act as they please because they are screened. Artists need to flash, make their work as immediate as possible, to capture attention and make people want to stay. In this unbalanced relation, the audience is not really attending an event, nor agreeing to the unspoken contract that lays behind the concert rituals; they watch and listen but do not participate in the performance, turning everything into a voyeuristic experience.

This opens up for reflections upon how we consume art. These days we have been flooded with artistic outputs that supposedly should have helped us to survive the quarantine; according to Christian Calandro, who published a very insightful article on this topic, the fruition scheme of such content stayed the same as before the lockdown, a practice of consumption. Consumption has been – for far too long – confused with the actual experience of arts, but it is truly just again a bulimic and anxious mechanism that people switch on to keep themselves updated, to stay efficient, to not be caught unaware.
But keeping the stream going, in the exact same modality, just changing the space is both self-defeating and counterproductive in the perspective of opening a discussion about consumption. We finally have the chance to discuss arts fruition mechanisms in relation to the media, but instead we are letting it devour artistic work and flattening it down to the same level as every other kind of entertainment. In light of what is going on, adapting artistic work to make it fit the container is pulling a concert of experimental music and the latest Netflix series on the same plane and bulldozing the sense of our practice.

It is also important to state how such artistic outputs generate little to no income. Despite many of these shows giving the audience a chance to contribute with a donation, it is usually not enough for an artist to ensure survival and does not reflect by any means the effort made by the artist in the idealization, rehearsal and performance of a work.
Changing the space of the performance and making it cheap (which is quite different from making it free) are practical solutions to the wrong problem. Artists are trading their practical means of survival for visibility, hoping for a restoration of the market as it was.
But the issue that should be focused on is not how to survive when performances are cancelled, but what part of an artist’s work is worth remuneration.
We as artists and consumers should problematize the entire production mechanism and acknowledge that it is time to rethink the logic behind cultural arrangements. We must imagine a different economic infrastructure that is not event-based and can support arts and culture making it truly democratic, encouraging its diffusion and, most important, heterogeneity.

In the past years the role of the artist has changed from being the subject that makes arts, a filter through which we look at the world, a means of interpretation of reality, to becoming the object of his or her own work. The art project is the artist itself, who feels, of course, almost morally entitled to adopt every possible strategy to convey his or her identity forward. This tendency has also been endorsed by institutional “artistic research”, a system that encourages individual reflection and determines whether an economic investment is justified based on the practical outcome of works and papers. But the model for cultural sustainability cannot be “the survival of the fittest”. Artists need to think as a group, a unified cultural scene, or a crowd and not like a swarm of individuals. Arts also need to rediscover a social role and perspective, pushing in the direction of collectivization rather than atomization, to limit competition and self-referentiality which is the ultimate manifestation of the spirit of capitalism.

In every direction, the market, the academies and every institution have required artists to think productively and to optimize every aspect of their life in an Arbeit macht frei stance that relies on the obsession over one’s own career. The process is no different than in any other profession, but it features in addition a very subtle psychological push, the paradox of passion. A culture worker needs to treat their job in the most effective and professional possible way while still claiming it to be their biggest passion, that thing that they cannot live without, that they would do anyways, even for free, and will eventually do for free.

An artist must not only be good, but also passionate, and this passion must be the drive that lets them cross borders that they wouldn’t cross otherwise, with the result of enabling a wicked and non-sustainable system of cheap (often black) labour exploitation.
In a comment on Byung Chul Han’s book “The burnout society” Slavoj Žižek writes, “imagine I would be hired to advertise a product so as to convince people to buy it […] I should exploit my creativity to the maximum, trying to find original solutions, this effort can be more tiresome than repetitive work on the assembly line. Now imagine the product is yourself, your identity and every aspect of your life.” (Slavoj Žižek – Perchè siamo sempre stanchi [why are we always tired] (my translation))

But what we should not forget is that this is not a time of crisis for the arts, instead, it is only a time of crisis for the market. A crisis that brings opportunities to reflect, reconsider and refuse. The practices are not in crisis, they stay the same, intact, and should be cultivated in our private gardens, with love, away from prying eyes. Pledging arts to the continuous feed of entertainment, being a continuous advertisement for the artists’ identity, will eventually destroy our practices and nullify the sense of our research. Continuity, over-publication and pollution do not help arts, instead, they normalize it, they kill the internal energy that makes it necessary, as meant by Ferlinghetti in his “Poetry as Insurgent Art”.
We do remain, at the end of the day, when the noisy dust of openings, vernissages, happenings, events and presentations settles. If we stop because the market stops, maybe we were at the wrong side of the barricade.

Info: Giuseppe Pisano is an Italian sound artist currently based in Paris. This article is an excerpt from the essay “bees in the hive. a reflection from macro to micro upon the power structure of capitalism and the volatility of the individual in the illusionary freedom of digital utopia.”

Review by Macon Holt

Pythia’s Journals is an online art festival conceived, organized and curated by artists Tobias R. Kirstein and Signe Vad, through Vad’s organizations, Office of Emergency and The Syndicate of Creatures. The festival takes its name from the mythical Greek priestess who both channelled and interpreted the utterances of the god Apollo and transduced them into cryptic prophecies stored in a journal. As Kirstein and Vad put it, the motivation of this festival is to try and peak inside “those journals from the future”, and in many ways, the event is incredibly well placed to do just that.

