Trape-Zape -  Trape-Zape (2002)

Ah, the (aesthetic, and no other) strength of musica povera. This is very pleasantly hard to define. Maybe you could call it something like progressive chamber jazz (though it is mostly composed), but it just feels like something close to being 'pure' music, i.e. music with no strict adherence to any concept or genre (nor to the cross-breeding of different ones), designed by a band of like-minded musicians simply happy to develop ideas with the (scarce) means of musical production at their disposal, in their own time, because, of course, who would pay upfront for anyone to come up with music with no brand to show for. Led by classically trained guitarist Fernando Guiomar, I for one did not expect a trio of classical guitar, double bass and percussions to fill up a musical room so effectively, but they surely do make the most of what they have, with nary a predictable moment or lull for the whole duration. 

Anyone who has ever had the pleasure of playing music with other people (particularly in close musical quarters, like chamber music) is bound to know that it is one of the most intimate and gratifying forms of social interaction one can enjoy without being naked - without even liking the persons you're with; just being bound together in the conjoined making of a transitory thing of beauty. This record feels simply, precisely, and entirely like an expression of that desire, a pursuit of such a pleasure, with no other agenda in sight. The fact that such a well-rounded labour of artisanal love couldn't come close to earn these musicians a marketable living pretty much ties all things still right and wrong with the musical world into one anachronistic rectangular flat factory plastic package. You should get it.

Hughes De Courson – Lux Obscura (2003)

One of the most frustrating records on record: this is like a dumb remix (there’s a tautology for you) of a great album, except we can’t get the original and we’re stuck with the insufferable ersatz. If possibly nothing I ever heard ever called for a remix, this certainly calls for a demix, and if Hughes de Courson came to his senses he should re-release it minus the moronic beats. As it is, half of this is infuriatingly unlistenable; the other half is frustratingly listenable, as it hints to what the rest could have been.

While one can sometimes feel, and especially think, that there is something a bit forced in Courson’s crossover releases, mixing classical music with other musical traditions and cultures (as in Bach to Africa (really?), Mozart in Egypt (his best), or (brace yourselves) O'stravaganza: Fantasy on Vivaldi and the Celtic Music of Ireland), the interweaving sophistication of his ecumenical approach usually makes it intriguing and enjoyable enough, even when not entirely convincing in conceptual terms.

Here, the flirt with dance music, over medieval material (by the likes of Guillaume de Machaut, who would surely beat himself up for not having thought of laying down some chill grooves all up on his motets first, and have them court ladies leave it all out on the palace dance floor), just comes across as an opportunistic afterthought, with no organic justification, brutishly superimposed upon the, as usual, very enticing instrumental and vocal work, for which a stellar cast of performers was assembled (such as Gilles Chabenat and Brian Gulland), only to then largely waste that unique bounty of talent in an equally one-of-a-kind operation of artistic vandalism. Curiously, this also includes two numbers with Courson's previous partner in the all-mighty Malicorne, Gabriel Yacoub, who is spared the downtempo treatment, out of respect one assumes (or loyauté, as the title of one of the compositions he sings suggests), which must be a sign that Courson had some sense of the mess he was making by jumping on the Enigma bandwagon, but decided to go through with it all the same, like people pouring ketchup all over their lobster Thermidor.

Could all this egregious sabotage be conceptually taken as an aural approximation to the artistic gesture informing Rauschenberg’s Erased de Kooning Drawing? Not even that; and it would hardly be any less regrettable for it. Besides, arguably, Low, of all people, had already made that point much more effectively in music, with their first muddled-tape recording of the spectrally gorgeous Will the Night - giving an added physical expression to its take on the precariousness of human entanglements (including, as it so sadly came all too soon to pass, theirs with each other, and ours with them), as conditioned by forces beyond our grasp - and even they had the later generosity of offering those less artistically forward-thinking of us an archetypal recording of the song, to be preserved in Plato's Cave for the ages. In this, as in so many things, one should take a page from those Mormons’ book. I miss them.

One of the good ones:

Sérgio & Odair Assad – Saga Dos Migrantes (1996)

Let's just get this out of the way: this is probably the apex of the Assad Brothers' output, which is to say it is probably the greatest classical guitar (duo) record of all times (with the close and sole competition coming from their other records). 

