MUTEK Day Two. The panel discussions are held in a lecture hall at the Goethe Institute. They're chaired by journalist Philip Sherbourne, who proves his mettle as chair over the next two days by being extremely eloquent and inquisitive, and always keeping the discussion moving fluidly.
The purpose of these events, as I see it (besides making MUTEK's activities more interdisciplinary) is to assemble a great number of differing opinions in one room so that all in attendance are exposed to as many ideas as possible. It becomes readily apparent that there are few things that the panel or the audience members can agree on. That's not to say that the discourse is combative, actually it's the complete opposite, as the speakers from the panel and the audience speak in a refined and academic manner. But I'd expect nothing less. Firstly, many of the attendants are artists, journalists, or label reps, so they naturally spend a non-trivial amount of time thinking about these issues during their daily lives. But more crucially, "electronic" music fits a substantial number of styles and definitions under its umbrella, which in turn draws a gigantic hodgepodge of people and opinions to MUTEK events. So never mind looking for agreement on a definition of what electronic music is or what it should be (stay tuned for tomorrow's panel). People haven't just wandered in for this afternoon's event, they've brought their axe to grind.
I'm no different. Yesterday, I wrote about how easy it is to find information and articles about MUTEK in the Montreal print media. The writing "style" of these articles was indistinguishable from the articles covering any other type of music. That doesn't surprise me in the least because they were "general" entertainment publications. This year, there's a small mural at SAT beside the merchandise booth made up of print articles about MUTEK and its performers. They're all from the "general" media. Rupert Bottenberg, the music editor for the weekly Montreal Mirror, is himself a big fan of electronic music, but admits that when writing about it in his paper, it's necessary to cater to the "lowest common denominator", i.e. readers who likely know almost nothing about the scene. At least, that's how I interpret the phrase "lowest common denominator".
If you open a magazine such as Grooves or XLR8R, there's more that separates it from the writing in the Montreal Mirror than just name dropping. Reviews are written with long, complicated sentences where adjectives are more than comfortable to roost at their will. There is a lot of effort in precisely describing what the music sounds like, just as in the main articles, artists are precise, sometimes absurdly so, about what their music sounds like and what their composing philosophies are. It is a far denser form of journalism, and it's a style that I am completely clumsy in trying to emulate, so I don't bother trying anymore. But do magazines like Grooves dictate the "style" of electronic music journalism? Does electronic music need its own journalism style? I enjoy electronic-centric magazines, but personally, I find articles in the general publications to be livelier. And it's not merely due to the simpler language, it's because there's a stronger emphasis on storytelling and personalities rather than the hows and whats of the music making process.
It's a journalist's job to dig beneath the surface and learn something new about a subject. The panel agrees that readers don't want to hear only about the music, they want to know what happens before the music is made. They want to know, points out journalist Heath Hignight, why if you gather a bunch of electronic musicians in a room (like this very spot) and ask about their pets, you'll find that there are "many cats but not as many dogs".
There is much discussion about how artists behave during interviews. The journalists agree that the people making the best music may be a terrible interview, and vice versa. Undoubtedly, these impressions can affect the way an artist is marketed. However, the culture tends to breed reserved geniuses who make music in their bedrooms, instead of those who dream of being flashy rock stars. Often, touring is a much more effective promotion method. "Touring is everything", states Force Inc.'s Jon Berry. Touring gets local press, so even if the CD is over a year old, it becomes relevant again.
CBC's Patti Schmidt feels that the "vigilantly curious" rave kids will withdraw from clubs and buy electronic music. That's as fine an opinion on the subject as I've ever heard.
I grind my axe on the subject of vinyl. Does the panel feel that the accessibility of the vinyl format is a major issue? If an artist releases most, or all of his or her music on vinyl, how do you market it to people who don't own record players? Jon says that the do send white labels to journalists, but the real problem is the turnaround of the magazines. Journalists can write about vinyl releases, but by the time the review gets printed, the record is no longer in the stores. He's certainly correct, but I don't feel that the panel (or anyone else I talked to on the subject, for that matter) feels that vinyl is a major issue. Just wait for the tour or the CD and let the publicity from them take over.
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I'm somewhat dismayed to find that SAT's free Emergence series has used a different layout this year, putting the artists on the stage rather than in a cramped corner at the front. I liked last yea's setup because having the artist physically marginalized created a novel "happy hour" feel, with the beer and the socializing taking center stage with musical accompaniment just happening to be provided by cutting edge artists. It soon becomes apparent that at least one reason for the metamorphosis is the need to use the video equipment. This afternoon becomes a meshing of the visual with the aural, on par with anything from the previous night at Ex-Centris.
Ten seconds into the Monolake-Deadbeat webjam and my eyes are transfixed on the video screen, my ears already taking delight in the riches pounding forth from the nearby speakers. Their music-making interface is displayed for all to see, with the various components (bass, clicks, beats, metallic sounds, etc.) laid out into easy-to-follow horizontal eight bar sections. To add a note or sound to the music, all one does is point and click at the desired spot in one of the stanzas. Scott's additions are in blue, Rob's are in red. All is composed on the fly. In real time. And following it is as easy as watching the bouncing ball - white dots sweep through the stanzas indicating the position in the music.
It appears so simple and so much fun. And by its nature, unpredictable since one's partner in composition is thousands of miles away. Thus, Deadbeat finds out what Monolake is doing at exactly the same time as everyone else in SAT. And therefore, it is challenging as well. A veritable subplot to the performance consisted of following Deadbeat's mouse around the screen as he contemplated his next move.
Oh yeah, all this sounded exactly like Deadbeat jamming with Monolake. What did you expect?