The peculiar confluence in this moment of our personal productive/consumptive technologies (laptops etc.) and an ancient-yet-novel bio-threat (COVID19) has made this moment ripe for introspective and investigative speculation. Indeed, Vad and Kirstein’s declaration that this is a “monomedia” festival is a wry nod to hypocrisies and paradoxes of this stage of cognitive capitalism, which, in one moment, declares the multi-media, multi-platform and unending potential of all its projects, and in the next, flattens anything that might populate these projects with ideas or sensations into mere “content”. “Content” that can often only be paid for with “exposure”. Against this Pythia’s Journals offers a cornucopia of interpretable utterances from musicians, artists, writers, filmmakers and philosophers. This outpouring of mostly new work in a way becomes the unruly excesses that cannot be fully contained by the category of “content” and yet, by virtue of the media, these expressions are made to function as such. 

So here we are, those whose skills or inclinations are superfluous to the needs of the immediate crisis at hand, before our laptops in this virtual and undecidable square/journal/blog/stylized-Pinterest-board of Pythia’s Journals. Down the left-hand side, there are four rooms that have been released over a series of four days, each populated with one work from five or six different artists. Within each room, one scrolls horizontally to navigate the pieces. This makes it feel more like moving through space compressed into a panorama than just engaging in the endless scroll of our day-to-day internet usage. While each room has clearly been carefully curated to provide a balance of longer, more involved pieces and shorter or atemporal interventions—as well as those audiovisual and textual elements that compose the monomedia—any notion of a theme for each is left as an impressionistic or emergent quality for the festival goer to ponder rather than explicitly stated. 

In room one, we find a new audiovisual piece by Claus Haxholm (full disclosure: Haxholm is a recurring contributor to P/A) along side a text as PDF by Finnish artist, Marja-leena Sillanpää, which explores the kind of palimpsest of representation in text. There is a radical, almost agitprop film by Nanna Gro Henningsen, composed of ideas from critical and political theory juxtaposed with the monomedia resources of the first-person view of a flickering laptop and free to license audio loops of bowed guitars.
As I watch the videos in this room, I’m struck by the fact that I can’t switch it into full-screen mode. You have to click into a new page to watch the clips and the video player, so familiar to the art world of online content sharing, pops up. You can then play the video in the context of that page. You can slip into those trained internet behaviours that hide the reach of the monomedia. Instead, you must watch it in the context of this online festival. Like a kind of Brechtian alienation, you are always aware of the artifice of the form and, as a consequence, aware of the works in that context.

In room two, there are a series of sculptures with an accompanying soundtrack of processed noise by the renowned American improviser Don Dietrich. There is also a compellingly playful digital art piece/composition by Marcela Lucatelli, “A Philosopher Ought to Converse Especially with Men in Power”, in which colourful digital pasta rains down around a charming but odd dancing shape as guttural voices give it a beat. You can move the camera by clicking and dragging but the dancing form remains at the centre. There is also an offbeat informational cartoon on the arrival of the signal crayfish in Denmark by Kristoffer Ørum, which offers a wonderfully brief satire of the online saturation of infotainment. As I explore this room, I start to notice the dust and damage on my screen, highlighted by the sun coming from outside; from a world that has become dangerous to me since the lockdown began. But while it’s not safe to go outside, the monomedia it seems can provide my cultural fix, beyond that of the commercial “content” delivery platforms. So long as my device holds out, I can work and I can play and I can become ever more erudite.

Room three features two of the most interesting musical pieces in the entire festival. The first is Francesca Burattelli’s “Elon’s Dream/The Way of the Future”, which starts with a sampled loop of Leonardo DiCaprio’s obsessive-compulsive line from the “The Aviator” set against the manipulated woodwind drones. At moments, these drones would ironically not be out of place as the simulated engine noises of one the pseudo-messianic-union-busting-billionaire’s eclectic cars. The other piece is Marie Eline Hansen’s “How”, a piece of layered vocal and keys loops that perfectly capture the quotidian and incessant nature of our anxiety about the future as well as its triviality, given that it abruptly ends seemingly as the reality of the future arrives.

I start to notice my computer’s fan is whirring as it loads these rich pieces of media “content”. There is something of the internet of the past about Pythia’s Journals. It hasn’t been optimized to streamline the “user experience” like so much of the internet. Instead it has been made to represent the artists’ work as faithfully as possible even if that causes your machine to heat up. While it utilizes other platforms for easy media playback (Vimeo and Bandcamp etc.) and modern bandwidths to allow for this playback to be hi-resolution, the site is utterly unconcerned with scalability. It has not been built to become the next trend in tech and re-present user-generated content for a profit. It is more like it is making productive misuse of the monomedia. The website is staking out a little territory in our networked lives that is willfully different from the rest of it by eschewing efficiency.