As siblings, Sérgio and Odair always sounded like they made the absolute best of the opportunity to build, pretty much from the cradle, an artistic understanding and a technical synchronicity that bordered on the telepathic. However, even for them, this record sounds like an aesthetic singularity; that freak event when the (conjoined) expressive capabilities of (in this case) musicians transcend the technical constraints of their instruments of choice. 

This is beyond the conventions of classical (guitar) music, but from within - where and when technique becomes a meaningless word, and you can make the instrument bend time and sound like whatever fits your aesthetic needs at any point; not to check your virtuoso card or showcase freakish extended techniques (even though they did enjoy at some point doing their two-guys-four-hands-one-guitar parlor trick, to round up their live shows), but as a pure expressive necessity (and ability) to produce the exact sound that best delivers the idea and emotion at every single point. 

That actually makes them almost co-composers of every piece they did not write (the title suite here is from Sérgio, and one of his best), not only given the absurd richness of their interpretations (as in the way they always make me think more highly of Gismonti's music than Egberto himself performing it usually does), but because, even then, they still manage not to make the pieces about them (as opposed to, say, Al Di Meola’s apish mangling of Piazzolla’s extraordinary Tango Suite - originally written for (and extraordinarily recorded by) the Assad, for good reason). 

In fact, I don’t even think the Assad qualified as a "guitar duo" at this point. When you get to the never-ending layers, textures and nuances of their reading of Ginastera’s first piano sonata, the whole experience turns into something akin to seeing a human being in the middle of the street suddenly take flight, or simply listening to Pawn Hearts: you know some general law of nature was being broken.

When - The Lobster Boys (2001)

When is the brainchild of one strange norwegian, Lars Pedersen, from whom you really never know quite what to expect: depending on which record you happen to pick up, you can either get foreboding sound collages that seep into the air like miasmas - bearing titles such as Drowning But Learning, Death in the Blue Lake, or The Black Death (not sure if you managed to grasp the common thread running through those; it is quite subtle) - or (case in point) be offered an excitingly shambolic foray into psychedelic sunshine pop, voraciously incorporating all manner of musical things, through the use of a high-powered sampler particularly in tune with the synesthetic perfume of some intoxicating arabic and oriental motifs that, like a spice rub on your sunday roast, is able to elevate even a couple of more prosaic "indie-rock" moves, by instantly transporting us to a sonic souk. 

I have yet to delve a bit more into Pedersen's output to better figure out what my general thoughts on it might be (or simply if there are any to be had), but at this point I would say, despite it being very antithetical to how I generally feel about things: I think I prefer it when he's happy.

The Incredible String Band – Earthspan (1972)

This was the first Incredible String Band record I heard, way back in the day, which explains why several years passed before I was willing to give them another chance, or, instead, makes me now wonder how I ever came to give them said chance (not to say I regret having done so). 

The ISB pretty much erected an entire aesthetic – freak folk avant la lettre - around, among other things, a certain disregard for musical proficiency, which, on albums like The Hangman's Beautiful Daughter, sparked in them the unimpeachable ability to craft nonsensical songs that employed no compositional rationale known to civilized society (whatever that may be), using whatever instruments might come their way, in whatever way they saw fit, including, I can only assume, at some point, having sex with them (friction being a time-honored method of getting sounds out of things). 

However, by Earthspan, perhaps mirroring their "spiritual" migration towards more corporate forms of mysticism (i.e. scientology), that former carefree pack of pagans seemed to have been decidedly edging towards mainstream musical industry, taking a stab at delivering a more “professional”, streamlined product, while, unfortunately, showing no signs of having acquired the skills required to do such a thing – which they (skills) are (required): you don't get to be a sellout out of sheer want. 

The result is a most unholy union of amateurishness and frivolity, wherein church organs and straightforward rock n’ roll drumming (courtesy of the omnipresent folk-rocker Dave Mattacks) or smooth jazz ambiences and howling lads and lasses, can freely mingle, alas with no apparent sense of irony or self-awareness (à la, say, The Flying Lizards) to at least pass it off as subversion or comment re the music business, of which they awkwardly really seem to be posing as committed stakeholders. 

