Into the new year... Pete Morton/Gren Bartley gig...

It's been a while... but I have been buried away working on a new project in between the usual annoying illness/fatigue.  I have not been to any gigs recently either - but that changes on Friday incoming - 3d February - when I'll be down at the Swan in the Rushes, in God's Little Acre, for a gig headlined by one of my favourite musicians/writers etc.  Pete Morton.  Who will be supported by Gren Bartley, in what should prove to be a fascinating mix of acoustic styles.  Couple of vids on the TappedButSettling site to give a flavour of both...

Review: Colour out of Space Festival, Brighton, Sunday, 13th February, 2011

Woke up after not much sleep with an appalling hangover but realised that staggering into the hotel breakfast was going to be a good idea... Somewhat refreshed - we talk in relative terms - I scanned the program for the day – and went back to bed. But come 1 pm I was down at the Sallis Benney, determined to bear witness to as much as my knackered-up body could stand. Cat Hawed were first off the blocks – three musicians from Helhesten and Towering Breaker – and played a stunning set, I thought. Starting in chamber music mode, accentuated by the use of clarinet, perhaps, although it was played on the extremes of register, poised and balanced as they tested the day, building to a roar as the form spread to encompass wilder sounds, loosely corralled, as it were, by intelligence. Bad Orb (Sarah Albury's solo vehicle) – standing stage left to the side of the projections on screen at the ubiquitous rummage sale table holding her electronics, voicing: ur ur ur repeated/recorded into the mike (Ur-Sounds?) to be bounced back and manipulated as source material, backdrop to a film, triangular motif and bird image recurring – superb in the marriage of sight and sound here. My day was off to a good start (no sight of Hugh Metcalfe-ian strategies so far). Martin Klapper's take on home movies was fascinating, old footage transformed by his bespoke techniques, dragged down slightly by the music which was a trifle cartoony, but the general flow pulled it along beyond annoyance. Other films that grabbed me: Stuart Pound's 'Breath Dance,' a cool hokey cokey in which the film stops, jumps back, moves on to create a stylised dance of pedestrians in Trafalgar Square. 'I'll raise you like a mother,' by Violaine Bergoin was a disturbing meditation on the trial and execution of the Ceasescu's, live horrific soundtrack placed over images of family life. With Gaddafi's recent televised demise fresh in the mind, it's worth quoting Violaine's remarks about her film:

'This piece is a reconstitution of a precise moment of my life, as a 8 year old, during an everyday family dinner and the broadcasting of the Ceauescu couple being trialled and executed. When Elena Ceauescu cried for her life, screaming to the guards taking her "I'll raise you all like a mother", which was then dubbed in French, my heart stopped and these words have been haunting me ever since and has been bringing impressions of déjà- vu until now. Today it has become a banality to watch upheavals, wars, famines, executions, genocides at 8 o'clock news within a familial structure. Yet the conflicts in this world may reflect our disabilities to communicate which results in decaying relationships. Maybe wars start within families first and expand to massive proportions.'

Back down to the Old Market for the last leg of the festival. Just in time to catch Ninni Morgia and Silvia Kastel, great wild guitar and howled vocals, processed and chopped about. Abruptly moving into a hard thumping beat as they rocked out – one that got some of the audience idiot dancing. I missed the beginning of Maja Jantar's set. A slight, slim figure on the side stage who displayed a wide range of vocal techniques – singing in tongues avant scat which segued at one point into a cool version of 'Cry me a river.' And back again. Noticeable for being able to hold a large crowd with nothing but voice . Vom Grill was loud, vocal contortions put through the electronic shredder, turning his vocals inside out. (YouTube vid here of a performance in Paris a couple of years back).

Then on to Vinyl Terror and Horror, Camilla Sørensen and Greta Christensen's duo who upturn turntablism as they use records as source material for their manipulations. Breaking open the straight box of DJing to reveal many other worlds inside, which were then explored intensively, their collective intelligence produced some of the best music of the weekend for this old boy. Cracks, crashes, pops, scratches, sudden bursts of trombones, choirs, voices wrenched out of the grooves into new configurations. Superb!

Unfortunately for me, the last act of the weekend. Dog Lady. Mike Collino is from Detroit and I fancifully thought I could hear the ghosts of old machines from the auto assembly plants in the subterranean chunks of sound grinding against each other. Across which he lashes some fragments of violin to be tossed and processed through his electronics rig.  Great set - after which reluctantly I had to go...

