New Blockaders, The & ARTBREAKHOTEL - Haikagura 2xcd
Geez, what a mess. What a clutter. A clatter. A clamor of massed metal junk clank, clink, clunk, bonk, thunk; crumpled crumble, rumpled rumble, with no end to be heard of, nary the barest pause for breath nor the space in which to breath it. Deep breath. I picked this up on the strength of the Nobuo Yamada contribution to Volume 1 of the VOD Viva Negativa! TNB tribute box. Yamada's take on the TNB anti-vision stood out in a field generally preferential of somewhat filthsome flavors. "Prickle/Crevice" was, if not particularly original, exceptionally executed- spacious, thoughtfully arranged scrape, screech 'n clang, achieving a decidedly pristine, even glinting atmosphere, ballsdeep in the bowels of rusted-out, metal-on-metal, hell. This time around, TNB (Rupenus) and ARTBREAKHOTEL (Yamada) combine to hurl, with all due force, any suggestion of thoughtful arrangement straight through the plate-glass window. (The big one, in the foyer, restraining order pending.) If there is a violence contained in these destructive urges, it is mitigated by its own unwieldly mass, endlessly flatulating elements framed in a kind of freeform collage, no doubt to be due on the forthcoming VOD 16lp box Vive Le Bruitisme: A Tribute To Jean-Marc Vivenza. Of Haikagura, that anyway was my first impression- concrete factory sound recordist project slapped overtop concrete factory sound recordist project ad absurdum, to net something approaching homage to the sort of industrial-strength gamelon oft encountered on Jean-Marc's own Electro Institute. Such an impression is not to be tempered by the contributions of the three additional Brits gracing the three part, forty-three minute, "Syntax Destruction" constituting Disc 1. Part I has Phil Julian of Cheapmachines assisting in the delivery of very wrinkled, woody, crinkle and crunkle. You say busy, I say workaholic. Workaholic: albeit unencumbered by particularly tight schedule, overwrought bangings and crashings entered and expunged at a meandering pace best described as "lackadaisical". Mercilessly, brutally, lackadaisical... or possibly plain shitfaced. Through it all, burnt cheapmachine electronics trade time with abused mics snuffling in the dirt, possibly digging their own grave, swallowed up in the fuglian medley of vinhilated belching and farting. As the two-disc set unfurls, the question inevitably arises, how to listen to this shit? The just as ready answer, how the in the bleeding sphinct should I know? With acoustic depths this abysmal, mileage will vary, wildly, depending upon the playback configuration and volume level specified- from bored stupid through to overwhelmed, utterly. Part II is by far the closest things get to legitimately harsh. To this I'd like to credit the assistance of Mark Durgan aka Putrefier. Compressed, heavily-saturated, high-frequency shimmerings sheer against the cacophony of a thousand tinhead tinklings to output an overload of near-puritannical, fleshmetal, fire. Part III, however, is easily the best Brit-assisted three-fer on offer. Perhaps Michael Gillham loses himself in the moment, or perhaps it is he who orders an easing of the all-out cacophonies. In any case, spaces are cleared somewhat, clutterous clang n bang deferring to heavier, more ponderous, thunder-bludger, conferring upon the slowly hammered whangs a credible size and definition, a real drama and gravitas. What works with the assistance of Gillham works just as well without. Just the duo of ARTBREAKHOTEL and TNB to be found on Disc 2 and here, free of additional Brits determinedly noising things up, it is even more apparent that a decisive clearing of air is precisely the thing to be needed. Impact: more classically TNBesque, at least the way I always envision them, acoustic percussives allowed their room to breathe, to draw attention slowly into an immersion of rugged fold, crooked crease. In contrast to Disc 1, the total event is structured by distinct movements, elements bric-a-brac'd to first crescendo nine minutes into "Huddle Concrete Demonstration". Low-pitched bell-tones underscore the nearly pastoral break in tension, though the moment soon passes as heavier, woodier developments begin to inundate, scouring methodically toward their second, and final, peak. Muted, mournful, droning announces "Unknown Soldier", the stout hero given a burial at sea of groaning heave, rusted thud. This is perhaps the most spacious offering of the set, and the most dramatic, the clambering clash of metals acquiring proportion that is genuinely gargantuan and genuinely inspired. Thus to the question "What's Ideology?" and the answer, evidently, "More of the same". The pace is a little more hectic, junked assemblage colliding with quite furious abandon, breaking away from the heavy-duty elements gracing the first two pieces and electing for straight-ahead slam-stammer-kablam. As layers keep piling up, fragments of sped-up voice begin to zip through the chaotic jumble signaling a final furious streak toward total collapse. A last blast of volume before cutting out for a three-minute denouement of minimal scrap-scrape through a gray and grainy dronefield.
Nobuo Yamada– Empty Time Of TNB cdr
Empty Time Of TNB commences with the fully fleshed out, fifteen minute, version of "Prickle/Crevice" as found on the Viva Negativa! box, Yamada-san deploying TNB source materials to superlative effect. In a word, mellow- a lovingly rendered re-rendering of the anti-vision, a well-ordered taming, one might say, of the chaos. Certainly there are sufficient layers, of junked screech, of twanged clunk. And there is a general progression toward increasingly dense layers of clink-a-bonk in motion. Still the mo is slow, crystalline in complexion, and the teeniest of fragments clear as a bright sunny day, streaks of daylight bathing stretches of broken, somewhat reverberant, drainage tunnel. Rubberneck squeals play against a light dusting of high-end feedback, a scattering of squashed aluminum empties rattling about edges. At no point does one feel like things are about to fall apart, however, quite an achievement for a piece this steeped in the art of collapse. "Objective Ground Level" is also found, in edited form, on the Viva Negativa! box, though the comp track is credited to Art Break rather than Mr Yamada. It is, in any event, sufficiently different as to be worthy of a different monicker, and I'm feeling generous because is good. Cycling assembly crane drags low-key thrum through steadily magnified arrangements of junked clamor, warm Organum-like atmospherics enveloped by intricate hydraulic textures. As with the best moments of TNB/ABH, there is a real sense of vast space thrilled into colorful sensation via the decisive positioning of resounding, steely, whang. "Empty Time" again conjures the Organum reference, a twenty-six minute opus pushing down the metallic clamorings and leaving their droning resonances to swell into life. This is a life empty of form, a mostly ghostly play of tinkly chime feeding back into massive swells of hollowed-out reverberance. At intervals, the harsher metallic fragments threaten to pierce the relative calm and these are the highlights. Point taken in any case: exhaust the TNB from the TNB and that does leave precious little to work with, not quite the negativa I might personally be inclined to viva, but hey to each perv his own perv-vision.