What could be good ideas still rear their heads here and there, but they are almost immediately taken out back to slaughter amidst loud alley cats. "Antoine" might be the only thing here kind enough not to get on my nerves at some point - something the rest of the record makes a point of doing on a regular basis. Right from the get go - just a few seconds into the record - when - as if crying murder - a sharp voice - so pitch-challenged as to make ISB’s front men Robin and Heron (compared by Luke Haines (look who's talking), in a song of praise for the band, to "a couple of weasels trapped in a sack") sound as accomplished singers as their winged namesakes - shrieks in in chorus, I already want to smash this record – twice!, to make sure it stays smashed. The fact that I have listened to all of it, more than once, is bound to raise questions as to how I have been spending my time on this earth, but, in the very least, if my sacrifice is not to be in vain, and while I have not had the fortitude to go beyond this point in their "career" (nor do I think I ever will), I can only suggest this be one of the very last things you ever, if ever, listen to from these cleaned-up weirdos. I'll take mine shabby, thank you very much.

 Vitorino - Eu que me comovo por tudo e por nada (1992)

Exquisite literary songs for chamber ensemble, with lyrics (mostly) by the novelist António Lobo Antunes that read like micro stories (starting with song titles like "All men are wusses when they have the flu"), capturing and highlighting, through a wide-angle aesthetic lens, the historical bind between certain musical forms and specific social contexts, types, and imaginaries; in this case, mostly set in the pre-tourist-fodder city of Lisbon - from the "Bolero of the sensitive colonel who made love in Monsanto" to the "Tango of the cheating husband in a boarding house in Beato", by way of the "Fado of the prostitute at the St. António da Glória street".

Lyrical and dramatic, witty and gritty, metrically challenging and always delivered with aplomb, the whole delivers a lesson in sophistication from a man hailing from a provincial village in Alentejo; a region whose polyphonic folk music he never ceased to cultivate. That makes this an impeccable reminder that your origins can be an invaluable cultural asset, but need not be a limitation.

Luciano Basso – Cogli Il Giorno (1978)

Basso’s first record, Voci, was nice enough, in a keyboard-driven prog sort of way, but with just enough instrumental diversity and ideas to go round. This one sounds more like what someone studying piano at the conservatory, who's been past the Romanticism and is now taking 20th century music classes, might put out proposing to break aesthetic barriers pretty much in tatters by the late 1970’s (when this came out), after a decade or so of musical free-for-all, from all sides of the barricades. 
Taking away the apparently forward-thinking embellishments (like a wailing soprano or a stray oboe or bassoon, à la some of King Crimson's Islands (not necessarily the best bits of it); or a sitar, à la a million other things in that guru-ridden day and age), which are occasionally there to provide a distraction from its compositional foundations (with which they hardly entail a significant dialogue), at the heart of this lies a tonally single-minded barrage of heavy-handed arpeggiated piano chords, whose clatter can sometimes get so metronomic and, particularly, so loud in the mix (a remastering could do it some good), that, after a while, it might start to resemble a form of enhanced interrogation, like it's hammering your aesthetic faculty into submission; so don't be surprised if, at some point, and against your better judgement, you end up finding yourself with no other choice but to swear that “yes”, this is “pretty”.

António Pinho Vargas – As Folhas Novas Mudam De Cor (1987)

Jazzy tunes, strong on melody, a bit skimpy on the improv - jazz-chanson, if you will (as evidenced by a sweet dedication piece for early Tom Waits), but sans vocals, signed by a future modernist composer (starting with the fairly interesting Monodia, from 1994), although you never would have guessed it based on his jazz records. This is probably my favorite of those; possibly because it was my first, since they are all formally similar: charming and tasteful all the way through, for the most part painstakingly avoiding any semblance of dissonance - a move I do not tend to favor but, even I must admit, that is one fine moustache.

Catharsis - Le Boléro du Veau des Dames (1974)

Whether this is Catharsis' best album may depend on your particular sensibility, but it’s arguably the most developed one. Up to this point they were mainly on psychedelic duty, alternating between organ runs and ruminations - as laid down by a phantom of the opera who is coming to realize there are plenty of fish in the sea - accompanied by pounding or pensive percussions and punctuated by pre-orgasmic ululations, all sounding like it was recorded in an abandoned château oozing with the ectoplasm of idle aristocrats and frisky courtisanes (a formula that was probably perfected on Illuminations). 

