Tag Archives: Bastro

Recidivist, ep. 1: Autechre, Thomas Brinkmann

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Insomnia-filled nights get me to thinkin’ about all sorts of random things. Tonight’s few hours of attempted-but-failed sleep got me on a nostalgic kick, thinking back to days of high school when my best buddy Jesse LeBus and I published a short-lived scandal sheet called The Recidivist (named for a Bastro song, natch). It only really lasted maybe one issue, and I vaguely recall it being a broadside against our high school administration’s perceived hypocracies — nevermind the fact that we were using the school’s computers to edit and publish the dang thing. Ah, the folly of youth. We got in some minor trouble (if that? I don’t recall much), and the whole thing blew over. Maybe if we had stuck with it, or had developed a sense of tact, we could’ve made it into a school paper-y thing, complete with stories and cultural reportage of the day (perhaps an essay or two on how Pearl Jam blows, dude?). But we never were ones for sticking with anything.

At some point in the early morning hours, as the birds started a-chirpin’, I started thinking of another, more worthy snapshot of a place and time even longer gone, that of Mr. Tom Johnson‘s excellent book, The Voice of New Music, a collection of his music criticism that was originally published in the Village Voice from 1972 to 1982 (you can download the whole shebang here — ain’t the internet wonderful?). I read this worthy tome when an undergrad, workin’ on some Tony Conrad stuff, and this book was an incredible resource not only on the specifics of the changes that were taking place in the downtown NYC snooty music scene, but also of a general cultural context that’s sorta disappeared (even if I’d bet more people listen to weird music now more than they did back then).

Big whoop, sez you. All right, all right, so here’s the point: instead of trying to recreate some old feelings about music and cultural what-have-you that would just about be impossible, I thought I’d start a new thing on this blog dedicated to looking back at some music I probably haven’t listened to in a long time, and in the process I hope to share some ideas about the music, the time in which I first experienced it (and how), and just whatever other random stuff may bubble up to the surface. So here goes, episode one of Recidivist…

Autechre, Chiastic Slide (Warp)
Thomas Brinkmann, Klick (max.E.)

Chiastic Slide

Funnily enough, I’ll begin the first installment with two records that have nothing to do with either my high school or college years, unlike the reminiscences that inspired this series. Though I certainly knew of and enjoyed many records on the esteemed Warp label through my college years, it probably wasn’t until I picked up Autechre‘s Chiastic Slide sometime in the summer of 1998 (though it was released in 1997) that everything started to, uh, click (no pun intended). I was a fan of their previous records Amber and Tri Repetae, but Chiastic Slide was the one, maaaaan. Listening to it again last night while reading Milan Kundera’s The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, I was struck by how structurally this record fit with Kundera’s idea of the novel as an exploration of variations. That is, his novel consists of seemingly unrelated episodes which form a coherent summation of his once-an-insider, now-an-outsider-looking-in perspective on the totalitarian regimes of Central Europe in the 1970s.

Now, this connection isn’t explicit by any means. There’s nothing in Autechre’s music that suggests anything similar, thematically, to Kundera. There’s no politics, no laughter, nothing really even that “human.” What I mean is that Chiastic Slide takes some pretty distinct elements and fuses them into studied variations. And like Kundera is compelling to read (I finished The Book of Laughter and Forgetting pretty quickly, granted it’s short), Autechre hit upon what I think was the beginning of an incredible run of densely packed, seemingly-random-yet-not albums filled with intense variation. As Kundera writes about his father’s love of Beethoven’s later variations (Kundera’s father was a composer and teacher who studied with Janacek, btw), I couldn’t help but make the connection to what I was hearing while I was reading.

So Chiastic Slide: it’s a killer album, packed with crunchy, distorted tempos; the detritus of their soon-to-be-abandoned rote-techno melodies (which were generally more off-kilter than a lot of their IDM contemporaries anyway); and a lot of variation. Take one theme, expand on it until it’s worn down to a nub, then add something else in. It’s brilliant, and at the time it sounded FANTASTIC booming out of my car stereo (and it’d prompt some pretty funny looks, too). By the time I finally got to see Autechre (with Russell Haswell and Kevin Drumm!) at the Metro in 2001 (see photo below, swiped from Warp), I’d already moved on to more minimal moves…

Autechre at Metro

At some point in 2000 or 2001, I can’t remember which, Jim Magas opened the long-gone (and sorely missed) Weekend Records and Soap in Wicker Park, a short walk from my pad down Division. I’d gotten increasingly into the more minimalist stuff coming out of Berlin and Koln (how, I don’t really recall, though I’m sure the less-austere Warp scene was somewhat of a gateway drug), and the location of Jim’s shop meant I could find stuff easily without having to run over to the always-annoying Clark Street corridor of Lincoln Park. Again, I don’t really recall, but I somehow got wind of what Thomas Brinkmann was doing, perhaps because it was similar — though different — from a lot of the other Profan/Studio 1/Kompakt axis (er…) around Mike Ink.