In room four, amongst the artworks are a video piece from anonymous Danish collective, Mycelium, “And the Birds are Getting Louder”, a durational piece by the composer and videographer, Danielle Dahl, “Proportions of Time” and a filmed collection of outtakes from a performance collaboration between, British artist, Geraldine Hudson and Swedish artist, Åsa Johansson as the collective Systerisk, “Rites of Spring”. The Mycelium piece sees the collective lean into their anonymity by using a distorted voice set amongst a digital soundscape to narrate the processes of factory farming, political shortsightedness and economic and technological theology that plague the current moment, interspersed with philosophical reflections. The refrain, “and the birds are getting louder” serves as a section break. This is set against black and white footage of two women (witches?) in a forest who, in one moment, seem to be in the midst of some kind of ritual while in the next seem to become part of an ambivalent, natural world. Ritual is also central to the Systerisk’s piece, in which a woman veiled in black gesticulates with what appears to be a scalpel in front of an unknown occultist symbol with a soundtrack of throbbing heartbeat-like bass pulses mixed with field recording. But the clips keep cutting out. These are the outtake of a ritual in progress. The production of something that, when it is finished, will appear as if it has always existed even though it is brand new. 

Again I am made aware of the monomedia as I attempt to listen to Dahl’s “Proportion of Time”. After clicking play in the corner of the page nothing happens. I wonder if I have missed the stream, but at 109 hours in length that shouldn’t be so. It says the next stream should start the next day and I try again and still nothing. It seems that maybe my browser simply cannot load the media. And so I am left with only the accompanying video and text from which to infer the content of the work. In a regular festival setting, this kind of technical failure would be a profound disappointment but here on the monomedia, it just seems to be one of the perils of our communication technology.

Alongside these rooms is Pythia’s radio, a small archive of interviews between Kristoffer Raasted and some of the participating artists such as Alexander Holm and Karin Hald. There are also mixes that have been made for the festival by Isak Tind, Cejero, Mark Kirkegaard Andersen, and Joachim Nordwall. This again plays into the mediated nature of this festival. Sometimes festivals, such as Click, will attempt to augment the meat-space experience with a hastily cobbled together app that can often take you out of the experience as it sends you into the monomedia world of extra content. Whereas when you come across such material in Pythia’s Journals, it is part of a flow that has been established by the festival-going experience so far, and so feels consistent.

When I reflect on the days I spent dipping in and out of Pythia’s Journals, I am heartened by the attempt to intervene in the totalizing banality of the cognitive/computational/communicative capitalism that has saturated our lives even more since the COVID19 lockdown began. Furthermore, I am amazed at how affecting these works are made by being situated in this little internet silo, which while it may be comprised of elements from larger platforms marks itself off as distinction from them. If I had stumbled across these pieces on Vimeo or Bandcamp, it would have required much more effort from me to invest myself in them. But through the curation and media-specific subversions of design, Pythia’s Journals provides a space in which both sensation and contemplation can be prized above the din of our day-to-day digital lives. The quick turnaround too allows for a relativisation of these artworks and those we used to find out in the world. By focusing on works that have been put together quickly or constructed from earlier archived material, it lets us into the process of artistic production that is so often occluded by the polished conventions of the art gallery or the art festival. 

That being said, it misses something of the sociality and with it the intensity of in person festivals. Part of the profundity of so much of contemporary art is found in seeing others being affected by something while you are being affected yourself and then becoming more aware of your actual position in the world. There is a danger that the format of this festival allows you to fall into one of the most problematic illusions of our time; that all this “content” has been provided for you alone. The consumer is king.
But Pythia’s Journals is very much aware of this and rather than taking ill-conceived steps to deny it, the festival draws our attention to it and encourages its attendees to do the same. And now we have heard the murmurs and ramblings of this digital oracle, the interpretive work can begin as we cautiously emerge from our isolation.

Info: Pythia’s Journals continues until May 26th.

Af Emil Grarup

Jeg vil begynde dette interview ved at lægge mig fladt ned og indrømme, at Natal Zaks’ (Central, Palta, Mitro, Maizena m.fl.) seneste udgivelse som Alle, ”Alletiders”, er et af de bedste albums, jeg har lyttet til i  år.

Produktionen er suveræn: Han formår fuldstændigt ubesværet at pendulere mellem børne-tv-jingles (”Formiddagens Sang”), dub-eksperimenter (”Alles dubhjørne”) og g-funk-kompositioner (”De rigtige ting”) på en måde, der forekommer både sammenhængende og overraskende. Teksterne demonstrerer en særlig kapacitet til at udtrykke komplekse følelser på en simpel måde og dyrker barnligheden som et æstetisk virkemiddel på en måde, der hverken virker påtaget eller reducerende: På en måde lyder ”Alletiders” som en tænkt samling af de bedste sange, der nogensinde kunne være skrevet til MGP; børnenes, vel at mærke.

Af disse grunde har jeg taget kontakt til Zaks for at høre mere om hans inspirationskilder, arbejdsproces og stilistiske og tematiske valg.

P/A: Hvad betyder lokalmiljøet (labels, arrangementer, spillesteder) i Århus for dig?

N: Ud over at det selvfølgelig er enormt vigtigt at have venner, som man kan dele sin interesse med, så har jeg stor tålmodighed med – og ambition for – miljøet i Århus. Jeg oplever en åbenhed og venlighed i den del af miljøet, jeg er kommet i, som afgørende for, at jeg (og min opfattelse er, at det også gælder for de andre i mit crew) fortsat putter tid og energi i at bidrage. Jeg har oplevelsen af, at initiativer bliver værdsat, og at der bliver givet igen i en rimelig grad, selvom der ikke er tale om en stor scene. Kort sagt interesserer storby-miljøer mig ikke så meget, og Århus fungerer i min optik sundt på tværs af alder og interesse.