One could draw a parallel here with soundtrack works, like some of Goblin’s early stuff, but instead of Dario Argento's giallos, Catharsis' albums would be a more fitting score for some Walerian Borowczyk softcore flicks - best enjoyed at a rundown arthouse cinema, where in ancient times people could go to engage in more culturally benign forms of sleaziness.

This later LP (their last palatable one) is not a major departure: you lose some mystery, you gain some clarity. Harmonies progress, sometimes taking unexpected turns; themes actually get fleshed out; and the instrumental palette may be slightly richer (was that a sitar I just heard?). The moaning, though, is kept to a minimum, so, unless you are a dj archeologist who has already dug out all the crates of Italian porn soundtracks for samples, this is probably the best place to start without startling your neighbors.

Valentin Clastrier – La vielle à roue de l'imaginaire (1984)

Ah, the vielle à roue (sorry, I cannot will myself to refer to it by its silly saxon denomination), that most mysterious of instruments; a miracle of musical engineering. In La vielle à roue de l'imaginaire, his first record – augmented in its reissue on CD, under the title Grands maîtres de la vielle à roue, by the even more experimental suite Migrations, from his second (and most elusive) LP, Esprits de la Nuit (whose master tapes have probably been put to rest on Cathar burial grounds, awaiting being summoned to soundtrack the Day of Reckoning) –, we find Valentin Clastrier, arguably the instrument's most esoteric master (Dominique Regef's improvisational heterodoxies being of a different nature), doing to this so very intricate and delicate contraption all the things conventional wisdom and traditional technique would say you're not supposed to: dismantling it, getting to know it from the inside, putting it back together with extra strings and modified parts, and just experimenting with all its trickery - i.e. trying out a catalogue of extended techniques, plucking strings, striking wood, and apparently going all glossolalic about it. Bref: fascinating stuff. And yet, it was just the beginning. Next, he would run an electric current through it and rebuilt it anew; a sanfona to shake the heavens and earth with. After this one, Horatio, or whatever your name is, go for Hérésie and Le Bûcher des Silences, and find out just how many more things are in them than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Sylvette Allart / Théodore Parasquive – De L'Onde À L'Infini (1974)

A bit of a waste of a perfectly good instrument this is. I’m always prone to thinking that any occasion to showcase esoteric instruments - in this case, the Ondes Martenot (grand name, to begin with) - is a good one, but the fact is that, by its very nature, very few people find a way to make them interesting, especially when the instruments arise from more or less individual invention rather than evolve from a cultural tradition, refining its use around its specific musical properties, from which forms of individual appropriation can more consequentially arise. 

So, in many examples (particularly in electronic music) of musicians (and/or engineers) trying to advance and legitimise instrumental novelty, they opt for using it to mimic a conventional aesthetic, hoping to make the new medium acceptable to a larger crowd, and render it socially, culturally and economically viable. 

Usually it’s adaptations of popular songs and/or classical pieces - as in Clara Rockmore's Theremin (1977), of which, sadly, I'm not a fan. Here, Sylvette Allart (the "ondist", as it were) and Théodore Parasquive (or "Theodor Paraskivesco", in other releases, on piano) actually bothered to go for original works (a big plus in my book) but, unfortunately, still slightly to no avail, since most are dainty neo-classical compositions, rather ill-fitted to make full use of the otherworldly sonic emanations the instrument is capable of (L’oiseu de Java, by Luc André Marcel (of whom, unsurprisingly, I know no other work), probably comes closest to tapping into that). 

As such, this is a bit like the musical equivalent of using a computer to hit a nail. There's nothing wrong with the execution here, and it’s fine as a curiosity, but if you are hoping to get your Ondes Martenot rocks really off, I'm afraid Messiaen’s compositions - particularly when handled by the ondist Jeanne Loriod, sister of the pianist Yvonne Loriod, in turn Messiaen's second wife (what a family!) - or even the odd Radiohead track (after Jonny Greenwood latched onto the instrument, morphing into something of a socio-musical symbiont), are still the way to go.

