As readers of this blog will know, I was rather excited about seeing Africa HiTech, Mark Pritchard and Aphex Twin perform live earlier this month.
As well as inspiring two laudatory reviews, this led me to while away an afternoon investigating the entire Warp Records back catalogue – or at least as much of it as I could find on Bleep. $100 later, I had on my hard drive a large collection of tracks from the classic Sheffield electronic label of the 1990s.
In Energy Flash, his seminal history of rave, Simon Reynolds criticises Warp for snobbishly setting itself apart from the scene – and argues that by doing so it cut itself off from creative explosions, such as the birth of jungle, that occurred precisely because producers and DJs needed ever newer and crazier sounds to keep the dancefloor pumping.
There is at least an element of truth to this. Warp is known as one of the founders and custodians of electronica or, as it is sometimes known, IDM (intelligent dance music). With compilations like Artificial Intelligence in the early 1990s, they helped create a sound somewhere between rave’s main room and its chill room. But Reynolds’ critique glosses over the hugely influential work of artists like Aphex Twin, Squarepusher, Boards of Canada and in particular Autechre – who have drifted steadily from the dancefloor but somehow continued to develop an immense oeuvre that is, at its heart, rave.
The music I was looking for on Bleep was the electro-beat, ambient-acid rave of the first half of the 1990s. I’m sure there’s more out there, and I plan on tracking it down, but I did find what I was looking for: an early twelve-inch by Move D (now known for his deep house); various Pritchard aliases including including Link and Reload; some Underground Resistance and Drexciya connections, still fresh and showing the influence of Detroit electro on the UK scene; and, most notably, two LPs and three EPs from the little known and short-lived Sheffield outfit RAC.
RAC’s music fit the bill pretty closely, and two of their tracks have found their way onto this mix I put together on Ableton to showcase some of these new/old tunes – as well as other favourites that clock in around 134bpm. The only genuinely new tracks are from Scuba and Shpongle, and both could be described as looking backwards to move forwards.
It was fun (and pretty easy) making the mix, although I struggled to get the volume levels as even as I would have liked. Mixing the records live would be another story altogether, although I do feel more inspired to get behind the decks than in quite some time.
You can download it from Soundcloud or just have a listen, and if you do I’d like to hear your thoughts. What’s your favourite track? Can you imagine dancing to this music? It starts very mellow but works its way onto the dancefloor, I think. What are your thoughts on the electro-style breakbeat? I love how the off-beat gives the music more bounce, while the 303s and other percussive elements make it flow – four-to-the-floor can sound so wooden and lifeless at times. The Buckfunk 3000 (AKA Si Begg) track hints at where this style would be taken with great commercial success but much less nuance in the early Noughties, i.e. the breaks scene.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy the mix. If you haven't been out in a while, have a dance around your bedroom! I certainly have been.
On Wednesday I went to the funeral of Celia “Aze” Beasy, my girlfriend Theresa’s great aunt, at St Stephen’s Anglican Church in North Balwyn.
I only met Aze once. She lay quietly looking out the window from her bed, speaking briefly when prompted by her energetic younger sister Valmai. But before the funeral Theresa told me of Aze’s wonderful shack at the beach, where canasta games dragged on forever because her friends would constantly drop in unannounced. Having witnessed the purgatory of her last days in a nursing home, it was good to have this snapshot of life as she really lived it.
Aze moved down from Newcastle very late in life, and many at the church would scarcely have recognised the vibrant woman described in the eulogy. I almost felt sorry for her, surrounded in death by so few people who really knew and loved her. On reflection, however, I think this says more about me than her. She lived a long and happy life. What else matters?
It’s a difficult question to answer. At least there was one happy side effect of Aze’s death, which doubtless is quite common: her family pulled closer together. They spent more time together, talked more, hugged more. It was great to see.
As a newcomer, I felt more at ease with Theresa’s family at this time of grief than previously in more informal settings. Suddenly, I was useful. I held a box of tissues, Theresa’s hand and her Mum’s hand bag; I passed around food platters and chatted up senior citizens; I belted out “Jerusalem” when the priest seemed to lose his way; I even managed not to think of Will Ferrell in Stepbrothers when “Con Te Partiro” was played.
And no, the day wasn’t all albout me – but I do have a tendency to narcissism, which is partly why I’m interested in funerals. At times I’ve imagined giving the eulogy of a close friend or family member, and delivering such a virtuoso performance that the attendant throng was wept bone dry of tears and rolling in the aisles with laughter. In contrast, Aze’s eulogy was delivered quite matter-of-factly by an acquaintance she made after her 80th birthday.