P/A: Hvad driver dig til at lave musik?

N: Det er et godt spørgsmål. Jeg tror ikke, at jeg kan komme med et entydigt svar, men det første, der slår mig, er, at jeg synes, det er sjovt. Det er en aktivitet, som konstant er en smule udfordrende og en smule spændende. Med årene er hovedpinerne langsomt fortaget, og jeg føler mig god til det. Så jeg elsker at kaste mig over nye retninger og udvide min horisont. Jeg kan også mærke, at respons fra min omverden selvsagt bidrager til oplevelsen af at dele musikken, men det har længe været en udfordring at holde omverdenens indflydelse minimal, da jeg gerne ser mig selv fri fra sporadiske synsninger, lyttertal og generelt forsøger at undgå at komme ind i hovedet på mine lyttere. Hvis musikken rammer mig, må den antageligvis også ramme en håndfuld andre.

P/A: Kan du knytte nogle ord til din arbejdsproces under udarbejdelsen af”Alletiders”?

N: Processen startede i Tel Aviv sidste år og har strukket sig pletvist ud over et år. Jeg arbejder normalt på den måde, at jeg hopper fra musik til musik, alt efter hvad jeg har lyst til, og forsøger at undgå at bestemme mig på forhånd om, hvad tingene skal blive til ift. udgivelser. Tingene kommer, når de kommer, og afsluttes, når der er et momentum eller en anledning. Men Alle-projektet havde umiddelbart mere betydning for mig, og jeg havde længe været lidt intimideret af det momentum, jeg havde omkring tilblivelsen af det første album. Men en dag kom energien, og jeg tænkte “Nu rykker jeg på det, og hvis det bliver dårligt, så holder jeg det for mig selv.”  

At holde gejsten oppe var vigtigere for mig end at vurdere kvaliteten løbende, så 7-9 af sangene blev skitseret temmelig hurtigt. Dertil samlede jeg nogle gamle sange, som lå ufærdige tilbage fra det første album, og en enkelt fra teenageårene (“Smiler mens…”, som er skrevet på engelsk med min ven Mads Buhl).

Afrunding/kuratering var en længere proces, da tingene skulle strammes op og vurderes mere nøje. Det var en temmelig ensom proces, men med korte, dog vigtige, inputs af både musisk karakter (Jakob de Place på perc, Weekend Girl på vokal) og i form af lytteoplevelser og feedback fra mine nærmeste.

P/A: Hvilke ligheder og forskelle ser du mellem ”Dine Pæne Øjne” (2017) og dit nye album? Tænker du, at der er en bestemt udvikling at spore?

N: Som en god veninde kommenterede tidligt i processen: “Den første var en slags børneplade, denne her lyder som en ungdomsplade.” Jeg tror, at den primære forskel er, at jeg ved det første album faktisk ikke anede, hvad jeg lavede, eller hvad det skulle blive til, og ved denne her prøvede at glemme det. Der er helt klart stadig en vekselvirkning mellem modenhed og barnlighed, kundskab og intuition, og jeg tror også, at mine holdninger til musik kan spores gennem begge plader: Jeg kan godt lide, når (pop-) musik er humoristisk, uhøjtidelig, amatøristisk og uforudsigelig. Og når man kan mærke, at vinding og risici hænger sammen. Og at det ikke nytter noget at forsøge at kontrollere, hvad folk tænker. Desuden er produktionerne mere “uddybede”, polerede til tider, og der er mere tekst. Om det er en god ting, er vel op til den enkelte.

P/A: Kan du pege på nogle specifikke kunstnere og værker, der har inspireret dig i arbejdet med ”Alletiders”? Her menes både i forhold til produktion og lyrik.

N: Musikalske referencer er enormt afgørende for dette projekt, og derfor forsøgte jeg at lave mange hurtige skitser i ånden af forskellige tidslommer, som fascinerede mig. Referencerne er nogle gange på detaljeplan (produktionen eller lydvalg), andre gange i meget store penselstrøg (stilistiske eller temperamentsmæssige). Men lidt navne i vilkårlig rækkefølge: H. Hosono, Velvet Underground, Brigitte Fontaine, Arthur Russell, Dr. John (specifikt “Gris Gris”-albummet), DAF (og Conny Plank-produktioner generelt), Durutti Column, Ariel Pink og John Maus. Og så en forlængelse af inspirationerne fra første album, som var mere boogie og synthpop. Ikke den dybe tallerken, men alt fra det konkrete til det abstrakte: fra dancehall-introer (“Du gir mig…”) hen over mix af lilletrommer og til minder om at se introen til et program, man glæder sig til at se (“Formiddagens sang”).

P/A: Dine albums som Alle er de eneste to udgivelser på Olea Recordings. Ligger der nogle særlige overvejelser bag valget om ikke at udgive Alle-projektet på dit (og din bror Miláns) andet selskab, Help Recordings? Hvordan tænker du, at Alle-projektet adskiller sig fra arbejdet under dine andre pseudonymer (Palta, Central m.fl.)?