José Mário Branco; Comuna/Teatro de Pesquisa - A Mãe (1978)

Ah, the power of the collective. This is an album made up from the music José Mário Branco (leftist, intellectual, musician, and JMB from here on out, all for short, more on that later) composed for a staging of the Brecht play The Mother (in turn based on Gorki's homonymous novel) by a portuguese theatre group called The Commune, only a few years after the authoritarian regime that ruled the country for nearly half a century was swiftly put to an end on April 25th, 1974; but enough years, by 1977 (when work on this began), for the cultural embers from that political epiphany (particularly its socialist fumes) to be fading, as representative democracy settled in, which made this staging of the play, despite all the fight still in it, something of a political requiem. 

So, we are unquestionably dealing with a period piece here, but in a very good way - one comparable to, say, the honourable likes of Stavros Xarhakos/Nikos Xilouris' Το μεγάλο μας τσίρκο, also resulting from the staging of a play; in this case, one that did its best to culturally challenge the rule of the military junta in Greece (also brought to its demise by 1974) through an allegorical retelling of the country's political history.

As such, this record works as a wonderful time capsule, consciously preserving a number of traits from the context that gave rise to it, in a tapestry that skilfully weaves musiques de scéne, stretches of dialogue and soliloquies, and galvanizing chorales embodied by the theatre collective itself (whose "unlearned" singing voices add beautifully to the verismo of the performance); all of it assembled so aptly, in a musical découpage of sorts, that I don't think you actually need to understand what's being said to be drawn into its narrative flow (for some that partial ignorance might actually be a blessing, but I don't think it need (let alone should) be, unless you're only interested in art you can entirely identify with). 

All that is also achieved through a series of formal experiments through which JMB fully explores the relative but specific musical freedom afforded by working in support of another artistic medium, such as theatre, in that, while you are compromised in advance with a diegetic or conceptual scheme (among other external constraints and demands), you get to reach for a wider use of sound as a dramatic resource, to create diverse and dynamic atmospheres. That's what you get here; for instance: in the spectral prologue (bringing Ligeti, of all people, to mind); in the grounding of the internationalist  rhetoric over local musical templates like traditional work songs; or in an unrelenting crescendo of no more than increasingly unruly voices in protest (coming to terms with the contingency of the proverbial monopoly of legitimate violence) that progressively join in unison over the backdrop of the Internationale (whistled at first, triumphantly chanted by the end), perfectly depicting the politicization of civil unrest, as it keeps building tension in a masterful exercise of aural mise en scène (somewhat anticipating what JMB would do, shortly after, in his gut-wrenching 25 minutes long live musical performance piece FMI (as in 'International Monetary Fund', which should be a much more self-aware organization if it had that blasting non-stop in its work environments)).

However, as the irrelevant fate of nearly all "original soundtracks" of the world shows, that formal leeway only gets to be musically productive if you are able to come full circle and give the music resulting from that process not only a functional role but an aesthetic ontology - producing music that not only has an existence of its own, but could not have come to be outside of those conditions; that is both autonomous and integral to its circumstances; music, at long last, that is self-sufficient not because it transcends its context or immediate purpose, but by being a full-fledged aesthetic expression of it. That is what JMB achieved here. 

Beyond that still, even for more conventional forms of musical appreciation, this contains some of the best and most moving music JMB (not the most gifted performer (who needs that?), but an immensely knowledgeable musician, which also made him a highly sought-after producer/arranger) ever composed - of which Hanns Eisler would be proud. Even if, as an arranger, it could be argued that JMB did some of his best work on other people's records (first and foremost when his arrangements matched and stretched José Afonso's polymorphous songwriting), usually taking a rather austere approach to his own creations, here, again, that works perfectly, as he deftly practises a sort of musical materialism, that echoes the physical restrictions imposed by the stage, narrowing the musical means at hand (voices and percussions, a guitar or a piano, a double bass and little more), to ultimately produce a uniquely enveloping and concentrated dramatic experience.

For better or worse, good art can make a case for people, ideas, and feelings you wouldn't empathise with in the first place, be familiar with, or even begin to know how to process. As such, one might come to one's previous senses shortly afterwards, have them reinforced (depending on what they were in the first place), or simply gain some appreciation for how people could be drawn to ideas you may keep on having (serious) issues with, but, as you are listening to this, I do believe the normal emotional reaction, at some point, should still probably be to feel like storming the Winter Palace - not that, to this day, one wouldn't be hard-pressed to find a period in russian history when some version of that mightn't have sounded like a reasonable proposition for quite a few.

