“Not change, but transformation.”
– Peter Matthiessen, The Snow Leopard, p. 15
“Much of McPhee’s work sits at some thrilling intersection of short story, essay, documentary, field research and epic poem…He gathers every single scrap of reporting on a given project — every interview, description, stray thought and research tidbit — and types all of it into his computer. He studies that data and comes up with organizing categories: themes, set pieces, characters and so on. Each category is assigned a code. To find the structure of a piece, McPhee makes an index card for each of his codes, sets them on a large table and arranges and rearranges the cards until the sequence seems right. Then he works back through his mass of assembled data, labeling each piece with the relevant code. On the computer, a program called ‘Structur’ arranges these scraps into organized batches, and McPhee then works sequentially, batch by batch, converting all of it into prose.
“The idea that hums in the background of the book is how I don’t think genre is that important anymore. Lately, I’ve come to understand that there is a difference between genre and tradition in music. I like tradition a lot—it is inherently about growth and moving through time. But genre is a static idea. Genre is for merchants and spectators; tradition is for involved listeners and musicians.”
“Like industrial lighting or reclaimed wood, shou sugi ban has a certain rustic, homespun appeal. The yearning for this aesthetic has led, over the past decade, to a general return to treating materials in traditional ways and, more specifically, to an adoption of principles that have long been fundamental to Japanese architecture: simplicity, the use of natural materials and a sensitivity to the surrounding environment.”
One day in 1999 I walked into (the now closed) Kim’s Music and Video in the East Village and listened to some CDs at one of their listening stations. (Remember CDs? Remember listening stations? Remember record stores?) I liked this German IDM artist Arovane (Uwe Zahn) because his music was melodic and had unusual chords. The sales clerk was somewhat enthusiastic, but pointed me towards more complex musical terrains. Yeah Arovane’s pretty good…He’s a little like a watered-down version of Autechre. I didn’t know what Autechre was so I asked the clerk and he brought me over to their section.
The other day I was toggling between new tracks by Autechre and Arovane, musicians whose music I have spent my share of time listening to since that visit to Kim’s. Autechre recently released two tracks for the Touched Music for Macmillan Cancer Support project, while Arovane recently released a full length recording, Into My Own (which I happened upon by randomly checking whether or not he had any new music). As I listened to two Autechre and Arovane tracks one after the other, toggling between them, a difference between the musics struck me. It’s a difference that doesn’t make one “better” than the other, but nevertheless impacts how I listen to them and what I take away from that experience. This difference has to do with the musics’ perceived perceptual ambiguities and how those ambiguities are impacted by repeating elements such as beats or melodies. I would sum up this impact by describing Arovane’s music as somewhat interpretively “closed” and Autechre’s as more “open.” Let’s briefly consider two tracks to compare how they unfold.
The Arovane track “Ein Kleines Lied” opens with a lovely electronic harp-like sound plucking notes of a distinctly Avrovane-esque chord in a continuous melody stream. (He truly has beautiful chords.) At 0:36, a beat joins the track. It’s a 4/4 beat, somewhat disguised by its continuous hi hat ticking, off-center snare sound and accent placements, but still, the beat has a suggestive-of-four-on-the-floor conventionality to it. The beat is essentially accompanying the repeating melody: it doesn’t add much to our perception of it, instead it’s just one more layer of sound that frames the harp tune. (Picture the notes suspended on a grid.) Once the track has its beat we have a solid idea of where the music is going because it has already arrived at its maximal state. Now it’s just a question of how much longer it will keep itself going, how long it will keep its musical mood aloft. “Ein Kleines Lied” ends with the harp sound changed into a vibraphone, a timbral shift we register (oh cool…), but the vibes are playing the same melody stream. It’s a change, but not a transformation.
The Autechre track “JNSN CODE GL16” (Autechre enjoy using inscrutable track titles, perhaps so you have zero preconceptions about the music) opens with a buzzing, metallic, and cavernous melody-esque figure that is without any relation to acoustic timbres. This happens a lot with Autechre: the music catches you pigeon-toed by foregoing obvious connections to what you already know and you’re left off-balance. The melody-esque figure is simultaneously a echo-percussive sound too, doubling as the track’s rhythmic element. One minute into the track a kind of atmospheric pad drone joins in. The drone is beguiling: You can’t tell if it’s one or five notes. You can’t tell if it’s looping. You can’t tell if it’s forging ahead or retreating. It’s rather mesmerizing: How does Autechre do this with that?
About four minutes in, as you’re still trying to figure out the effects of the atmospheric pad drone, you notice that the buzzing metallic melody has vanished, leaving in its wake traces of itself in the form of pitched echoes bouncing around the sound field. Six minutes into the seven-and-a-half minute track, both the melody and the pad are gone, but instead of silence we hear what sounds like the attack points of the vanished melody knocking about a wonky plate-reverbed place. I’m not a sci-fi person, but I’ll admit that the end of “JNSN CODE GL16” evokes a robot discovering it has muscles, shadow-boxing in an abandoned warehouse somewhere.