Perhaps the ideal eulogy is this: an energetic, talented youngster steps up to bring a life long since gone grey back to the full colour of its bloom. A friend of mine recently returned from London for the funeral of her grandfather, at which she delivered her fourth eulogy in even fewer years. She was a big hit. Afterwards, distant relatives and family friends were jostling for position, hoping to book her in to “do them” when the time comes.
But of course, the usual narcissistic funeral fantasy involves one’s own send-off. It’s morbidly but endlessly fascinating to ponder: what would happen if I died tomorrow? Who would speak? Where would they hold it? How many people would turn up? Perhaps more importantly, who would write the Facebook event invite – and who would click ‘Maybe Attending’?
In the mixtape era of the early 1990s, I selected Metallica’s “Orion” as my funeral march. Thankfully, times have changed and I now have a suggested playlist on iTunes, although it does need some work. In fact, even thinking about this makes me want to buy my legal eagle friends a beer (they aways end up paying anyway). Is it possible to produce a will so watertight that the executors of my estate are legally obliged to play a particular selection of music, at a minimum decibel level, and on a particular brand of speakers?
Here’s a mouth-watering scenario: at the ripe old age of 90, I disappear in a sandstorm during a Trans-Siberian ultramarathon and am declared legally awesome dead. My recalcitrant conservative children engage in a lengthy court battle against my surviving coterie of old friends in an attempt to have my will quashed, but are ultimately unsuccessful. In an ironic twist, said old friends sit too close to the Bose sound system at the funeral and suffer multiple simultaneous cardiac arrests during the blissful electronic maelstrom that is Pita’s Get Out Track 3 at the legal minimum of 100dB.
Those who survive this ordeal then find themselves at a wake where all my worldly possessions are laid out for their perusal. Everyone has to take something home, especially if it’s a book with their name in it – or a picture of me looking young and beautiful. Or perhaps old and beautiful, either is fine. By the age of 90 there will be over 5,000 tagged photos of me on Facebook, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find a few decent ones.
All my signature dishes are served: zucchini pizza, rice balls, smoked trout salad and spanish tortilla. Dessert platters heave with a dozen different custard pastries. There is vodka, jagermeister and a bottomless ice bucket of Cooper’s pale, and when everyone is tipsy (but not too drunk) a beautifully crafted joint gets passed around. The music is cranked up, and suddenly a live-action performance of Dan Ducrou’s “Grandpa Does the Melbourne Shuffle” is underway. Cue more cardiac arrests.
This fantasy might have outstayed its welcome, but be warned: this is only the beginning. Soon my will will be written, and so will the directions for my funeral and wake. Actually, I might do the Facebook event too. It would be such a shame not to go out on a high.
In the meantime, I guess I'll have to work on being worthy of such a send-off when the time comes. Harnessing narcissism to live a good life? As Woody Allen says, whatever works.
In recent years, I’ve been quite enthralled by the Tour de France. At first this came as a surprise to people who know me, including myself. For years I took perverse pride in having actually forgotten how to ride a bike. One of my most recent adventures in cycling ended when I veered inexplicably into the railway line fence in Westgarth. I just checked: the scar is still there on my belly.
So Le Tour (it’s French for The Tour) might not make me want to hit the pedals, but it does make me turn on the telly after 10pm any night I’m home. To the skeptical or uninitiated, I usually begin my explanation like this: “Have you ever watched one of those HBO DVD box sets?”
Bear with me.
In a single cycling race – say, the road race at the Olympics – a hundred or so riders start off, ride for a really long time and then somebody wins. Sometimes there’s a bit of drama along the way but often it comes down to a sprint for the finish line. Let’s call this the Generic Hollywood Movie version of cycling.
The Tour, however, is the HBO Box Set. With 21 days of racing (and a few rest days in between), there is plenty of time for the drama to develop.
In the Tour, riders are in it for themselves but more importantly for their team, and hence the team’s major corporate sponsor. Most teams are international but some have a national base: there is a Basque team, and now an Australian one.
Some teams have a rider aiming for individual glory. There is the Yellow Jersey for the overall leader of the Tour; the Green Jersey for the best sprinter (points can be won at the finish line but also at various places throughout a stage); the Polka Dot Jersey for the King of the Mountains, the best climber; the White Jersey for the best young rider; and the prestige of winning an individual stage.
If a team has a rider hoping to win any of these things, his team mates are expected to support him even at their own expense. But if he falls out of contention, one of his team mates can have a day in the sun.
