8Sided Blog

thoughts about music’s place in the 21st century

Curiosity, Mystery, Anonymity

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An anonymous artist paradoxically often attracts more attention because of anonymity. Curiosity draws us in for a closer look. Just look at Bansky, with mentions of his accomplishments usually sitting alongside guesses to his identity. And we can’t forget all the electronic artists accused of secretly recording as Burial throughout the end of the ’00s. The scrutiny created problems for the reclusive recording artist and, unlike Banksy (so far), he gave in to the pressure. Hua Hsu in the New Yorker:

When Burial was nominated for the Mercury Prize, a British tabloid writer tried to figure out his true identity, but was thwarted in part by Burial’s fans, who wanted him to live according to his own choices. As the curiosity about his identity started to overshadow his work, though, Burial revealed his name: William Emmanuel Bevan. Still, he refused to do interviews or to perform live shows, and he claimed to have little interest in the Internet.

Disguises became a thing, too. Artists as mainstream as Sia obscured their mugs, but there wasn’t anonymity. We know Daft Punk aren’t robots and recognize their real names (some of us even DJ’ed with them before they donned masks). There’s a purported idea of ‘let the music speak, not the image of the musician.’ But isn’t the mask, the anonymity, an image in itself? Of course, it is. And, same as the outrageous exploits of a controversial rock star (including those also disguised), it can even overshadow the music.

The Residents followed a doctrine of ‘The Theory of Obscurity.’ Formulated by the equally mysterious artist N. Senada, The Theory of Obscurity poses that an artist can only deliver their most authentic work without pressure or influence from an audience or the outside world. The Residents decided anonymity would help them follow the theory but the outside world proved inescapable. The band changed their appearance frequently through the ’70s but got stuck in the eyeball and top hat disguise for years. The image was just too popular with fans to shake.

Before Hardy Fox died in late 2018, he revealed that he was a founding member of The Residents and responsible for most of their musical output. In turn, we surmised that the still-active Homer Flynn is the ‘singing Resident,’ supplying most of the distinctive vocals. Die-hard Residents fans suspected this as Flynn and Fox acted as ever-present representatives and spokespersons for the band and their company, The Cryptic Corporation. When Homer Flynn speaks, it’s with an all-too-familiar southern drawl that those familiar with The Residents’ songs instantly recognize. Here’s a video documentary from 1991 with Flynn and Fox making appearances, and a young Penn Jillette also acting as an early-80s band representative:

(There’s a more recent, feature-length documentary titled Theory of Obscurity. It’s available to stream on Kanopy and some other spots.)

Fans whispered that Flynn and Fox were secretly the main two eyeballs in The Residents. As with Burial, the fans also — for the most part — protected these identities. And the two repeatedly denied any connection beyond their duties as managers/spokespersons. But then Hardy Fox nonchalantly revealed his actual role in a newsletter to fans a year before his death from brain cancer.

As a longtime Residents fan with a shared North Louisiana connection — more on that in a sec — I’m torn by the unmasking. The mystery of The Residents was a big part of my appreciation of the music. Again, there’s the paradox. If a purpose of anonymity is to present music without the baggage of personality, then how can the opposite result happen? It was impossible to listen to The Residents without separating them from the unearthly presences in their videos. They didn’t seem human, like they arrived in 1972 fully formed and naïve to the expectations of us earthlings and our musical norms. The mystery made them ominous, too. Just look at them here in what might be my favorite promotional photo of any band ever:

The Residents at Mount Rushmore

But now I think about Hardy Fox when I listen to The Residents. I think about how he met Homer Flynn in Ruston, Louisiana. They were randomly assigned dormmates at Louisiana Tech University. I went to that school for a semester and DJ’ed on the radio station for longer than that. Often I played The Residents across Ruston’s airwaves, no idea that I was paying homage to local heroes. I also think about Hardy Fox’s ARP Odyssey synthesizer, which is the star of this touching article in Tape Op. These weirdos were big-hearted humans in the end. How could they not be? But, in this discovery, the Residents lost the sinister enigma of the strange photo above.