N: Jeg ville gerne, at Alle-projektet skulle eksponeres anderledes end mine andre projekter. Det måtte gerne være musik, som lyttere måtte grave lidt efter, og som havde sit eget selvstændige liv uden om min anden musik. Det kan jo ikke lade sig gøre til fulde, men Olea er et forsøg på at lave en relativt isoleret kontekst uden for mange associationer. Jeg er ikke sikker på, at det her giver mening – men Alle er noget ret forskelligt fra resten af vores musik, synes jeg. Projektet her er en blottelse. Musikken er mere direkte personlig og hviler ikke i samme grad på en genres fundament og konventioner. For at nævne nogle eksempler er Central mere funktionalistisk, og Palta/Mitro er mere abstrakte og kommunikerer på nogle helt andre parametre, vil jeg mene. Måske er det et spørgsmål om generalisten vs. specialisten i mig. 

P/A: Det forekommer mig, at barnlighed fylder en del på ”Alletiders”. Både som noget, der manifesterer sig motivisk som på f.eks.”Dansedrengen” og ”Boris han gemmer sig”, men samtidig som noget, der eksisterer sedimentært i den ærlighed, ømhed og simplicitet, der karakteriserer dine tekster. Hvad tænker du om det?

 N: Det er en rigtig god pointe, barnlighed er centrum for projektet. Jeg er ikke den store tekstforfatter eller digter. Men jeg forsøger at fange en spontanitet og ærlighed med tekster, som omfavner klichéer og banaliteter. Mange af de kvaliteter, som jeg ser, barnligheden har, bliver i min optik ofte nedprioriteret i musik, på trods af at de er enormt relatérbare for de fleste. At sige tingene, som de er, som man oplever dem, uden at gøre det mere kompliceret end nødvendigt. Det er en kontrast til den lige så vigtige modpol, som trives godt i musik, “poesien”, om man vil, som jeg ikke mestrer. Jeg forstår godt, hvis teksterne ikke er alles kop te, men jeg synes ikke, at de er dumme. De er måske sjove eller lidt for “tæt på”. De handler om kærligheden, som jeg har erfaret den, og om det mystiske (“Boris…”), det ubekymrede (“Dansedrengen”), om de overvældende øjeblikke og de mindeværdige af slagsen. 

P/A: Forelskelse, dans og leg er en række andre temaer, der synes at være gennemgående på dit nye album. Er der en specifik grund til, at du særligt kredser om disse fænomener?

N: Jeg synes, at førstnævnte, ud over at være et slidstærkt emne, er et emne, som er rart at sætte ord på. Det er det korte svar; at det føles godt at beskrive de situationer.

Hvis jeg skal reflektere lidt over valget set i bakspejlet, så portrætteres emnet til tider temmelig ensformigt i musik. Jeg vil nødig formulere en kritik i så generel en forstand, og jeg kommer her nok til at lyde lidt firkantet, men altså: Han/hun er fantastisk, smuk, og følelser hældes i hovedet på lytteren dagligt. Man fortæller, at man har det sådan her og sådan der. Jeg kan godt se, at det lyder latterliggørende, og at det ikke er helt fair, fordi det kan sgu også noget! Sangskrivere kan lave flotte billeder, sætte tanker i gang og ramme os i maven. Men når jeg sidder og kigger på kærlighedsteksterne på albummet, synes de mig at skildre nogle andre sider af emnet på en anden måde. Sider, som jeg ikke så overraskende kender ret godt. De er et forsøg på at være nede på jorden og fortælle om det at være genert, malplaceret, usikker og andre gange glad. Og så er det jo i sidste ende lytteren, som må afgøre, om disse tekster også kan noget.

Dans er fedt – ofte portrætteret på en lidt uinspirerende, selvreferentiel, men ret funktionel måde. Så dans har lidt en anden rolle på “Alletiders”.

Måske lyder jeg som en hat, men nogle gange får jeg oplevelsen af, at megen musik ser sig selv udefra og gerne vil være sej. Hvilket er lidt usejt. Og så fremstår det måske usejt netop for at være sejt. Trættende – det hele kommer op i hovedet, og det gider jeg ikke bruge mere energi på. Men nogle gange er man bare ikke sej; så leger man og er uspeciel, og det synes jeg også fortjener sange.

P/A: Hvad håber du, at lytteren tager med sig fra ”Alletiders”? Har du et eller flere budskaber, du håber at kunne viderebringe?

N: Det er svært at sige, jeg har ikke tænkt så mange ting ind i musikken, selvom jeg snakker meget her. Forhåbentlig er det forskelligt fra lytter til lytter, hvad de tager med.

Måske man kan høre at albummet var rigtig sjovt at lave; at musikken på “Alletiders” opleves som løsrevet og fri, fordi det er sådan, jeg har ment den. Måske et budskab om – eller en følelse af – diversitet og spontanitet.

Et budskab, som jeg generelt har for øje i musikken, og ikke mindst i måden, den kommunikeres ud i verden på, handler om fejlbarlighed. Det er en lang snak, men min oplevelse er, at megen (ikke al) musik bliver ensartet i udtryk, attitude og ikke mindst ambition. Jeg kunne nævne talrige eksempler på det modsatte, men hvis jeg rent faktisk skal vove at sige noget her, så synes jeg, at forstillelse ubevidst er blevet for afgørende i den brede musikhorisont. Musikere falder ned i riller af usynlige “normaler” og heri opstår en ærgerlig strømlining, der er trættende i længden.