The significance of all this may not be instantly apparent, so let me explain. In the Generic Hollywood Movie, everyone is trying to win the race/ get the girl/ save the world. In the HBO Box Set, life is rather more complicated. People want different things! There is a tangled web of motivations and alliances, with characters moving up and down the ladders of fortune and influence depending on their skill and luck.
Only one man can wear the Yellow Jersey – but most of the riders in the field are directly or indirectly involved in a plot to tear it off his back.
Sound familiar, Game of Thrones fans?
The great thing about Le Tour – and HBO TV shows – is they don’t pander to short attention spans. If you turn on for twenty minutes, nothing will happen. Invest a few weeks of your life, though, and the rewards are proportionate. If you really get to know a character, you’ll really feel it when he falls off his bike – or gets his head chopped off.
With its second season about to air in the US, Game of Thrones is something of a phenomenon. Based on a series of fantasy novels by George R. R. Martin, it was supposedly pitched to the network as “The Sopranos on Middle Earth”. It’s a description that may be apocryphal but nonetheless cannot be bettered.
The setting is the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, a realm with many similarities to Britain. The War of the Roses is a clear inspiration: the two noble houses of Lannister (Lancaster) and Stark (York) are at each other’s throats. A great wall protects the civilised from barbarians to the north. Across the Narrow Sea is a vast land mass of exotic cultures, magic, and perhaps even dragons.
It’s not all tight scripts and great acting, of course. Le Tour may have the drugs but Game of Thrones has serious doses of violence and sex. I haven’t heard as much blood gurgling in throats since The Passion of the Christ. As for the sex, well, I would argue it’s mostly contextual. Others have a different view.
Some people have complained they can’t follow Game of Thrones: “Too many names, too confusing.” Well, I guess that’s where the luscious mise-en scene and amazing backdrops come in. If you haven’t got the foggiest what’s going on, just put your feet up and enjoy the view on your expensive new Plasma TV.
One of the celebrated highlights of the Tour is the breathtaking scenery. While the riders grind out another 200kms, we are treated to helicopter shots of mediaeval abbeys poised perilously on windswept mountaintops. Game of Thrones is essentially the same but, instead of lycra-clad cyclists flashing past, a knight fights a lowborn thug to the death in the trial by combat of a dwarf – while a nine-year old prince breastfeeds and cheers them on.
The Tour de France and Game of Thrones. Let the cross-promotion begin.
My Dad is a runner. In 1963 he almost won the Open Mile at the Achilles Cup, Adelaide’s private school boys’ athletics meet. Dad was the favourite, but he went out too hard and the Scotch boy caught him on the final straight. I like it when he tells this story.
I like to tell a story of my own, about my name. When I was born, in 1980, the English runner Sebastian Coe was preparing for the Moscow Olympics – and Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750) was still top of the pops as far as Mum was concerned. My name represents Dad, the jock, and Mum, the intellectual, finding common ground. Like most good stories, there’s some truth in it.
Growing up, my brother and I loved sport but thought running a strange pursuit. In fact, in some ways I took after J.S. more than after Lord Coe: there were more family concerts of baroque music, with Mum accompanying my recorder on the harpsichord, than there were jogs along the beach. Dad dragged us out for a run around the oval once or twice, but Thomas and I would soon get distracted attempting left-foot banana kicks at goal from impossible angles. More fun, less effort.
With very few exceptions, I never went running solo until much later in life. At age 27 I moved to Sydney, as much to improve my health as to see family and friends. I ate well, bodysurfed a lot, stopped drinking and smoking – and then one day, perhaps when the beaches were closed, I decided to go for a run.
It was a rather sobering experience. I lasted two minutes on the steep slopes of Randwick and Coogee before breaking into a walk. A few minutes later I attempted to run again. Then walked some more. Returning home with my tail between my legs, I could easily have forgotten all about running for another twenty years. So why didn’t I?
Mainly I kept at it because I’d been unhealthy for so long, and now I wanted to get fit. Running was a means to an end, but more than that it seemed particularly efficient form of exercise: you could run from the moment you left the front door to the moment you arrived home, the odd traffic delay notwithstanding. And, even if every minute of the run was painful, there was always the high that came afterwards.
There is an equlibrium here. For several years I appreciated the benefits of running enough that I could put up with the act itself, two or three times a week, for four or five kilometres. But running along the Yarra I began to glimpse something better, a higher state where I actually enjoyed being outside, running through the trees and up the riverbank.