Final thoughts: a fantastic weekend. Large emphasis this year on sound poetry, hardly any jazz, lots of interesting films and multi-media, Colour out of Space back and firing on all cylinders. The new main venue at the Old Market looks like a winner, the crowds who turned up throughout must surely signal a success. Thanks to all who made it happen. And hopefully it will be on again next year

Another viewpoint here...
complete with ten minute snapshot overview.
 

Review: Colour out of Space Festival, Brighton, Saturday, 12th November, 2011

Saturday: strolled somewhat painfully from the hotel to the Sallis Benney (where the whole festival used to be held) for the afternoon sesh of film and sonics. Too much walking over the previous couple of days had left me somewhat hors de combat. I didn't stay for the whole event but caught Blue Yodel (Fiona Kennedy's solo gig) which cleansed my synapses suitably. Slew of good films: one that impressed me by its unsettling weirdness was 'Trypps#6 Malobil' by American Ben Russell. Catch a glimpse here...http://vimeo.com/6975261 A group of presumably white people in strange costumes come out of a building in a tropical village, soundtracked by drumming, walk through the assembled locals as off-camera sharp reports like gunfire occur sporadically. Some simulated sex. Some collision of cultures going on. If the A Band ever go on tour to South America, it could be like this. Ho ho. Apparently shot in the Maroon village of Malobe in Suriname. One of those films that lodge in your brain and will rerun over and over. Disturbing in a way it is difficult to describe.

Jeff Keen's movie was a psychedelic blast, fast moving streams of collage/images. But one bummer: never having seen Hugh Metcalfe live, I will never make the mistake of doing so in the future. The movie of his trip to an Austrian festival was embarrassing, to say the least. He used to team up with the late Bob Cobbing but his wanky repeating of phrases along the lines of: 'I fucking don't give a shit/Shit I fucking don't give/Give I fucking don't a shit' etc ad nauseam came across as some bad attempt at sound poetry/was just plain stupid. The barriers were broken a long way back, old cock. He looked like a middle-aged geography teacher trying to get down with the kidz.  How trangressive it all was. Called his ad hoc group: 'Turd Class.' Says it all, really. Maybe he should start a 'Feral Choir' (one of my other pet hates). Or as Bruce Sterling once said: 'If you want a sustained, independent and transgressive community that can’t be co-opted by society at large, you need to get out of the boho art scene, and right into organized crime.'

On a weekend bursting with creativities of all kinds, this was pathetic. But thanks for the warning...

Evening and back at the Old Market. Festivals are always over-loaded – it's difficult to get to every act, even when back to back in one place. Economies of thirst, urination etc, plus in my case, juggling with fatigue. So the night became truncated – more by accident in the end, it has to be said, when I ended up watching the boxing on Sky down the Conqueror, then became engrossed in conversations/new meetings with interesting people. But I caught Martin Klapper and Martin Jezek's set: video backdrop with electronics which were loud and crunchy but always moving forward, falling almost into conventional rhythms at times which kept them on track. Again, the performance filled the time with a logic that manifested through its form. Good stuff – and a Saturday feel now, hall crowded and buzzing early. This was going to be a sweaty, uncomfortable night... yet even the mob would fall silent when impressed, which is the hallmark of this festival. Where I was standing by the merch stalls, I thought I had taken a good vantage point for PeterFengler's segment, but more and more people pressed in – yet settled down quickly enough to enjoy the 'show.' Entitled 'Baroque/Non Baroque, I think. Which was as if Samuel Beckett had scripted a surreal cabaret for Tommy Cooper. Completely deadpan, based on repetitions of actions, stances and speech that seemed to inject obscure meanings into banal gestures, Fengler held this audience, slowly overcoming puzzlement and random chatter. And he was very funny. Suddenly jumping onto a low table, bending forward on hands and knees, lifting a leg and holding the pose. Bouncing a ball on the stage – my OCD took over and I found myself counting the number of repetitive acts until I stopped myself – tapping bits of wood. Scrunching a plastic cup while wrenching his head around in both hands to simulate colliding vertabrae. Again – difficult to describe why this was entertaining. He stretched patience to breaking point, then you realised that he was skilfully and dryly hilarious.

YouTube to the rescue again gives a flavour of the man...

The next section I caught was PC Fencott (aided by Robin Fencott), veteran of sound/word experimentation for many years, another link to the late Bob Cobbing, one of the dominant spirits in the air this weekend, it seemed.