But I also appreciate these revelations. It’s all part of the tricky business of anonymity and mystery. There’s a great quote from psychoanalyst D.W. Winnicott: “It is a joy to be hidden, but a disaster not to be found.” In a way, the unveiling is a gift — we listen to the music differently with this knowledge. The songs almost become new. Even Burial’s atmospheric tunes take on new meanings to explore with a name attached, even if still not much is known about the producer.

I’ve heard The Residents’ music many times before, but now there’s a history attached. The context shifts and, in a way, the music becomes something else. “Santa Dog” is an especially wild proposition when it’s traced to these artsy outcasts, freshly escaped from a life in the Bible-belted deep south. And, now listening to the music, boy, can I relate.

This post was adapted from Ringo Dreams of Lawn Care, a weekly newsletter loosely about music-making, music-listening, and how technology changes the culture around those things. Click here to check out the latest issue and subscribe.

Marc Méan’s Collage: Imperfect in the Best Way Possible

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Long before Brian Eno dreamed-up the term ambient music, there was “Furniture Music.” Coined by composer Erik Satie in 1917, “Furniture Music” intends to “make a contribution to life in the same way as a private conversation, a painting in a gallery, or the chair in which you may or may not be seated” (Satie’s words).

There’s a story of the debut of “Furniture Music” (or more correctly “Furnishing Music” — ‘musique d’ameublement’). Satie performed it during the intermission of a play, and the audience was encouraged to mill about as they usually would during a theater break. Instead, and much to Satie’s frustration, the audience stayed seated and listened. 

Marc Méan is a Zürich-based musician who has found inspiration in Satie’s “Furniture Music” 100+ years later. It informs his fascinating album Collage, a set — and cassette — of two twenty-minute compositions that vibrate from ethereal soundscapes to lightly percussive sound design. It’s experimental in sound and process and, though “Furniture Music” serves as a launching pad, like Satie’s intermission music Collage leaves the listener more attentive than passive. 

“[Satie’s] approach fascinated me,” Marc says. “Before that, I was playing mostly jazz and improvised music, which required me to be active and personally involved as a listener and as a performer. It’s music where you have to be highly reactive to everything around you, where everything happens fast, where one prefers evolution to repetition. I wanted to find an approach to music where I could slow things down, where I could stretch time, be more passive, find simplicity.”

The inspiration came through the acquisition of an unusual electronic instrument. Marc explains, “It all began when I acquired Peter Blasser’s instrument the Ciat-Lonbarde Cocoquantus. It is a weird synthesizer-sampler that has a life of its own.” 

Originating in Portland and partly hand-crafted out of wood, the Cocoquantus is a sampler combined with looping delays and multiple analog synthesizer engines for modulation. Blasser himself describes the Cocoquantus as “not for the faint of heart: but once you speak its language, nothing else is quite the same.”

“Peter Blasser’s instruments don’t come with manuals,” Marc says. “Nothing is labeled on the instrument, so you have to explore it yourself. And I have never been someone who likes to practice for the sake of practicing. I always need to work in a musical context to learn something new. So while taming this new instrument, I recorded all my experiments.”

The process developed into a creative game (or, as I like to say, a tiny accident). Marc explains: “I like the idea of organized chaos, of controlled randomness in my work. The more I surprise myself in the creative process, the more interesting the music will be to me afterward. In the end, I felt that the material had a strong unity because of the gear I used. The Cocoquantus has such a strong personality that it binds the recordings together.” These exploratory pieces were combined to form the backbone of Collage. 

The resulting album is a lovely and imaginative trek through experimental ambiance. There are haunting piano moments, teasing through snatches of melody transmitted from a distance. Distinctively electronic antics appear, manipulated bleeps and clicks that soon give way to luminous passages. For all of its digital manipulation, Collage is warm and organic sounding, and the two twenty-minute stitched-together compositions don’t sound stitched-together at all.