Back in Adelaide before Christmas 2010, I went exploring the hills around Mum’s new place in Balhannah. I chose a loop on the map that looked about 7kms in length, and managed not to get lost. It was a beautiful, undulating course but what struck me most was a feeling I experienced about twenty minutes in. It only lasted about five minutes, but I instantly recognised it as the Holy Grail I never knew I’d been seeking.
I felt like I could run forever.
A week later I ran the 11km loop in Chambers Gully with a friend. We climbed (slowly) for 6 kms, ran along a ridge with a stunning city view, and descended for 4kms. My mate nursed me through it and bought my Gatorade at the end, but I still felt like I’d won the Boston Marathon.
A week after that I kicked a soccer ball barefoot on the beach, and broke a toe.
So the first half of 2011 was a write off. I got depressed. I swam a bit, and a few times it felt good and right like running had begun to feel. Mostly it was quite boring; with all due respect to the Northcote pool, the scenery (especially underwater) is very dull. Slowly I began to realise that, even though my toe wasn’t fully healed, I could still run without doing it further damage.
My road trip up the east coast was the real turning point. I camped by deserted beaches and woke up with a barefoot run and a swim. With my friend Daniel I ran the hills of Goonengerry, the 8km loop around Minyon Falls, the beaches and cliff faces of Bunjalong and Yuraygir National Parks. We weren’t just exercising, we were exploring, socialising – and getting buff to swan around Rainbow Serpent with our tops off.
More than once Daniel led me down a trail that wasn’t signposted. We’d follow it for a kilometre or two, and just as I began to complain aloud and suggest we turn back, we’d arrive somewhere magical: a hill with a view, or a river for swimming. We’d stop and enjoy this place we’d discovered, then run back.
Returning to Melbourne, I’ve kept running but struggled to recapture this sense of adventure and pleasure in running. Thankfully, the other day a present from Daniel arrived in the post: a copy of Born To Run by Christopher McDougall.
This post has been rather subdued thus far – partly because I’m recovering from a bug, partly because up to this point in the story I have more or less uninspired about running. For now at least, Born to Run has completely turned this around. Two weeks ago I was back in the habit of running dutifuly, nose to the grindstone. Now I’m dreaming of running around Australia barefoot. I simply cannot wait to get back out there.
Born to Run is a classic piece of “participant-observer” journalism. The book opens with the injury prone McDougall being counselled by top doctors to give running away for good. It finishes with him completing a 50 mile ultramarathon through the Copper Canyons of Mexico, a race that pitted the legendary endurance athletes of the local Tarahumara people against some of the best US ultrarunners.
It’s a cracking read: every chapter ends on a cliffhanger, or with a mystery that needs solving. And inseparable from the physical quest to run the race is McDougall’s inquiry into the crucial role played by running in the story of human evolution.
It’s hard to imagine a greater motivational tool for runners than this: apparently we really are born to run. Worried about your big butt? Well, you don’t really use those gluteus maximus muscles to walk, only to run - and if you don’t use them they’re only going to get bigger. What about your body fat percentage? Apparently humans have relatively high body fat (compared to, say, chimpanzees) precisely to enable us to run long distances.
And why did early humans need to run so far? To hunt. Most animals can beat us pretty easily over short distances, but when it comes to distance running we are right at the top of the tree. The technique of persistence hunting, which has probably been in use since the arrival of Homo erectus 2.6 million years ago, is still practised today by some traditional tribespeople in Africa. Homo sapiens’ ability to run might even explain why we succeeded and the Neanderthals disappeared.
Lastly, if we’ve been running so far for so long, why do we need all these fancy shoes? Well, the good news for people who hate Nike – or just enjoy the feeling of the earth under their feet – is we probably don’t. Cushioned shoes encourage us to run with a gait that actually increase the impact of running on our bodies. Going barefoot is much healthier, as long as you run with proper form. (Wearing shoes is also fine as long as your form is good.)
This post has become, if not a marathon, then at least a longer, slower version of my usual method. I have much more to say on this brilliant book, my Dad’s illustrious athletics career, the genesis of my name and who knows what else – but now I’m off for a run. Not because I feel I should, but the fact it's my evolutionary destiny helps to explain why I want to.
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If anyone out there wants to join me in exploring Melbourne on foot, I’m going to start with the Merri Creek Trail later this week.
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There's lots of good reading online on the science behind the Running Man hypothesis. You can read a quick article that sums it up pretty well here.
As JPS and Mike Hunt go three for three on stage at the Palace Tuesday night, it occurs to me that warming up for Aphex Twin really is a dream gig.
Think about it, you can play anything. And I mean anything.
