Cerberus 2(8)
More junk mail in the Spam folder
Preamble
Look at this — three weeks in a row!
Don’t get used to this treatment. But in a rush of cautious pragmatism, I’m finding myself engaging with the things I love again (outside of entertaining my family). And there’s a lot of great music to turn to. Cases in point…
John Kolodij — First Fire/At Dawn
When Nobody first informs William Blake that the bullet he has absorbed due to a jealous lover’s misunderstanding is too close to his heart, it’s a relatable parable for an audience that feels this sort of pain as it wanders through a life half-lived. It is the essence of “At Dawn” from John Kolodij (High Aura’d, many-a-collaborations). This is not due to the steely western flourishes of Kolodij’s guitar playing, the minimalist percussion of Sarah Hennies, or the forlorn fiddle of Anna Rg, but merely the memory of what it’s like to feel and to know that all the emotion within oneself — even if they live a long, healthy life — will never be enough. There will always be an existential threat to our hearts, if not a physical one.
Longing turns to dread with “First Fire,” and though “First Fire” is technically the A-side to this cassette, it’s eerie cadence as we descend into the depth of hell works better for my own narrative. Allow me this brief moment of selfishness.
Hell is not a physical trip, but rather a philosophical one. Who are we as people when we detach — or are forcefully removed from — our emotions? What (not who) do we become? It seems there is no coming back from this place. Once the searing hot flames touch you, you are cleansed from ever feeling again. That bullet lodged near your aorta is merely an interior tattoo, and it too will be washed in fire and rendered useless. The tool used to remind you what it’s like to feel will be gone in the white hot.
But you can’t forget this cassette. So make sure you keep in on your person somewhere. It will serve as a reminder to not travel where no person should ever dare to tread. Do not throw yourself into the conscious depths of hell. Stay here, stay with us, and remember what it’s like to swell and bloat with the pangs of emotion while listening to great music.
Lau Nau — Själö
It doesn’t seem unusual for Laura Naukkarinen to be behind a film’s soundtrack. Her lush, windswept compositions have provided necessary music for moving many lives forward. Then again, isn’t that the purpose of art in the first place?
Själö is not Naukkarinen’s work alone. Not only is it influenced by the scenes of director Lotta Petronella, but it also includes “sound environments” from Janne Laine. The result is an album that is organic in its uplifting isolationism. Sounds reverberate across Naukkarinen’s musical boundaries, pinging particular notes and melodic phrases with each passing volley.
Laine’s contributions lend Själö the benefit of still life. Everyday sounds and mundane tasks (opening doors) fill the sparseness with a sense of purpose. Disconnected from the film, Själö can stand on its own because of how well it fills the gaps in our daily lives. Naukkarinen’s melodies are fragile, and the reverberations of Laine’s sound environments feel like a rubber ball in a small room of vases. Any odd carom or diversion from the chosen path could obliterate the solitude and awaken us from a half-sleep where isolation becomes loneliness rather than warmth.
Yet Själö never strays from its path. Its pathing is pristine, meditative, monk-like in its service to both the principles of Lau Nau and Laine’s collaboration. It’s the work of neighbors collectively feeling each other out until common ground is kindled.
Medina/Walsh — Four Compositions
Obscure+Terrible/Cassette, Digital
New longform banger finds the Seattle duo getting deeper into noise and drone with fulfilling results. Each composition presents a different idea (“For Film,” “For Media,” “For Stage,” and “For Installation”) “For Film” is an uplifting drone piece that crescendos into an ecstatic burst of noise, a triumph of the imagined movie reaching its rightful conclusion. “For Media” is a dirtier, but even more bombastic piece that builds off “For Film,” right down to the music at the end sounds like the end of a filmstrip flapping after its run its course.
It is also the closest musical imitation to the album’s art. Like a scrambled cable channel from the early 90s, it’s a missive of static and white hot hum that echoes from the left to right brains as brief moments of clear sound pierce the otherwise discombobulating din.
“For Installation” is the most radical Medina & Walsh have gotten to this point in their recorded careers. The electronics begin to circumvent and overtake the organic instrumentation that is already obscured and confused throughout these pieces. It’s also the most patient track, not only in asking listeners to surrender 20 minutes to it, but also in its willingness to see how long Medina and Walsh can wait out their listeners before mixing it up and moving onto something different. Yet this challenge is one the duo is ready to meet. They are beginning to move away from their earlier recordings without abandoning their principles of sonic exploration and experimentation. As the cassette ends in a brittle decomposition, one is excited to hear what’s next.