Though there are elements of ambient ‘drone’ music, Collage‘s pieces develop and subtly change, sometimes offering surprises for the listener. “I can’t help myself but to have things evolve and have some drama,” Marc says. “The two sides are designed as a response to each other. One doesn’t need to listen to both sides back-to-back, but I would recommend listening to each in its entirety.”

I get this impression even as I listen to Collage as a digital stream on Bandcamp. The nature of the tracks, their grainy sound, and 20-minute lengths make Collage imaginable in a cassette format. Marc embraces Collage on cassette: “I like when music can be tangible; when music pairs with an object. It grounds things into a reality in this era where everything is virtual. Also, analog tape was used during the recording to transform and give color to certain elements. So for me, it makes sense that Collage is available on a physical medium.”  

Thus Neologist Productions has issued Collage on cassette, limited to 30 copies. The artwork is beautiful and visually fits the tone of the music. And, as Marc points out, the cassette may be the best way to experience Collage: “Because of the physicality of the cassette the listening experience is different. Cassettes sound different than a digital medium. Cassettes are lo-fi in comparison, they wobble a bit, they age, they are imperfect in the best way possible.”

Listen to Collage on various streaming platforms or on Bandcamp (where you can also purchase the limited edition cassette).

#Worktones: Middle Eastern Experimentation, Kalbata ft. Tigris, Jason Lytle

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Let’s dip into some music that I’m listening to while toiling away in my cosey home office. This is the latest in an ongoing blog concern that I’m calling #Worktones.

As stated in the label’s mission statement, Unexplained Sounds Group aims to ‘investigate the experimental worldwide music scene.’ This investigation includes a series of smart compilations highlighting different countries and territories — places that don’t immediately spring to mind when one thinks of ‘experimental music.’ Evidently, it’s time for that misconception to change as these releases — which include discoveries in Africa, the Balkans, and Lebanon — are uniformly exceptional. The latest is an Anthology of Contemporary Music from Middle East, a stunning collection of 16 artists hailing from countries like Egypt, Bahrain, Kuwait, Iran, Israel, Iraq, and Palestine. This is Venn diagram music, connecting a circle of tradition with one of bold exploration. The tunes wander from ambiance to hypnotic drones to heady collages, combining into a fascinating if sometimes divergent whole. For starters, check out Nilüfer Ormanli’s “Art of Dying,” one of the few tracks with a vocal, though it quickly gives way to a synthesized mantra.

Lingering in the same geographic zone, I discovered the new album by electronic producer Kalbata on the terrific Fortuna Records. Past releases I’ve sampled from Kalbata dip sonic toes in both techno and Balearic styles, revealing an eclectic ‘don’t pin me down’ attitude. This eclecticism is stretched further with Vanrock, a collaboration with Israeli ‘psychedelic afro-pop band’ Tigris. These upbeat jams deliver an exotic and rhythmic flair — sweet percussion, jazzy analog synth riffage, and low-tuned guitars over Kalbata’s electronic foundations. The fusion is fast-and-furious with the opening salvos of “Safu” and “Vanrock,” but the possibilities of this collaboration really come together with the techno-enhanced “Satan Speaks!” At six tracks, this is one of those rare releases that leaves you wanting a lot more. Hopefully, it’s not the last union of these two acts.

Jason Lytle was/is a member of Grandaddy (this song has always been a favorite), and he seems to be aiming for my heart with his latest solo effort. I mean, an album made with nothing but a Roland Juno synth (sounds like a 106 to me) and a guitar is bound to win me over. This is the world of Lytle’s NYLONANDJUNO, a gentle set of tunes created for an Arthur King Presents art installation. The instrumentation constraint yields loveliness, especially on the first track, “Hitch Your Wagon To A Falling Star.” It does sound like a star falling from the sky — the Juno providing the inky night and the echoed guitar representing slow-motion fireworks. It’s beautiful. The climate is subdued throughout, with the synthesizer and guitar trading the foreground on different tracks. Once again, I’m made to regret selling my Junos. (h/t danielfuzztone)

Ahoy, The Captain

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I’ve done some work with Toni Tennille, helping with the promotion and management of her memoir as well as some general consultancy and publishing guidance. I did have a previous connection: Toni is Caroline’s aunt, which makes Daryl Dragon (‘The Captain’) her uncle. And, technically, my uncle (or uncle-in-law).