I både musikalsk og menneskelig forstand må fejlbarlighed, dynamik, kom-ned-derfra-ness og øjenhøjde gerne fylde lidt mere, så det prøver jeg på at leve op til.

Info: ”Alletiders” udkom d. 8. maj på Olea Records.

By Wieland Rambke

Look at a lava lamp. You always see the same thing while the shapes within keep changing. In presenting you with a visual stimulus that is in perpetual motion, it is as predictable as it is surprising. Everything that happens inside the lava lamp merely confirms the limited range of what it does. There is something hypnotic and soothing about staring at the lamp. It really is no wonder that it was a fixture of 1970s drug culture. 

In the 1920s, the American Major General George Owen Squier was granted the patent rights for a system that made it possible to transmit information signals via telephone lines. Thanks to the Major General’s invention, music could now be distributed cheaply and quickly in a time when radios still were rare and expensive. The technology was soon employed for distributing music en masse. Payments for this service were made through the customers’ monthly electric bill. A company was born that used this new technology to deliver a stream of generic, shallow and interchangeable compositions with the purpose of stimulating the productivity of factory workers, who now found themselves working the assembly lines guided by the rhythms and the feel of the music oozing from the loudspeakers above their heads, like galley slaves rowing to the rhythm of the drum.

This music was just like the lava lamp: You could follow it in the moment, but you could never remember what the music actually was. It was just an endless stream of compositional tropes and devices without any unique character. It moved within a fixed range of possibilities. Like everything bland and faceless, it was just, sort of, there. These compositions were strictly controlled by the company. The name of the company was “Muzak”. 

In 2020, the crisis that began with COVID-19 forced millions and millions of people to work from home, while a company called Spotify provided access to a massive database of music that can be streamed on demand. Home office workers would get their work done under the guidance of an endless stream of music bundled into playlists that they would call “Home Office” or “Ambient Study”. The rhythm of the music was different. It appeared to be picked by the users themselves. But inevitably, it would just be soothing and reassuring enough to get the work done without getting distracted, with no other purpose than to create a workflow. The home had become the assembly line. 

The mechanism is as fluid and as internalised as it is in any other app that makes a lot of money today: The users feel they are making a decision, while the real decisions are made by hidden algorithms. What you see and hear on Facebook, on Instagram, on Netflix, on Spotify: It is based on automated calculations. The music you get recommended on Spotify is a result of nothing else but algorithmic references. The actual connections are never known. Where is the decision in picking from a selection that someone else has thrown before you? I understand, it all seems so great, but it’s just more and ever more of the same thing. By no means is this the fault of the user. These systems are simply engineered to do this, to hack into, and then hi-jack the user’s inclinations, and they do it really well. When you get more and more of the same thing, then life in a bubble is the result. Your expectations will not be challenged, and the illusion of individual choice remains intact. “It’s just SO Me!” But what, then, is this “It”? It is not me.

Many users of Spotify get hooked on the workings and forget what it is like to go out and search for music yourself. There seems to be no world outside of the bubble anymore. When talking about politics and society, we have come to call this “the echo chamber”. And Spotify is just as much of an echo chamber, applying the same principle to music. There are no unexpected encounters anymore. I have picked up countless albums in record shops based on completely arbitrary factors: An odd cover design or a confusing band name can really spark up your curiosity. “Hey, what’s this?” Many treasures can be found just by opening your eyes. And by Jove, I know full well how time-consuming this is. But using Spotify makes these happy accidents impossible. With your eyes rolled back inside your skull, you see nothing else but the inside of the bubble. Yes, it takes a lot of effort to not rely on some “service” making your decisions for you. But streaming services didn’t just simply speed up the process, they have completely changed it in accordance with the law of capitalism that says “There must be no thing that is not a product, and every product must be available at all times.” And what about the music that simply is not found on Spotify? It will remain outside of the bubble, unnoticed. 

Spotify does not like silence. The flow is gluttonous.

In 2019, a US court ruling proposed a 44% increase of streaming revenues paid to US artists who offer their music on streaming platforms. The ruling was promptly blocked by Spotify and Amazon. And why should they not? Spotify makes massive amounts of money from the situation as it is, and the system works all too well for them: Premium users pay a monthly fee for unlimited access to music offered on the platform, while the free version makes for a lot of money through advertisements. As a business model, this is working great for the companies. So it comes as no surprise that they simply see no need to pay their artists any more than the company sees necessary. 

About 25% of Spotify is owned by investment firms like Baillie Gifford (11.8 percent), Morgan Stanley (7.3 percent), and T.Rowe Price Associates (6.2 percent). Good money, this is. And like every other company that is heavily backed by investors, Spotify of course has a fancy mission statement and all kinds of values and beliefs that are fronted to mask what the actual mission is: Money. And on top of the money made from users, it is also a massive dairy farm for musicians who get milked in line forever, making a fraction of what actual sales would return them. Let’s not forget that platforms like Spotify do nothing else but distribute what users and artists contribute. Streaming services are like estate agents: Making a whole lot of money with very little work necessary. And for them, it just works all too well to be changed. Frankly, it is straight-up weird to be paying rent for music.