What are you going to do, clear the dancefloor? It’s filling fast no matter what records you spin. Freak the crowd out? These people have paid good money to be freaked out. Upstage the main act? Um, yeah. Good luck with that.
The boys seem to enjoy the freedom to go dark and heavy, banging out Autechre (‘Second Bad Vilbel’), Nosaj Thing, Eskamon and Plaid. Heads nod and knees bend in appreciation. The only misstep comes towards the end when Mike, sporting an oversized Underground Resistance tee, takes things too far into minimal tech territory - but Jerry quickly jumps up and fades in Autechre’s ‘Bike’.
It’s a masterstroke. Many of us gathered here tonight have listened to this track many, many times in the privacy of our own homes. Now, it bursts out of the huge sound system like a coded message for the faithful: you’re not in your bedrooms any more. This is where you, and this music, really belong.
Mark Pritchard’s arrival is another sign we’re in an alternate universe for electronica geeks. Where else are 40-something white men in shorts and glasses greeted so ecstatically? (Well, perhaps the punk scene). And three nights after Africa HiTech’s triumphant Espionage show, he deserves a rapturous welcome.
Pritchard has been in the game for over 20 years, through innumerable partnerships and monnikers like Global Communication, Jedi Knights, Link, Reload and Harmonic 313. He relocated to Sydney several years ago, and is now the closest thing Australia has to electronic music royalty on a global scale. One happy result of this is that, when living legends like Autechre and Aphex Twin tour, there is a man with the credentials and the record bag to play alongside.
“He should play something hard!” we joke to each other as the 303s roll in. Tonight we’re partying like the Noughties never happened, but it doesn’t feel regressive. In the Nineties, UK electronic music hit a sweet spot where anything was possible. With inspiration streaming in from across the Atlantic and across the Channel, rave music cannibalised hip-hop, breakbeat, house, techno, electro, ambient, krautrock and more (including chin-stroking academic music) in the search for the perfect party where the beat never stopped – and never got boring.
Underpinning this, of course, was a unique scene that, while growing, was still relatively united and utopian. But packed into the Palace tonight, we are a long way from London warehouses or the fields of Castlemorton. As Pritchard drops a hint of his/Reload’s classic “Feedback Energy”, it’s becoming increasingly hard to dance.
By the time he plays the VIP mix of “Out In The Streets”, all we can really do is pogo, headbang or hug friends – and from here on it’s a 20-minute jungle rinseout to the finish. To be honest it’s a bit much for me at 9:30pm on a Tuesday, and if this is the warm-up act then I’m getting slightly worried we’ll only be visited by the evil Richard James tonight.
After a tense few minutes of quiet anticipation, the stage is bathed in an abstract pattern of light that quickly coalesces into the famous Aphex Twin logo. Somewhere up there, we can just make out the head of the great man “Believe in me” intones an electronic voice over an ambient track. “I believe in you!” shouts a bloke behind me. An 303 line creeps in and then the beat drops – it’s hip-hop! The crowd roars and begins to dance. Or at least bop.
For the first half of the set, I find it difficult to enjoy the music as much as I feel I should. Partly it’s my own expectations, which are ridiculously high. Seven years ago Aphex played the Prince of Wales and the music was two hours of danceable bliss – even though we were practically dancing in the toilets to find space.
Partly it’s the squash, but perhaps partly it’s the sound? Stevie T from 8 Foot Felix reckons the speakers are set too far apart and there are too many dead flat walls. I look around. It’s a beautiful venue, and the three packed tiers above make me feel like I’m in a Lenny Kravitz video. But the sound is a little trebly, the bass a tiny bit boomy, and the melodies in the mid-range are getting lost.
Should I join my friends who fled upstairs to find room to move? A beautiful moment early on decides me againt it. The second track breaks down into a rolling synth line bathed in chorus, and as the beat comes back in the visuals morph into close-up, live images of punters dancing.
Most fans would be expecting this, but it’s still a trip to witness up close. And for much of the show, amazingly, the visuals seem to take centre stage. They are constantly entertaining – especially the sequence that puts Aphex and some punters’ heads on the bodies of Aussie icons like Shane Warne, Bindi Irwin and even Julia Gillard being bustled away from the Tent Embassy protesters – but at times almost distracting.
I can’t help but compare this show to Autechre, who play their music in total darkness (the Exit lights and a lamp on stage the only exception). An Autechre gig is ipso facto all about the music: find a spot, open your ears and listen. Dance if you will or can.
