by SCOTT McLAUGHLIN
Scott
has written a wonderful piece about the composition of “there are
neither wholes nor parts” which helps you understand what is
happening and why.
But I
want to write about what it sounds like.
“metastable
harmony”, the first track, sounds like wind over a frozen lake, a
skate skreeling on the surface, wind raising a resonance in the wires
against an iron sky – the essence of sharp, of cold, of ice.
Then
with a deep throb – the troll beneath the bridge we all heard
about as children growls angrily, “Who's that trit trotting over my
bridge?” The Billy Goat Gruff totters across the bridge wrapped in
a scream of nervous tension.
“there
are neither wholes nor parts – II” belongs to Jonathan Sage on
basset horn. All watery in a dark cave, a dark pool, a cool clear
echo. Ripples calmly expanding.
In
“surfaces of emergence” soft and blue emerald masses bump gently
together, reminding me of Ivon Hitchen's painting of the Divided Oak
Tree.
As wind
sweeps a lake surface, as if a single impulse can at once be
everywhere, distance and time can be uncoupled and action blush
instantaneously, this is a “massy piece”: the cup of air between
hillsides, the liquid gasp of sunlight.
With the
return of “there are neither wholes nor parts - IA”, this time with
Iain Harrison on alto sax, there is s t e a l t h, menace, a hunt
is on.
The taut
poise of a chameleon, one foot poised, immobile. A lost beast in an
arid place.
“at
least two things” has the slightly anxious breathy voice of
Elisabeth Smalt and an eerie almost featureless note that could
soundtrack the appearance of the slab in 2001: A Space Odyssey. As
the slab slowly revolved in Stanley Kubrick's film, the sunlight
suddenly slashed into view.
And
“there are neither wholes nor parts returns -II”, this time with
Jonathan Sage on clarinet, a mood of deep disquiet, maybe the
soundtrack of an empty room, nursery curtains blowing at an open
window. Or the sounds of a blown leaf in an empty playground, A cry
answered only by silence. The silence answered only by its own echo.
photo by Krista
Kruger