Playing with some computer graphics that manipulated words, he presented 'Paradiddle Rox,' his voice processed into loops and echoes, creating a wild choir from his solo readings. But his best piece for me was a poem about the experience of sea-diving off the coast somewhere oop north. Foregrounding literally the poetics of breath, he simulated the gulps of air in a diver's mouthpiece in between the lines that described the experience of submergence and movement under water. Catching the paradox: freedom and the claustrophobia of being trapped in the body's need for oxygen, the element of danger in navigating under the sea. He held the audience rapt – then brought them in to join in on the last piece which involved singing out lines that echoed across the hall in overlapping waves. Like folk music almost, but more interesting... How this generates its own order is ultimately fascinating and just using the most basic flexible units available – human voices. Superb.

Catch some of his Colour out of Space performance here http://www.youtube.com/user/CliveFencott

I moved forward and found a space by a door.  The crowd was filling the hall now, with more and more pressing in.  Leather jacket off as the heat was rising from the proximity of so many - upon which someone managed to spill beer.  An accident, a jogged arm.  I realised as more people were struggling to get in that this venue must be approaching some danger limit for occupancy. We were waiting for Rainonbashi and Dylan Nyoukis: someone in a blindfold slipped by and crouched briefly as disembodied noises and voices came through the sound system. Setting an eery atmosphere... The figure disappeared into the crowd, tracked by flashes that came from his seemingly randomly taking of digital photographs. An experiment in unease? I decided to go and left for the Conqueror and the boxing. A fascinating and potentially disturbing experience but I don't like crowds when they are jammed so close and figured with some incipient paranoia that it would just take one psychedelic voyager in the crush to flip into bad vibesville and a stampede could have been on.

Not so much seen and heard, then, but most of it satisfyingly hitting the right spots.

For now - before the other reviews go up - collage from Colour out of Space Festival, 2011

Lots of distractions this week but the remaining two reviews will go up by the weekend (honest). But just stumbled over this via Anthony Donovan out of Dylan Nyoukis.  A reminder not so much of all the great stuff I caught but all the good shit I missed...

Review: Colour out of Space Festival, Brighton, Friday night, 11th November, 2011...

I got down to this new main venue for the first evening of 'Colour out of Space,' The Old Market, picked up my ticket and wristband, checked the schedules, had a drink in the bar and realised that: a) I don't really like Peroni and b) I would probably spend more time between acts in the Conqueror just round the corner, a great old-school boozer with a friendly welcome, which I had scoped out on psychogeographic reconnaissance the previous evening.  (Butcombe bitter, yum. Double Jack D – cheap. More yum).

The venue itself, a converted market hall, is high-ceilinged, a larg-ish space with a few chairs scattered which geriatrics/the knackered like myself would eagerly pounce on over the next few days. A bit like that kid's game, except you grab a seat when the music starts... The running order looked as tight as ever with quick turnarounds – everything was going to happen in the one space but rotating from the main stage to a small stage situated near the back, to the side, plus various performances that would take place out in the open, as it were. Gave a bazaar-like quality to the listening experience, wandering round from each set. Tonight this would not be too much of a problem – good crowd but not too oppressive.

First up: the Eisteddfod kicked off with Tobias Kirsten and John Lunds, a sax/drum duo from Copenhagen. Short repeated phrases on baritone sax, hammered out in tandem with the crashing drums. Free jazz meets Steve Reich, if that makes sense – improvised but hurled into repeating patterns that subtly shift, driven along by relentless drums. Lunds switches saxes, moving up to tenor, the lines get longer, freer. An exhilarating start...

Next, Infinite Gaah, Tom Roberts, a Northampton denizen transplanted to Brighton. I missed most of this short segment and came in to see the small side stage surrounded. Didn't have much idea what was going on – seemed like a good time as the crowd were enjoying it. And there was a lot of fun over the three days – Colour out of Space has always provides a large variety of musics but is never too po-faced, unlike, say, Freedom of the City, which has become somewhat, shall we say, ponderous. The young crowd help – this is not a congregation of old gits like myself, sat around scratching their beards in solemn witness, thank fuck. (Although I wasn't the oldest here).

Anthony Donovan and Clive Graham followed, on the main stage. I managed to get a good spot down front, stage left – not that position mattered much in this hall as the sound was superb throughout.  Duo  electronics, sat at the table looking quite serious, they produced an orchestral, busy movement that did not falter. Which is the test of all these improvising artists/bands – to fill the time without noodling and to hold the audience. I know Anthony's work from other areas but this was very impressive. They fitted together well, not getting in each other's way.