I’m tempted to say this show is all about spectacle. But afterwards my mates who fled upstairs to dance tell me they had heaps of space, tore it up, couldn’t see a thing and loved every minute of it. A matter of perspective, then.
The crowd greets “Fingerbib” (off Richard D. James) and “PWSteal.Ldpinch.D” (off the Analord Eps) with ecstatic hands in the air, but the turning point of the set, for me, is when Aphex drops Surgeon’s “Radiance”. It’s a monster of a track, timeless and terrifying rave music, and the carnivalesque visuals of red and white fractals complement it perfectly. It’s the epileptic fit you want to be having.
Hints of Drukqs drum ‘n’ bass takeover, and then something very unexpected happens. Two hooded figures appear on stage, making their way down from Aphex Twin to the lower stage near the punters. They are wearing unbelievably awesome fluourescent orange onesies. Then they pull out mics and start rapping in South African accents – it’s Die Antwoord!
With hype levels going through the roof, Ninja and Yo-Landi rhyme and dance over some seriously hard, jumping rave music before Ninja decides to somersault into the crowd and lead a chant of “Aussie! Aussie! Aussie! Oi! Oi! Oi!” from mid-air.
It’s all over before we know it, and the whole episode sums up Die Antwoord. They’re fun and they get the party started, but they’re in pretty bad taste and you wouldn’t want them sticking around too long. IMHO, as it were.
If there was any question Aphex might be upstaged, he puts it to bed with the last twenty minutes of his set. The intensity builds and builds as the tempo ramps up and the sound palette heads inexorably towards white noise. We move through jungle into gabba and breakcore territory. People are moshing, people are leaving, people are covering their ears, people are laughing and letting it wash over them.
A set that began in relatively ambient territory finishes in a screeching squall of sound. There’s even a hint of “Ventolin” in there somewhere. It’s an undeniable visceral experience, and when Richard James leaves the stage with a little thumbs-up the place goes bananas. What follows is the lengthiest, most boisterous attempt to win an encore I’ve ever been a part of – and even though most of us must know we’ve got bugger all chance of the man reappearing on stage, it feels right. Like a tribute.
After all, who knows if we’ll ever see Aphex Twin in Australia again?
Maybe as you’re reading this you’re on your way to the Future Music Festival to see him headline a stage after Sven Vath, no less. If so, I’m a bit jealous. At least at Future most of the crowd will be off at Skrillex or whoever, and there should be plenty of room to move.
Maybe one day we’ll get to hear music like this in the setting it really deserves. Mark Pritchard and Africa HiTech at Rainbow Serpent 2013 would be a pretty good start.
Maybe I'm just an old raver who can't accept that it's not 1998 any more.
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(Maybe I should have written this piece on Wednesday. Sorry it took me so long, and it's still a bit rushed. I’ve been sick as a dog and am just feeling better. I’ll post more videos when I can.)
Halfway through the
Summer Innit party in February, Scotty cracked the shits , got on his bike and
headed southside to a trance party on the beach.
“When I first moved to
Melbourne I spent years going out and supporting the bass scene”, he said as he
was leaving. “And you know what? No one ever dances. The crew here are just so
fucking uptight!”
I looked around. A
hundred or so people sat placidly on the grass around us as the DJ dropped an
old jungle remix of the Fugees’ ‘Ready Or Not’. Our mate Daniel was doing his
best to ignite the dancefloor, chasing a little kid around with the
inexplicable energy of a onetime raw vegan drum ‘n’ bass fiend. But apart from
that, an energetic frisbee circle was the closest we’d come to getting our
collective boogie on.
This scenario is something of a recurring nightmare: the more
adventurous electronic music is stuck in its ghetto of pot-smoking
chin-strokers, while the rocking parties are soundtracked by house and trance.
It’s like I’m 21 again, and either freaking out at the What Is Music? Festival
or queueing up with a heavy heart to get into Q (Adelaide Q).
The good news is, Melbourne has a new crew hellbent on making a mess of
these age-old distinctions. In the last year a bit, the Operatives have thrown their
Espionage parties with the likes of Flying Lotus, Mount Kimbie, Clark, Marcus
Intalex, Nosaj Thing, Klute and Martyn. On the same date as my birthday bash last
month they put on Rustie, Hudson Mohawke, Araabmuzik and Balam Acab at Roxanne
– just about the most so-hot-right-now lineup I can recall seeing (even on
paper) in Australia.