I never met Daryl but had an email exchange with him several years ago. He was curious about the status of some C&T compositions and wanted help investigating publishing and master rights, with the hope of exploiting selections from the catalog. Daryl sent me this detailed email — one of the most meticulous I have ever received. He listed all of the songs in question — dozens — separated by genre, style, and era, with codes designating where each was released, if it was a demo, if the song appeared in a film, and so on. Interspersed throughout the list was his commentary on the tunes, often with wry humor and not-too-subtle hints of frustration with the industry. Unfortunately, we never made it past this initial stage, but this personal glimpse into a music industry veteran’s catalog remains illuminating.

Also, The Captain started one of his emails to me with “Ahoy, Michael!” That was pretty cool.

One thing that I always found fascinating about Captain & Tennille is that they owned their publishing from the beginning. It is rare for songwriters signing with major labels to keep their publishing rights, and even rarer to do this in the early ‘70s. Another bold move was Daryl’s decision to open a recording studio, Rumbo Recorders, in 1979. Whatever preconceptions you might have about Captain & Tennille know that Daryl and Toni had the foresight and an independent spirit that eludes many ‘superstar’ artists.

Daryl Dragon passed away yesterday at the age of 76. Toni was with him and, though their relationship was troubled and they divorced, the two remained close. It was sweet how encouraging and at ease Daryl was with Toni’s memoir, which some found explosive in how it addressed their personal history. Right before the book came out, I was in a car with Toni and ‘The Captain’ called. Toni put him on speakerphone, and it was fun to hear their interaction, two close friends catching up.

Toni once told me that Daryl had a massive love for music technology and synthesizers. She said that if he could just play around with synthesizers all day, then he’d be happy. So, in tribute, I’m posting this video from the 1978 TV special Captain & Tennille in Hawaii. I think it shows Daryl Dragon truly in his element.

P.S. I bet you didn’t know that Daryl (and his brothers) have a rad psych album out on Ninjatune.

Hitting the Links: Paper Synths, The Velvet Underground, and Cuban Numbers Stations

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Perhaps a budding Sunday tradition? Once again, I present five online articles that caught my fancy over the past week:

Meet The World’s Most Obsessive Fan Of ‘The Velvet Underground and Nico’

Satlof’s collection began in earnest in 1987: a $90 autographed copy from “a record dealer in an antiques mall on Canal Street,” with a scrawled signature that the seller said was Warhol’s, but turned out to be Reed’s. Satlof casually picked up more of the albums over the years, paying “$10, $20, like $100 for ones with the full banana.” He stresses that his hobby is due to the brilliance of the music and his love for it. But really: 800 copies?



Miniature Analogue Papercraft Synthesizers by Dan McPharlin

Each miniature synthesizer is meticulously handcrafted from framing matboard, cardboard, paper, plastic sheeting, string and rubber bands. Rather than replicating the existing machines, the focus was more about creating a revisionist history where analogue technology continued to flourish uninterrupted.



In Pictures: The 10 Most Stunning Places to Make Music

Some of the best making-of-the-album stories are those where a wild, remote or inspiring location becomes a powerful inspiration on the music-making – The Rolling Stones at the Cote D’Azur mansion Villa Nellcôte for Exile on Main St.; Can at Schloss Nörvenich for Tago Mago; Killing Joke inside one of the Great Pyramids at Giza. In those cases, the band brought their own recording equipment with them. For the less intrepid, the world has many ready-made, custom-built, luxurious studios in gorgeous locations to fire up creativity.



Cuba’s Mysterious Numbers Station Is Still On The Air

While evidence suggests HM01 is operated by the Cuban government, it’s virtually impossible to tell who it’s sending to, which is one of the main tactical advantages of numbers stations: You can easily see the intended recipient of an email, but you can’t prove someone listened to a radio broadcast unless you catch them in the act.