What I heard of Brinkmann was compelling, hard yet super-minimal techno of a sort that (at the time) wouldn’t have gone over at Chicago’s dance clubs AT ALL (indeed, the everything-but-the-kitchen-sink nights that Brandon Goodall, Greg Davis and occasionally Kevin Drumm and I’d do around town weren’t well received — and we were far more accessible despite eclecticism than the minimalist stuff), and I was intrigued. Jim would stock EVERYTHING in Weekend, and within the limits of what I could spend, I’d buy pretty much all of it. So imagine my surprise when, after far more straightforward “first-name” 12″s and Studio One releases, Brinkmann releases the Klick 12″ (to be fair he also released more abstract-y Esther Brinkmann stuff, but that was harder to find), followed by the Klick full-length. The methodology behind this new phase was simply described:

10 tracks made with two decks, an isolator, a mixer and some with a tc multieffect. About 15 endless groves, cut with a knife in the last groove of vinyl records, some voices from records as well, and feedbacks are the sound sources. The loops are cut between 1978 and 2000 like the one on Suppose 08 (Feran Loop).

But what I’m hearing is a crazy amount of variation (that word again) on the theme of music-as-recording, a sort of meta-statement about the seeming finality of vinyl being a starting point for a new music. Yeah, yeah, sampling has been a part of music long before Brinkmann (even John Cage fooled around with turntables), but there was something about this record, coming from the context of the Berlin techno scene, that really was something special. And it’s also fun to guess a little bit as to where and what specific contexts it comes from. That is, the rhythms of these pieces get stuck in your brain almost like “regular” pop music (indeed, for some reason the sixth track “0110” reminds me of Can’s “I Want More”).

Klick

Download Klick here for a limited time.

Also, please send comments to hstencil at yahoo dot com, these comment boxes are busted.

LOUISVILLE, LOUISVILLE, LOUISVILLE

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So I’ve been meaning to write this since like Christmas. 2005 is the year of Louisville, in many odd and yet pleasing ways. So back around Christmas, again, I was on this plane hurtling through a massive snowstorm on my way south from Chicago (layover, natch), and this wave sorta came over me. It wasn’t giddiness per se, nor anxiety, but possibly some combination of both. Hell I’m not even really sure what it was. But it was something.

So yeah, I’ve always been a homer. Y’know, the guy who always roots for his home team no matter how many bonehead plays they make (Francisco Garcia, why do you foul three-point attempts with no time left?). So it’s not surprising that I would feel something strangely happy and crazed on returning. But I’ve gone home lots of times; mostly it’s no big deal. No, it had already started, this 2005-year-of-Louisville nonsense. So like a soon-to-be-jilted suitor, I’ve been learning to savor the moment before the inevitable. Actually, strike jilted, even when things go right they can be inevitable. Anyway, so I’m gonna try to roll it out, what it is I’m thinking about, if I can.

1. Past where the river bends, past where the silos stand, past where they paint the houses

Everybody thinks they know the story of Slint. I mean, everybody thinks the mythology is the thing, y’know? I’m not saying I’m better than everybody (I ain’t), but I think I might be one of the few — even with a so-called “insider’s perspective” (ha!) — to admit that I don’t have a fucking clue.

When the rumors of a Slint reunited first swirled like tumbleweeds in the digital desert of the internet, I was more than a little skeptical. Hell, those old rumors have been around since I was in high school — and that was a long time ago (missed my ten year last fall). Shit, I even saw Britt at a Jack Rose show in September, and the only music thing he mentioned was playing with Miighty Flashlight (well neither of us wanted to talk music, I think). But then it came true. For one time only, Slint is back, on tour.

Many have commented on the irony of this tour by a band that hardly played their hometown, much less an extended jaunt elsewhere. I never got to see ’em, either. Sometimes I’m not entirely sure that’s a bad thing, either: my friend Steve told me that the reason he thought they were brilliant when he saw them back then was because it was like “four r*****s playing the most godlike music” (apologies, no offense intended). But still, I missed Cafe Dog (well did they even play? y’know, the big riot show!), I missed the Kentucky Theater, I missed the VFW Hall and on and on. So I couldn’t miss this.