So when Scotty grooves over to me on Saturday night, with Africa Hitech
easing into their 3-hour set at Miss Libertines, gestures despairingly at the
crowd and shouts in my ear that “Someone has to shake these people up!”… well,
it’s not a good sign. Except that onstage Mark Pritchard and Steve Spacek are
beginning to do just that, moving from the soulful reggae-infused breakbeats of
their opening into Shangaan electro vibes. Happy hardcore party in a South
African village, anyone?
As the music heads for the darker climes of grime and dubstep, Scotty
starts to shake himself and the dancefloor up with some frenetic moves that
raise the bar – and draw looks of bemusement and admiration from the odd
chin-stroking bystander. But before long he’s back in my ear about the mixing.
“It’s Jamaican style”, I tell him as one track is wound noisily down and
another sprints from the blocks. And when you’re traversing as much territory
as Africa Hitech are tonight, Jamaican style seems like a safe bet – fair
enough too, Kingston is one of their spiritual homes (along with London, Sheffield,
Chicago and the afore-mentioned South African village).
It’s not like they never beat mix, either. With the room already
cranking at around 160bpm, they bring in “Out In The Streets” to a roar of
approval. We all do our best “Melbourne Shuffle Meets Chicago Footwork Inna
Dancehall” before BOOM, they drop that classic dub reggae song we all know but
I sadly cannot name and then BOOM straight back to “Out In The Streets VIP” –
now with extra jungle!
It’s full ragga style and the perfect climax of their set, and from here
on they drop one massive drum ‘n’ bass tune after another until I’m retreating
to the toilet to douse my head in cold water. JPS AKA Jerry from the Operatives
takes over and plays one of the craziest tunes I’ve ever heard first up, but by
now I’ve realised I’m done for the night. I’m not 21 any more, after all.
“Top five all-time best music heard in a club”, I suggest to Scotty, and he tells me he’s always going to trust my musical recommendations from now
on.
Well, my next tip is pretty obvious: Espionage featuring Jacques Greene,
Machinedrum and Funkineven on Easter Sunday night. Sweet baby Jesus! And
tomorrow night Jerry AND Mark Pritchard are back supporting Aphex Twin at the
Palace.
I'm a tad late with this, so I've had the benefit of trawling through the end of year lists produced by The Wire, Pitchfork, Bleep, XLR8R, FACT, etc. And what a bizarre decision by The Wire to give James Ferraro their album of the year! Good grist for the blogging mill I guess...
I've put the tracks together as something of a listenable playlist, rather than in any particular ranking. I'll write a little something below each track to give some context too. Enjoy!
The somewhat atypical opening track of Hecker's Ravedeath, 1972 album has been mesmerising me all year long. Sheer transcendent beauty! See also his Dropped Pianos EP and, for techno trainspotters, his early work under the Jetone alias on Force Inc and others.
For those unfamiliar with rapper Lil B (and I'll own up to that), Clams Casino seemed to come out of nowhere with a fully-formed, blissed-out downtempo hip-hop sound. 'Numb' is the standout cut on his Instrumental Mixtape, followed later in the year by the rather disappointing Rainforest EP.
With just one EP and a few singles to his name, Holy Other still managed to make the Sonar bill and top several end of year lists. While decidedly easy on the ears, his sound has just enough melancholy and sonic depth to invite repeat listens. A little over-hyped but undourbtedly perfect for the morning after a big night.
One half of UK dubstep duo Vex'd, Kuedo was another artist who seemed over-acclaimed in 2011. His album Severant is as a patchy listen, but when he does nail the vintage synth with modern beats sound, he really takes you there. 'Salt Lake Cuts' is a perfect slice of sunshiney euphoria for the edge of the dancefloor.
A friend of a friend of a friend who witnessed Matthewdavid performing live in his native Los Angeles reported "making love to the speaker all night". There's a lot of low end, a lot of high end, and it's all swirling together in a glorious kaleidoscope of sound. 'Like You Mean It' comes off his Outmind EP, put out on Flying Lotus' Brainfeeder, and for mine it beats any of FlyLo's recent output hands down. See also Matthewdavid's amazing XLR8R podcast of November 2010.
Looking back, why was everyone so surprised that trance and hip-hop made such sweet love together? 'AT2' was the first Araab track I heard, on Laurel Halo's FACT mix, and although the album Electronic Dream didn't quite live up to my high expectations (especially the terrible production quality) it remains on high rotation. See also 'Golden Touch', in which he samples Jam and Spoons 'Right in the Night' to great effect. Touring Australia this February.
Not much from Burial lately, but everything about 'Street Halo' is pretty much perfect: the vocals, the crackle, the drop and even the unexpected coda. One night I was inexplicably holding down the pavement outside some footballer bar in Richmond when the DJ inside dropped this; I ran inside to show my respect, only for the bartender to cut the music and turn on the house lights just as I made ecstatic contact with my new favourite DJ.