When the stream becomes incessant, the silence disappears. You have to make an effort to stop Spotify from playing. Spotify does not like silence. The flow is gluttonous. John Cage was right: In a composition, the notes are equally as important as the space between the notes. But this goes for music itself, too: When the music just keeps on playing forever, with no pause, and on no end, then the music becomes irrelevant, it becomes indistinguishable from stationary inventory, it becomes furniture: Something that is just there, instead of something that occurs. It ceases to be in time, and becomes space. The more you have of something, the more irrelevant it becomes. And if it just doesn’t stop flowing, then even the most distinguished and challenging music inevitably becomes Muzak.

Af Mikkel Arre – foto: Christian Friedländer

Undervejs på københavnske Whistlers debutalbum bliver der sunget et spørgsmål, der indkapsler et af pladens grundtemaer: ”Hope’s a bust / love’s a must / how does it all add up?”

Det er der ikke nødvendigvis noget (opmuntrende) svar på, men det afskrækker ikke bandet fra at undersøge emnet fra forskellige vinkler: Hvordan holder man liv i håbet og forestillingerne om en anderledes verden? Og hvordan omsætter man ønskerne til reelle forandringer?

Albummet har titlen ”Blow Torch Social” – en anerkendende hilsen til ”de mennesker, der brænder igennem den metalliske, hårde socialitet”, som forsanger Louis Scherfig forklarer, ”og minder os om, at i en kold og kynisk verden er det radikalt, måske endda punk, at være varm og empatisk.”

Det vil måske være en stramning at hævde, at ”Blow Torch Social” i sig selv er en varm plade. Men bandets udtryk er i hvert fald åbent nok til sagtens at kunne kombinere traditionel rockinstrumentering med violin på flere af numrene, ligesom teksternes samfundsengagerede, indignerede indhold bæres frem af ligefremme, catchy melodier.

Debutalbummet kommer, blot et år efter at kvartetten fandt sammen. Tre af medlemmerne har en fortid i bands som Holm, Lower og Arakk, mens Louis Scherfig ikke har spillet musik siden gymnasietiden. Idéen om Whistler opstod i det atelier, som Scherfig delte med et af de andre medlemmer, Pynte.

”Vi gik ofte og sang og parodierede diverse musikalske udtryk. Pynte har lavet musik i mange år og foreslog, at vi lavede et band i stedet for at skabe os, hvilket jeg syntes lød som en glimrende idé, selvom jeg ikke anede, hvad det egentlig betød. Vi spurgte Anton, om han ville være med, det ville han gerne. Anton kendte Ditte og spurgte hende, og så mødtes vi alle en aften og snakkede om følelser, sexsygdomme og andre af universets pubertære elementer.”

P/A: Teksterne står helt klart i lydbilledet på pladen. Har I hele tiden vidst, at ordene skulle være så centrale?

Louis Scherfig: ”Det første halve år vidste vi ikke særlig meget om, hvad bandet skulle. Vi jammede os hårdt frem til de første numre, der endte med at være på demobåndet. Men efter vores første demoindspilning og koncert i januar blev virkeligheden meget tydeligere. Både i forhold til sange og sangteksterne. Jeg har skrevet fiktion i rigtig mange år, men jeg kæmpede længe med at forstå, hvordan de skills, jeg havde, kunne bruges til at skrive tekster til sange. Jeg havde en seriøs modstand mod at rime, fordi det virkede absurd, fremmed og banalt for mig. Det var først, da jeg gav slip og accepterede rim som et slags lyrisk grundvilkår, at der kom noget nogenlunde spændende frem. Derfra blev jeg ret besat af de poetiske og narrative muligheder, der kan opstå i en form med nogle mere eller mindre faste rammer.”

P/A: Teksterne omtaler flere gange eksplicit problemer og bekymringer (fx ”trouble ahead / and trouble behind / trouble everyday / trouble, please be mine”), tilsyneladende som et grundvilkår i tilværelsen. Er der mere at være bekymret over nu end for fem eller 10 år siden?

LS: ”For 10 år siden havde jeg personligt 0% forståelse for meget andet end tech house og Red Bull med vodka, og derfra ser alting desværre glimrende ud. Men der er ingen tvivl om, at fremtiden i dag er ekstremt volatil på rigtig mange parametre: socialt, kulturelt, racemæssigt, økologisk, klimatisk, etc. Samtidig er der også en fuld menu af muligheder for at modstå, undervise og aktivere kulturskift inden for disse parametre. Der er halvanden generation, som ikke giver en fuck for parnassets nedarvede, underuddannede misforståelser af problematikkerne.

Som sådan tror jeg måske, verden så værre ud for 10 år siden, men problemerne og løsningerne var måske ikke artikuleret på samme måde, fordi teknologierne ikke var modne til at understøtte de revolutioner, der foregår nu.”

P/A: Teksterne tager flere steder fat i menneskets tæmning/inddæmning af naturen (fx ”nature is what we got / from forcing the birds to sing” og ”what do we really care for / besides this silvicultural treason we enforce? / who made a snake of the ancient green?”). Hvad er det ved mødet mellem natur og kultur, der er så interessant?

