calebk on Tue, 27 Oct 1998 00:36:43 +0100 (CET)

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<nettime> pfe-13

"Language drags its flabby arse after sound.
Therefore it is misspelt, contorted, rinsed
out. Language lags behind beats and must be
mashed up..."                   Kodwo Eshun

To write about sounds is to outwardly and
happily fail but what may be achieved is a
sense, a feeling of what has been heard and
perhaps understood.


Listening to a new release of Alan Lamb's
faraway wind organ - the organ made from a
half mile of telegraph wires found standing
in the western Australian desert, later
destroyed by lightening and termites.

I listen from the floor as the sun goes down,
watching a light projection on my ceiling.
At night light shines through my front
windows off the cars passing on
King Street...better than TV.

And the music, what music!
           The wires drone and creak,
           thump, mummer and crack
    with an aerie nostalgia.

The rhetoric around them...a romanticism
for the artist and for what cannot be heard
again. Lamb talks of finding the organ

...wandering around in the desert?...

The first track, Nights Passage,
                 the second Last ANZAC.
He talks of a great rainbow over
the sky at sunset...

What huge noises!


It seems that somehow parmentier's new release
                 (luxsound, sigma edition 002)
reaches similar levels but in a vastly
       different setting.

The tracks in their unassuming way quietly
wrap the listener in sound.
    One realises they have been engulfed,
                              taken away...

(Maybe) there is no romantic know/tions
going on here. The artist has not gone to
extreme lengths to find themselves outback
at night recording what can never be
heard again

In its understated way it reaches the same heights.

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