The Word-Of-Mouth Resurgence of Arthur Russell

Shortly before his death, Russell and his family took a small boat out to Baker Island, a flat rock half-covered by seaweed, four miles off the coast of Maine. The musician sat on a slab of granite and recorded the sound of the waves breaking against the shore. The next year, the Russells scattered his ashes from the same rock, and they watched as the waves slowly pulled him away. On summer nights, for decades, unbeknownst to Russell or his family, locals have boated out to this same rock. They play music, and move together under moonlight. They call the place the Dance Floor.

When Classic Rockers Embraced The New Wave

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Writer Stephen Thomas Erlewine has tackled a fascinating (to me) subject for Medium’s Cuepoint: the odd collision of classic rockers and the emerging ‘new wave’ in the late ’70s.

Cuepoint:

Three or four years after the revolution, all the upheavals of the back half of the 70s were no longer contained in the underground. Disco and punk, synthesizers and drum machines, hip-hop and new wave — these strange new sounds started to seep into the mainstream and not just through new acts. Baby boomers facing their forties decided to try to dig the new breed, albeit on their own terms.

Erlewine goes on to document amusing efforts of varying success by Alice Cooper, Iggy Pop (working with XTC / future Shriekback keyboardist Barry Andrews), Robert Palmer (collaborating with Gary Numan and Chris Frantz), and even Shaun Cassidy (who enlisted Todd Rundgren to help with his attempted transformation). But he saves most of his wonderment for Paul McCartney’s unlikely embrace of these sounds:

Of all these odd records reckoning with new wave, none were as surprising as Paul McCartney’s McCartney II. Decades later, its cloistered, claustrophobic single “Temporary Secretary” can still startle and so can its accompanying, misshapen album.

On “Temporary Secretary,” McCartney sets his whimsy — which arises in the form of a rhyming, murmured sing-song appropriated from Ian Dury — to a frenzied synthesized loop that undercuts whatever cutesiness he utters. Sounding like a computer in collapse, that loop leaves the lasting impression that McCartney really was attempting to be fashion forward.

The results of these pre-synth era artists coping with onrushing trends would make for a fun compilation album … has anyone done this? Anyway, this is a fine article and worth some time and thought.

Discovering Electronic Music: A Short Documentary From 1983

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Electronic Beats:

In his documentary “Discovering Electronic Music” director and writer Bernard Wilets explores the basics of early analog synthesizers and the first digital sampling techniques. With its dreamlike and slightly dated approach, it’s a worthwhile watch— and if you’re curious about how future technology was referenced in the past, this short documentary is every paleofuturist’s dream.



Update: Here’s a handy GIF I created from this video.

Rise of the Synthesizer

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Here’s a fantastic article in Collector’s Weekly with a selected history of the synthesizer, focusing on Dave Smith of Sequential Circuits who just got the old name back and is restarting the brand.

This section on the making of Switched-On Bach paints a remarkable pitcture of the early days:

In a word, synthesizers in 1974 sucked. Sure, their vintage cred looks cool from 2015, but all synthesizers in 1974 were monophonic, which meant they could only produce one note at a time. That was a major headache if you were Wendy Carlos and you had made it your mission to include a composition such as Johann Sebastian Bach’s “Brandenburg Concerto No. 3” on “Switched-On Bach.” Because her Moog was monophonic, Carlos had to play the notes for each of the concerto’s nine stringed instruments—as well as the harpsichord part—one at a time. Worse, Carlos was forced to play each note in each of the chords any of those instruments might be required to produce one at a time, too.



As if that limitation were not hobbling enough, early synthesizers, including the Moog, were notoriously bad at staying in tune, which meant Carlos typically had to work in bursts—often lasting no more than 5 seconds at a time—before the tone she had found by twisting one knob this way and another that way had degraded. Once a clean burst was recorded, the tape would be rewound, cued up, and the next burst would be added in real time. It was a painstaking procedure, requiring endless takes. In retrospect, that a project like “Switched-On Bach” was completed at all is something of a miracle.


The article is a bit of a ‘long read’ but is totally worth it.