I am a freelance journalist and writer. I focus on Mongolia, North-East Asian politics and Ethnomusicology
It is always a good sign when the imposing windows of Cafe Oto are misted up. If one could see through the condensation, if one could, with just one finger, remove the minuscule droplets amassed on the vertical plains, one would almost invariably spot fine music in the making. A woman, glass of red wine in hand, explains to her neighbour that, yes, this is jazz, but no, this is not like any other jazz.
Pink Floyd: The Division Bell (20th Anniversary Del...
Oh yes, the 1990s. I remember having the following conversation with a friend or two as another person was trying to hang the de rigueur Pulp Fiction poster on a wall right on top of a massive PC monitor:
- Do you think we’ll ever look back and celebrate this decade in music?
- No, not really. After all, what has come out that will be worth our time and attention in 10 years’ time?
The Beatles’ legacy is like that certain 19th century empire “on which the sun never sets, and whose bounds nature has not yet ascertained”. These are invisible, temporal confines, true but, still, there is a subtly disturbing feeling of uneasiness behind this concept. There’s a reassuring, yet creepy awareness that certain ideas can’t be perfected, and yet they remain the paradigm through which art must be—sometimes unwittingly—judged.
The worst thing that could happen to a scribe is to run out of coffee. Or write about their favourite artist. The two things combined are directly responsible for this review, and although I won’t apologise for the possibly flawed discourse that follows this brief introduction, I need to make it clear from the very beginning: if you’re after a rant about how pretentious Farina’s Karate have been, or how melodramatically his solo career has been developing in the last two decades, keep looking.
One should never inconvenience Socrates when discussing the whats and hows of electronic music. One should always refrain from making reference to the allegedly enduring nature of music because, after all, unlike “sound”, a tune is a filthy product of mere reworking of the truth.
Con-tre-temps. The word itself retains a certain musicality, but the aftertaste it leaves once the three syllables have been pronounced undeniably betrays a latent feeling of uneasiness.
Cortar Todo materializes roughly six years after Zu’s previous album, Carboniferous, and its task is indeed of a difficult nature. Not only had these Romans achieved an almost perfect balance between experimentalism and fluidity while on a mission to engage a wider audience, but the outcome managed to arouse interest well outside their niche.
Like pure mathematics, Tristan Perich’s music is something else. Waves or quanta? Mass or abstraction? One or zero? The focus of the discussion could be confined to the aesthetics, but in doing so we would lose sight of the method; vice versa, aim at analyzing the mode and you will never fully appreciate the principles of his art.
With its shocking outcome, this trial might result in an increase in violence in the Xinjiang region, where protests for the mistreatment of a moderate voice could motivate the more radical factions.