It’s kind of hard to explain, I admit. And I’ve told the story many times before (and it really isn’t a story but barely an anecdote): bought the lone, lonely copy of Tweez sitting in ear X-tacy for ages because of the sticker that said “Members of Solution Unknown.” Took it home, had adolescent mind blown. You’re thinking great, big deal, so what? and that’s understandable. I think that if I knew exactly how to articulate how I felt this music was a conscious part of me before I even heard it, well, I’d probably sound less arrogant and silly. But I don’t know how to articulate it (obviously). And it doesn’t even matter. I’ll see them this Friday and Saturday, and I’ll be that 13 year-old hearing this ageless, primeval Kentucky music for the first time.

2. Orders rescinded, and no pie

Bastro was headier. Now I know that’s just about the most obvious thing to say about a band with David Grubbs in it, but that’s not exactly what I mean. There’s something more to his music than just advanced degrees at elite institutions or arcane cultural studies, though that’s all anybody’s talked about since Gastr. There’s a sense of place, just like Slint. Well, not just like Slint. Not to get all Freudian, but Tweez is like the ur-, the id. And though Spiderland is a more “literary” album (bear with me here, people), musically it’s still this uncontrollable urge, this force of nature.

Bastro’s sorta like the ego and the superego put together. Okay, maybe I should quit with the Psych 101 bullshit. But you’ve got this intensely loud, raging music that’s tight, controlled. Dave’s lyrics are just as full of seemingly abstract imagery as the later Gastr stuff, but there is a text, and a lot of it is about Kentucky simpletons living in the modern world: “Shoot Me a Deer,” “Flesh Colored House.” So it’s complicated, ‘kay? Anybody who thinks Grubbs “got sophisticated” should hear this stuff, and Squirrel Bait too. It’s always been there, just in a hard-coated shell.

So hearing there’d finally be a two-for reissue of Diablo Guapo and Sing the Troubled Beast, the two long-gone Homestead albums, I was psyched, despite knowing them like the back of your mother’s hand. Then, hearing there’d be an additional live disc of stuff that would later be reworked into the early Gastr stuff, I was amazed. I mean, like, I knew Dave, Bundy and John were playing that stuff, but I never heard it then. Hell, like Slint, I never got to see Bastro live then, either.

But then, intrigue. Apparently there’s still some remnant of Homestead or Dutch East India left with enough gumption to threaten legal action (I’m no lawyer, but I’d think for contracts to be valid the record company has to hold up their end too, ie. PAY THE FUCKING BANDS), and now they’re “temporarily unavailable.” But never fear, the fine folks at Drag City will sort it out.

3. I think your brain likes it, your brain has a flaw

Now here’s where we get personal. Just kidding. Unlike Slint or Bastro, I saw Crain a whole mess of times, even booked ’em once. The running joke among the “oldsters” (no offense again!) was that Crain was like Bastro trying to play Slint. But fuck that, from where I’m standing, they’re just as essential, if you’re still hanging with me long enough to read about this Louisville stuff. Plus they were the first band that I really felt like, wow, these guys are only a little bit older than me, they’re doing it (yeah Squirrel Bait were preppy teens playing shows with G.G. Allin but I never saw them either).

So Speed. Record release show, one Sunday night sometime in the haze that is 1991, at Another Place Sandwich Shop on Frankfort Avenue. Hula Hoop and Sebadoh, two great bands in their own right, are also playing. I’d seen Crain a bunch, mind blown repeatedly, but this was it. Bought my copy with the special glow-in-the-dark cover (like only 200 made, eBayers!), complete with palindrome on record sleeve. Have listened repeatedly ever since.

I don’t think anybody could’ve predicted on that Sunday night the troubles Crain would succumb to over the coming years, and I’m not the one to catalog them. Suffice to say, if you experienced it, you know. Maybe that’s a cop-out, I dunno, but fuck it. Somehow, the master tapes survived years in a storage unit — and yielded 4 more songs to boot! How typically Louisville, in its way.

4. Godfuckingdammit

Yeah, there’s been some bumps on the road since January. Hunter S. Thompson’s dead. You can’t get those Bastro CDs yet. Uptight Britweenies have been dissing Slint’s live shows through the anonymous comfort of the internet. But it doesn’t matter. It’s here. It’s 2005.