A new Modeselektor album is a real event, and although Monkeytown is even patchier than usual - there's a track for every DJ on there, and a lot of cheese - 'This' is a superbly tense and haunting piece of electronica with all their trademark polish and bass weight.
Not only the best of the TKOL remixes, but better than any originals Radiohead or Caribou have put out for some time. When I played this off the Bose Sound Dock at Rainbow Serpent, a hush fell over our little teepee; at the end, Ned remarked that he wanted to hear it again the next day so he could remember it. (I hope you're reading, Ned.) So graceful, yet so propulsive - and with an unexpected euphoric payoff to boot.
Byetone is Olaf Bender of German label Raster Noton, known for the intellectually rigorous and often demanding electronica of the likes of co-founder Carsten Nicolai AKA Alva Noto. So it was a pleasant surprise to find his Symeta album featuring some very danceable, crunchy industrial beats. Bleep obviously thought so too, naming it their album of the year.
Having produced some huge, synth-driven dubstep beats over the last few years (see especially 'Quantum Leap'), it was a nice surprise to hear Slugabed drop something close to a four-to-the-floor beat - although still with a monstrous wobble. The Moonbeam Rider EP was full of ecstatic melodies and strange twists and turns, and rather unfairly lost in the flood of UK beats. Expect big things in the future from this guy.
I hear he's a great DJ, but I can't really imagine going off on the dancefloor to Martyn's music: on the whole it's just too polished, too housey and too minimal for my taste. But this last track off his Ghost People LP is pure rave joy from start to finish, unloading one catchy synth line after another over a breakbeat that's perfectly in the pocket. A whole album like this please, Mr Martyn!
You know what to expect from Surgeon: serious, uncompromising techno. Breaking the Frame, Anthony Child's first album in over a decade, delivers this in spades - but incorporates more broken rhythms (even dubstep) that lend the work a real freshness. And 'Radiance' is so mind-bendingly immense, it makes me long for a warehouse big enough to do it justice.
One half of US post-garage outfit Sepalcure, Travis Stewart aka Machinedrum is an electronic chameleon who lately has latched onto Chicago juke with interesting results. While much of his hyped Room(s) LP veered dangerously close to the background (a bemusing result for such frenetic rhythms), 'Flycatcha' takes the sound back to the dancefloor with a vengeance. Touring Australia in April.
Now living in Sydney, Mark Pritchard is probably the closest Australia has to electronic music royalty on a global scale. As Global Communication (with Tom Middleton), Reload, and more recently Harmonic313 and now Africa Hitech (with Steve Spacek) he just keeps on releasing great tunes in an amazing array of styles. The 93 Million Miles was a sometimes difficult blend of juke, dubstep, acid house and free jazz, but this jungly remix of monster hit 'Out In the Streets' cannot be denied. Playing a three hour show at Miss Libertines in early March.
Carrier was an interesting album on Dusk and Blackdown's Keysound Recording, half 'purple garage' (to coin a stillborn term), and half juke-infused, wistful electronica. 'Trust' falls decidedly into the latter category, and was easily my most listened-to track of the year.
It took a while for Blue Daisy's modern take on trip-hop to hit home - and the first half of The Sunday Gift still leaves me a little cold. 'Shadow Assassins' straddles an unusual space between a fist-pumping dancefloor and the couch at the back of the room. You may wish to blaze, but there's really no need.
Wander/Wonder is, aptly enough, a meandering and beautiful album of warm bass, treated vocals and artful sound collage - and 'Await' is its emotional highpoint. Balam Acab is touring in February, although the live show is apparently terrible. He sings. Why does everyone want to be a rock star?
2011 was Nicolas Jaar's year, and the title track off his debut album shows why. The rhythm section is a perfect low-slung swagger, and up above the vocals reverberate endlessly like a dream that might just become a nightmare. The whole album is amazing, although if you want something more upbeat try his EPs and remixes. They're mostly amazing too. Oh yeah, and he just turned 22.
Apparently GusGus are a veteran Icelandic group of musicians/artists who once counted Emiliana Torrini as a member. Their latest work is being released on Kompakt, the ageing Cologne colossus of minimal techno, and although much of it is too vocal-led and cheesy for my taste, there are moments of beauty and beautifully sparkly production. Hopefully 'Benched', the last and slowest track on Arabian Horse, hints at their future direction.
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Thanks for listening, and reading. Comments welcome!