Both the Arovane and Autechre tracks pass my tests of musical beauty and repetition: I like listening to them, the impact of their sounds doesn’t diminish with my repeated listening, and I need to return to the tracks themselves to re-inhabit their affective worlds. This is all good. But Autechre take an extra step that makes a difference: they deeply incorporate musical transformations into every aspect of their track. And not only this track: there’s very little (zero?) overt repetition happening in any of their music. Instead, each Autechre moment is a growth moment, subtly changing what you just heard into something else. While Arovane sets up a comfortable musical lushness and keeps it aloft for a few minutes (no insignificant production feat), Autechre seem less concerned with our comfort, proceeding as if their music is fractal discovery, deriving variations on a bit of musical material and making those variations the subject of their track.* How do they do it? Maybe it’s obsessively meticulous editing. Maybe it’s those algorithms they program. Maybe it’s an intuitive gift. Or maybe their music is the by-product of not wanting to take the easier route of sounding like everyone else?
So: the Arovane track defines without leaving much room for suggesting. In this way it feels interpretively closed. In contrast, the Autechre track keeps suggesting without defining. In this way it feels interpretively open. One track isn’t better than the other, but like a good relationship or a compelling piece of writing, when we perceive something as open-ended we want to come back to it again and again.
* A fractal is a geometric figure each part of which has the same characteristics of the whole.
“The contemplative life remains freely available to us though our choices—what we read and buy, how we commit to leisure and self-improvement, the passing over of empty temptation, our preservation of the quiet spaces, and intentional striving to become the masters of our mastery.”*
– Franklin Foer, World Without Mind (2017), p. 232
(*In his book, Conversations on Science, Culture, and Time, the philosopher Michael Serres coined the phrase: “Our very mastery seems to escape our mastery” [pp. 171-72]).
Autechre trust their code
more than their biological machines
to make unsounded sounds
ahead of culture
beyond your opinion
at home in concert darkness
pushing your senses
for sixty minutes of imagining
how much more music can be.
That you or I or anyone else have to like it.
That its value depends on our liking it.
That its value depends on its being useful.
“I arrived at the view that being awesome is being good at creating ‘social openings’—moments of mutual appreciation between people when they break out of their norms and routines by expressing their individuality in a way that gets others to express theirs. Someone sucks when they reject a social opening for no good reason.”
“According to [Naftali] Tishby, who views the information bottleneck as a fundamental principle behind learning, whether you’re an algorithm, a housefly, a conscious being, or a physics calculation of emergent behavior, that long-awaited answer ‘is that the most important part of learning is actually forgetting.’”
“NMT as practiced today is based on two main principles. The first is music’s ability to stimulate a whole range of different parts of the brain. ‘There’s no other stimulus on earth that provides such a global activation of our brains as music,’ Harris says. The second is that music helps with neuroplasticity, that is, the way our brains constantly create new connections and strengthen old connections throughout our lives. Harris says research has even proven that music helps the brain heal itself by creating these new connections.”
Once in a while
when the music plays
I have the sensation
beyond the notes
of being guided
towards giving up
my sense of direction
leaving the navigation
to the composer
who has a plan
for reminding me
how to follow not lead
believe in the gesture
as if an unspoken lesson
is that listening to music
is trusting over time.
Like circus high wire artists missing one another’s fingertips by inches, your musical style is what transpires when your expectations are just out of reach of your capabilities and you go into freefall.
Retail stores are where most popular music retreats to live out its days under fluorescent lights on Sirius life support, having faded from relevance but still somewhat useful.
A musician’s improvising tells you about their thinking,
while their sight-reading tells you about their skills.
(One doesn’t really connect with the other.)
Musical instrument catalogs teach a lie:
that making music is about the gear.
A musician who overplays is waving a red flag on their own behalf.
(“Can you help me stop playing so much?!”)
Which are you:
The kind that remembers the words and their melodies,
or the gist of the rhythm section’s groove?
Acoustic musical instruments are honest because they faithfully transmit your touch.
MIDI reduced a musician’s touch to a number between 1 and 127, yet we adapted.
(Social media reduced us to sharing and liking,
muting our individuality, yet we are adapting.)
Adhering to the style of the idiom gets you through the door,
but it’s still not what makes good music.
Superior musicians make use not only of their whole body,
but also the entirety of their inescapable character.
(If such musicians’ music making sounds ugly, maybe that’s who they are.)
In one way or another, all music traffics in expectations
—real or imagined, met or frustrated.
The older you get, the less obvious it is why today’s popular music hit is a hit.
Music’s subliminal effects don’t get the attention they deserve.
Broad consensus is the enemy of musical innovation.
Composers left scores behind. What will DJs leave?
Musical style boundaries are porous:
even AC-DC can be dance music, if you’re at a New England wedding.