Back to the bear pit – getting crowded now. I hovered on the edge of the crowd, got a few glimpses of Aki Onda in action, who has a wonderful sense of the theatric/visual to frame his music. Which comes from manipulating cassette tapes. With minimal resources he produced amazing sounds, warm and organic, etched with harsher sounds further in. Starting in pastoral mode, a cuckoo calling, a bell sounding, tapes looped and crossed. Very calm, meditative, the ritualistic feeling extended when he proceeded to walk round the edge of the crowd, some sitting, some standing, all in rapt attention, a small amplifier with Walkman attached, gently swinging like a censer, wafting sound. Ok, fanciful – but there seemed a spiritual aspect somewhere. Bringing in drones now and sharper fragments of song, things shifted into an edgier area. Nearing the end, he suddenly grabbed hold of a lightbulb which hung down from the ceiling on a wire and swung it in a long looping arc just over the heads of the assembled, some ducking instinctively as it described its swirling movements. Wonder what Elf and Safety would have said. The light spun round giving an eery finish to a superb performance. In a weekend when it was difficult to pick favourites – this came near.

Couple of short observations:

Wreck and Drool and Smack Music 7 – three piece ensemble. In my notebook I scrawled 'Brilliant! A BAND!' Vocalised sounds sprung across electronic movements, the whole being loose in its expansive possibilities and yet tight because of the artists' concentrations.

Lichen starts walking round playing his sax, moving over to electronics and loops that produce LOUD throbbing music. Punchy.

The last act I caught ( I didn't stay right to the end) was a brilliant flourish: Crank Sturgeon and 

id m theftable. A duo who truly tests one's abilities to describe them. Vaudeville on acid? was one scrawled note. They were extremely funny while producing a continuous barrage of intelligent sound, showcased by their intensely wacky visual éclat and their ability to engage the audience – such as crazed, bemused chants repeated over and over by id, echoed back by the crowd in wild call and response mode as Crank used thick cellotape with a contact mike attached to produce a battery of sounds as he ran backwards and forwards across the stage, securing the tape to either side, producing several rows, on which he hung himself at one point, arms akimbo in an almost parody of the Crucifixion. Jesus on a washing line... Later, producing a number of cut-out phalluses which were attached – cocks pegged out in a row. Some smutty interplay with these of course. Bizarre – and hilarious.

Loud, raucous, rude. Loved it. Some weird area where performance art crashes into standup comedy, noise and home made electronics (Crank had a merch stall throughout and was flogging his own custom built contact mikes. Nearly bought one but I've a drawer full already and a boy's gotta economise.  But check out his web page - they look really good).  Crank is a whispy bearded thin prankster, id, big, burly full-bearded with an air of outraged bewilderment at the world.  The chemistry between them is superb.  Of course, I share religious beliefs with Crank – also being an ordained minister. (Available for weddings etc). A side thought: American acts, in the main, always seem to make an effort to engage. A big difference usually between them and the Europeans...

I was tired, run out of steam, left for a brief one in the Conqueror and walked back down the sea-front, which left me even more tired when I got to the hotel! Further than I had figured... 

But a great opening night.

Return to God's Little Acre... Colour out of Space reviews to follow...

Back home in God's Little Acre... oh joy.  Had a stroll round the Artist's Quarter and a slow pint in the Unicorn where I had a look at the usual mess of notes I make at festivals.  This year's Colour out of Space has prompted even more bizarre scrawls/signs/smears in the old moleskine - given that there was a large theme of sound poetry etc perhaps the ghost of Bob Cobbing crept into my hotel when I was akip and vented his inscribed pleasures on those pages from beyond the beyond... (Stranger things have happened - he was certainly invoked a few times over the weekend).  But reviews will follow, honest.  Just to say - a big shout out to Dylan and co for another trailblazer of skronk and wahoo loaded with mucho epiphanies, which is as it should be - and hopefully will be again next year.  They got the vote out in high numbers.   The Old Market a good venue, in tandem with the afternoon stuff at the Sallis Benney.  So much was enjoyed and now being mulled over.  Fucking cold back here as well after such a brilliant few days...
Later...

Jeez, am I hungover...i But a great afternoon of film and music at the sallis binney venue.