Pyewackett – Pyewackett (1981)

Oh, how I have become unsuspectingly fond of this album, apparently unbeknownst to, or dismissed by, even most die-hard prog-folkies (perhaps misled by that 80's release date, when in fact no aesthetic carbon dating could ever trace this timeless performance back to that questionable decade). Traditional in inspiration and inventive enough in its arrangements to perfectly serve and highlight the material just shy of the point where that brilliance would become self-servient to the musicians themselves and not to the tunes they convey (e.g. Gryphon on a no-no minstrel day, i.e. their debut), this is, for the most part, as accomplished and perfectly balanced as recreations of folk music (or pop songs of yore, to be both more and less precise) can get: neither stifled by too restrictive cultural guidelines of how to interpret it right, neither using it as a perfunctory stepping stone to please the crowd, foregoing all links to the context that first gave it meaning. That means you're in for some instrumental finicky bliss, irreproachable polyphonies that still manage to avoid any vocal peacocking (The Bonny Hawthorn), a sensible production keeping with the different moods conveyed by each song (from a rowdy pub to the seashore), and little tricks here and there to keep the musical buff on point (like the metrically deceptive violin melody on Kettle Drum; such rhythmic delight). Only the two final old timey numbers, perhaps comedic in intent - something Pyewackett were regrettably a bit prone to -, bring this down a notch for me: it would have ended on the perfect (shorter) note with the foxy Reynardine.

Pyewackett would get a bit proggier, but still mostly enjoyable, in their sophomore effort, and a head-scratching hot mess of folk tunes, cabaret numbers, jazz standards, or the occasional flaming pile of sheet music that landed on their doorstep, from then on. This one, though, is a most definite keeper; a bit more every single time I hear it.

Moondog -1

Moondog - Moondog 2 (1971)

This may be Moondog 2, but it's hard not to feel like it was a step back from simply Moondog. Gone was the orchestral, epic, and lyrical breadth of the latter (a singular third stream masterpiece, which did full justice to the man's uniquely syncretic musical personality, and to his headgear as well - gearing you to ride up to snowed-in norden castles and warm up to aloof ice princesses, with Benny Goodman as your squire), in favor of a return to (up to that point) more traditional Moondog fare, caught in a nonsensically playful somewhere between Dada and Lear (Edward, not King, et pour cause), that included him having recorded with Julie Andrews. 

So, significantly joining forces with his young daughter June and not so much a band of horned musical assailants, we are left here with an eccentric collection (almost experimental, given the formal microscale of the compositions and skeleton crew aboard) of contrapuntal sketches, domestic rounds, and nursery rhymes. Whimsical, for sure - perhaps, on occasion, endearingly so, as if this could be closer to Louis Hardin the man, than to his public New York city street viking persona (should that distinction even apply; although, based on his getup, I would hardly have envisoned him fathering children, so it just might) - but, as it turns out, even presented by the ineffable Moondog and his unfaltering tom-toms, it would seem that, much like your regular viking, I just cannot fill up on hors d’oeuvres. 

No need to complain, though; it was simply a matter of waiting: In Europe, things would get regal again.

Univers Zéro - Crawling Wind (1983, EP)

Toujours Plus à l'Est is almost counterintuitive for a Univers Zéro track, and yet it's my go to one when I need a quick fix. Technically it is very much their own work, all syncopation times square, but at the same time it just sounds out of character, joyfully glorious (even if still slightly menacing in its sheer energy; like a big cat brought up in captivity still can't discern by human patterns when it might be playing too rough with its handlers), as if it came from a parallel universe where Daniel Denis had learned to use major chords in composition, or hadn't been exposed to Lovecraft in his youth. 

Followed swiftly in the track sequence by the exacting (and very much on the nose) gloom of "Before the Heat" and "Central Belgium in the Dark", clearly that wasn't meant to last, though; so the brilliance of Toujours Plus à l'Est, alongside all lost hopes and dreams, stands on, across the multiverse, as a shining beacon for the path not taken.