LS: ”Natur er en underlig ting. Jeg tager den fuldstændig for givet, når jeg får adgang til den, selv i dens ekstreme form, men det efterfølgende minde om dens ekstremitet har en helt anden majestætisk plads i hukommelsen. Bjerget er pludselig det vigtigste nogensinde; noget, man savner og skammer sig over ikke at have forstået, da man stod på det. Det er en kontinuerlig konflikt mellem apati og stærkt savn. Måske er det bare rigtigt, når man siger, at naturen er menneskets følelsesmæssige ground zero, og byen er den fremmedgørende kolos.

Der er helt klart et element af natur/kultur-kritik i vores sange, der tapper ind i en ældgammel konflikt mellem menneske og bjerg, perception og repræsentation. Personligt er jeg ikke fan af romantik som et modus, men jeg trækker vejret for poesi og poetisk liv. Dermed ikke sagt, at romantik ikke kan opfattes poetisk og omvendt.

Men den natur, der omtales i vores sange, er mere den politiserede natur; den ødelagte, den koloniserede, den terraformede. Det føles måske også, som om selve den antropocæne diskurs har nået et punkt af mørk romantik; måske netop den kunstige, terraformende tilgang, der vil lave by som kunstig skov, er på tide.”

P/A: Hvad ligger der i det? Hvad vil det sige at lave by som kunstig skov?

LS: ”Jeg mener, at netop natur/kultur-dikotomien måske skal nedtones til fordel for en mere kunstig, symbiotisk og grøn tilgang til, hvordan man kan lave én verden uden at ødelægge en anden. Ved at transformere begge? Når kapitalisme er lig fri udnyttelse af alle og alt, og vesten ikke er så klar på at ditche dét trossystem, så det er vel oplagt at rewire den teknologi-udviklende del af kapitalismen til være grønnere. Lige nu er det, som om verden ødelægges og forsøges reddet parallelt med hinanden og med skiftende accelerationer.

Vi har lige haft fire-fem måneders stilhed, hvor mange blev enige om, at et seriøst kulturskift var på tide. Det skal blive spændende at se, om der var ægte bouillon i suppen, eller om der mere var tale om et kollektivt download af en mindfulness-app, der nu ligger og støver et sted på skærmen.”

P/A: I åbningsnummeret er der en passage, der lyder ”let’s subtitle these public confessions / they mean: take what you can, but we took it all”. Hvordan kommer den her oplevelse af at være blevet berøvet nogle muligheder til udtryk i din hverdag eller i dine omgivelser?

LS: ”Jeg kan personligt på intet punkt bilde mig selv ind at være berøvet noget andet end dét, mit eget kognitive underskud af og til stjæler af god stemning og serotonin. Men det er meget tydeligt, hvordan andre medlemmer af samfundet oplever at blive berøvet de mest basale grundvilkår for eksistens. Verset, du nævner, peger netop på, hvordan underteksterne til det politiske narrativ – de tiltag, der bliver besluttet eller arvet og opretholdt – fortæller om en virkelighed, der er længere væk fra noget socialt eller demokratisk, end Lyrens stjernebillede er fra Jorden.”

P/A: De sidste ord på pladen er ”dead hopes”. Hvilke forhåbninger er det, der er døde – og er der stadig nogen, der lever?

LS: ”Der er et helt farvand af håb, og det er mere i live, end samtlige digits på børsen kunne drømme om at være. Det håb, vi ønsker dødt, er det neoliberale håb: Håbet om, at selv social retfærdighed, lighed og bæredygtighed stille og roligt nok skal drysse ned fra kapitalismens tinder. Håbet om, at nogle andre reparerer situationen, fixer verden for os, at din nabo nok skal skifte batteri i brandalarmen i opgangen, at politikerne nok skal lukke asylfængslerne helt af sig selv. Den slags letargisk håbefuldhed skal aflives og erstattes af din research, din tid, din humanisme, din aktivisme, din stemme, dine følelser.”

P/A: Dette budskab kan udtrykkes på mange måder. Hvorfor er rocksange en god platform til at formidle det?

LS: ”Lyrik, pop og rock er helt klart ikke den ultimative platform til dette, men en kunstnerisk platform er stadig én stemme af mange. Jeg har lavet billedkunst i en del år nu og etableret en billedkunstnerisk måde at tænke på, på godt og ondt. Billedkunst leder ofte efter æstetiske og formelle yderligheder; det handler om at handle om noget på en krypteret, dyb og sensuel måde, hvilket der er store muligheder i, men det gør det samtidig svært at være direkte og møde virkeligheden mere head first, hvilket jeg føler, mange af os har brug for i dag. Jeg har lyst til, at en rocksang skal gøre dette.

Fra en position som erklæret noob er det måske nemt at tro, at alle sange skal handle om noget, der føles vigtigt. Men ligesom musik er noget, man føler med, er det også noget, man tænker med, både som skaber og lytter. Og der er mange ting, der skal tænkes over; mange vakuummer, der bliver piftet i verden, i mig selv og mine medmennesker. Vi er dog p.t. i gang med at skrive nye Whistler-sange og har besluttet, at de alle sammen skal være kærlighedssange – men selv en kærlighedssang må jo nødvendigvis i virkeligheden handle om f.eks. det ultimative mørke og verdens undergang.”

Info: ”Blow Torch Social” udkommer via Dead Coin og Part Time Records d. 20. august. Whistler spiller i Aarhus d. 10. september (RSVP) og i København d. 11. september (RSVP).