They stop after thirty minutes and I'm exhausted. My eyes are tired from keeping up with the chess game on the big screens. The next two artists also project their wares on the video screens, but knowing next to nothing about gear, I find it more difficult to follow. Alexandre Burton has an resembles an interface electronics setup, that is, a series of boxes and meters linked together by straight coloured lines. His rumbling, out-worldly ambient music begins with one such circuit and begins to grow into a bustling colony of circuits via the copy and paste. Not only is he composing music, he's composing art. Eventually, the screen and speakers are abuzz with activity, until his computer crashes and truncates the performance.
Some people can watch this stuff and talk gear, but I expect that most are ignorant like me. But watching the music get made removes the mystery, and dare I say it, fear of the unknown that can be experienced when confronted with an otherwise well-adjusted young male making a large room shake and quiver via a mere click of a mouse. This type of full disclosure can only breed respect for the tasks the artists perform, and I'd even go so far to say that it adds the face to the prototypical "faceless" electronic artist. However, the Deadbeat/Monolake show has something else going for it that the others do not - a palpable DIY aesthetic. Yes, it had a conventional 4/4 beat structure, which is intuitively easier to follow than anything beatless or abstract, but I couldn't stop thinking "gee I'd like to try that, and I think I already understand how it all works". That sort of thinking is very punk. It inspires people to create their own music or at least glean enjoyment from it, both of which they previously had been too reluctant or intimidated to do. Wanna market electronic music to a general audience? Let them watch these performances. Remove some of the mystery. Open up.
I'm hopelessly lost trying to comprehend Zach Settel's x-y graphs and clueless as to when he cues the hip-hop beats, but duul_drv soon calm me down with their mellow ambience and comforting visuals (coloured dots, pale sunset hues, etc.). At this point, the "show" starts competing with the "background music to the after-work" vibe and the latter wins out as the performance goes on. But I suspect that dull_drv expect it that way. Their music is so calming and their mannerisms so subdued. Eventually, I give in.
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The evening brings me back to Ex-Centris, the building with the hardwood floor so immaculate you can eat off it. Although nobody does, sitting, lounging, and prone position are again in abundance.
A detailed description can't capture the mood here tonight, or at least I am not the person to provide the appropriate words. Suffice to say that the performances were deeply rooted in avant-garde and musique concrete, found sounds and echoes are thick in the air, and each performance lasts several tens of minutes yet seems to pass in five. That is, except for local talent Ghislain Poirier, who may have wandered into the wrong venue. Yes, his unconventional bears and thick layers of echo are enjoyable, but he has little in common with the other three artists.
Helen of Troy does something I've always longed to see: repetitive sampling. He plays the violin, samples a few notes, plays some more, samples that, builds a massive chorus of violins and continues sampling and sampling his samples and sampling that … until the timbre decays into an eerie wail, recalling the hard-to-find layers deep beneath the heavy guitar gauze on MBV records …
Stephan Mathieu, flanked by a glacially chameleonic video screen, soothes me to the core with drones resembling a cross between chimes and choruses, and electroacoustic hum which is so calming, I stretch myself out (never feeling tired for a moment) and reveled in putting my ear to the floor and listening to it purr.
Janek Schaeffer has set up his gear on an ankle high platform and the crowd gathers around him like folkies with guitars around a campfire. I mark out every time he touches his two-arm turntable, marveling at the rustic homebuilt instrument and try to pick out the vinyl sounds within the mix. It's difficult at times, but it's remarkable how much the mood of the music changes with a simple twist of the pitch knob - from dreary to spellbindingly intense with just a slight turn. He commands just as much attention after his performance as during, for people gather around, eager to study his gear and ask questions. Thus, he holds court, patiently answering all questions asked of him. He tells me that he cuts his vinyl in the old-school fashion by feeding back sounds through a grammophone and using the stylus as a cutting tool. He demonstrates how the arm slips from groove to groove, which is essentially a random occurance but can be influenced by changing speed or putting objects on the record. I watch as he places a double A battery on the record, lets it go, and observe how the arm hits the battery, causing the needle to jump to a different groove, each time a different groove for each rotation, turn after turn, again and again. It's hypnotizing, much like watching a fire.
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Some of the star power has been subtracted from the nights' events at SAT, as "Gescom DJ's" were a late scratch. Skam, the label, may not be as mythic as Gescom, the artists, aka Autechre (+various others?) not-so-secret side project. With the DJ's absence, the question of who exactly would have shown up remains a mystery. Yeah, I could probably find out if I wanted to, but I'd prefer not to. I want to preserve the myth and not risk disconsolation in the answer.
Thus, this night has no real theme or direction, since there's no Skam doubleheader, so it's now a random collection of artists. Plus, none of them are featured on the MUTEK compilation. The combination of these likely relegates the night to great anonymity, for without the "theme" and the omission from the prime historical record (the CD compo), this night will be remembered as inessential.
It starts with yet another 80's revue, with Solvent vs Lowfish bringing back memories of primordial electro and EBM. It continues with the mythical Bola, whose appearance does not disappoint. When one goes years between releases and live gigs, you'd expect nothing less than all the stops pulled out. And he complies by mainly avoiding the blippy curiosities that have surfaced on Skam lately, and covering his songs in the lush ambience that he's best known for. This is accompanied by a gorgeous set of visuals, treading the metallic roboticism meets organic naturalism of Warp's "Motion" video from so many years ago, a concept which holds up brilliantly today. The organic side, which I've found to be lacking in recent Skam releases, holds up its end during the newer, funkier numbers.
Without Gescom, the vibe is completely lost following Bola's performance and many don't bother to stick around for Ensemble. His tendency to blow apart a perfectly good beat of serene moment with enough noise to make Merzbow proud keeps people flowing toward the doors. I am of the opposite opinion. The noise is a welcome part of his set, and a hearty middle finger to those who can't be troubled to hear it.
