See bottom of this post for digest commentary.torba - musica convenzionaletorba, increasingly, sounds like torba. And this, a manifesto of sorts re-presenting some ten years of scrupulous RAW, is quite possibly the most torba-like of them all. No accident that, but don't take my word for it, here's the
good signor himself-
The material contained in this forty-minute track outlines a sort of manifesto designed to (re)organize the results of the sound/aesthetics research carried under the moniker torba in the first ten years of activity of the project.torba. Intricate weave of hefty-boy gristle-blurt, flat flatulent chunks so craftily un-tidy in their oh-so-in-delicate, precision-guided, dis-arrangement, bearings as saucily suggested as violently expunged, the rug pulled out, the dark chasm gaping, the plunge, certain death, the warm bath, the cold shower, long nail dragging slowly along chalkboard, clicking heels, fishnets, the mind's eye caught and spiraling infinitely upwar- THWAP! Do pay attention, Slutbag.
delicious shiver.
By torba convention, the digital re-presentation is certainly a long-y. Approximately twice the cassette-borne tendency (though a distinct splitting into parts at the approximate half-way point may suggest craftily sandwiched amalgam of two more tapes). And although ten years is the stated range of materials under (re)organization, there is a marked skew toward the more recent crunch-lite inflection. But don't take it from me, here again is the
good signor-
credo di essere sospeso in una dimensione virtuale al confine tra certe pratiche di ricerca estetica legate alla sound art, il calderone oscuro del noise/industrial e il versante più radicale della musica elettroacustica accademica o para-accademica. Inutile dirti che nessuno di questi ambienti riconosce Torba come prole propria e da questa continua negazione traggo la forza di continuare.My Italian's is a bit rusty, so I had to consult google translate. In rough summary,
"As far as I'm concerned, all you harshdorks can choke on my fat salami." Regardless of one's position vis the fat salami, the pure fetid stench of industrial strength DENSE is of consistently eye-watering percolation. The dense is in the details, in the layers. Fat flatulent layers to counterpoint the late departure from fat flatulent crunch. Which may meet the least of expectations given the decade-long (re)pping of hefty-boy tenor. Still, it's not the heft that counts, it's what you do with it. What is here done approaches a virtuosity veritas what might give even the harshdork pause.
Pause.
Kick off with soft soothing drone (for harshdork) broken by semi-frantic banging at the L/R edge, edging to break free of custodial rumble-frieze. In a blink, the dense. Dead center of wide open field, layers layers layers, glittering detail, twittering birds, chattering insects, large slabs of mud unceremoniously slopped onto their collective heads, perspective dragged, by hairy lobe, over grassy knoll, scraping roughly against loosely stowed mic, buffeted by ill-tempered winds. A trap door opens, sudden swells of chaotic cacophonous din, orchestra setting up, pluck of lower octave piano string, disembodied voices gripped with pending excitement, anticipations punctured somewhat by front-and-center sound of some sorry sod literally choking on maestro's fat salami, flashback into constrictive closets of savage, more physical thump n bustle. A certain industrious bulge, a meaty heft to this non-scape, the otherwise busy mass of meander swiftly filling up with faintly feeding-back metallic buzz-tinge.
By about the seventh minute an almost darkened dialog of buzzing whir, industrious bees scrabbling against cratered hexagonal apertures. Rough cut metal riffage dumped into sewage pipes, the familiar disembodied voices, protesting squeal of rusted hinge. Now at ten minutes and the faintest dregs of orchestral din fight moldy machinations of petulant, gag-inflected, machine murmur, long sigh, raspy exhalation, steadily surging pick-up over rumbling guts of malformed turdhills.
At no point is one really invited to get one's bearings, but neither does this feel rushed or uneven. However rough- or abrupt- the cut, there's a sense of follow through or flow. The band-cum-orchestra-setting-up-to-disembodied-voices serves as irregular repetitive motif to almost not quite anchor proceedings at unsteady intervals. Into these intervals prances spandex-clad assemblage in off-balance arrhythmic poise, delicate pirouette in counterpoint to gut-punched dis-sensitivity of steadily self-administered heimlich, yes ladies and gentlemen, the party of the century! Beers, steers, wall-to-wall vomit, fat salami choking out its meaty exertions.
Going in for the kill. Insectile scrabbling. Mechanical insectile scrabbling. Shuffling. Low undertone holding down attentions, conveying the necessary heft, brute sense of ill-formed mass lurching headlong down broken path, granite slabs cracking under the weight, a constant descent, or ascent, or (re)capitulation, a crease, folding open onto new horizons, all of them somewhat scraggy, grey, foreboding, crated ridges undermined, exhumed, the maggot ridden underbelly exposed, wriggling scuttling bleeding, surge of blackened flows, crumbling, breaking away, upward, higher, higher still, higher end acquiring distinct ear-bleed feedback-rasp, achieving its vomited-back, choking, climactic chunder at the twenty second minute.
From here, the lay of the land, or lands, however fractured, is somewhat familiar, as though we are condemned to re-live the whole sorry spectacle- in reverse. Immediate headfirst immersion into deformed multi-layered storage facility, or dockyard, proportions all fucked, multi-dimensions of de-rhythm'd vivenzational clamor angling in fucked up proportion through one ear out the other. Certainly no calm in this chaos, more pleasant if vaguely unsettled resignation that sense is not made, rather an atmosphere grasped, held tight, embraced. New standards. New conventions. The new noise. The music.
Digest spew:The manifesto. Rumors of its demise have been greatly exaggerated. This particular manifesto, of sorts, is (re)organized in such a way as to mute or at least subdue the crunchier harshdork urgings otherwise indulged across the discog, but not to an extent that readily breaks with established torba convention.
The first chapter of a trilogy (informally) called Le Musiche is possessed of weight, industrial-strength hefty boys, massed clusters continuously threatening to donkey-punch chunky crunch-holes in the in-delicate, precision-guided, dis-arrangements, never quite making good on the harshpromise, but delivering the requisite dosage of DENSE and RAW.
