slower than sound
I am not ashamed of watching Big Brother, but I must admit that having written about it in that last entry, I did feel a bit... grubby. So it's fortunate that I was able to visit the other end of the cultural spectrum with Faster Than Sound at the weekend. FTS, as regular readers with extremely good memories may know, is a strange electronic offshoot of the Aldeburgh festival, taking place on a disused airbase in Suffolk. Last time we went it turned into a neo-rave; this time precautions had been taken. All the action was confined to one hangar and most of the artists were only on for ten minutes at a time, as though to stop anyone from getting too worked up. And the performances were low on beats and high on experimentation: so a lot of grinding but not much bumping.
Vladislav Delay, one of the closest things FTS had to a 'star', was only on for 15 minutes or so and way down the bill, doing his swirling, clonking ambient thing with 'live percussionists.' These were: a woman who spent most of the performance with sticks raised in the air, poised to strike; and a guy quietly, almost shamefacedly, playing what was probably a xylophone. Not quite the Drummers of Burundi then. Tim Exile possibly fared a little better with live vocalists who whooped and shrieked while he (musically) beat them up.
The atmosphere was friendly, like a party. And apocalyptic. Whenever I returned to the hangar it was to discover a grim rumbling; or a bloke shouting about death while people waved torches around; or a woman making a cello sound like Diamanda Galas being sawn in half. It all climaxed with Mira Calix's seething and chirupping accompaniment to film of insect activities, images which reminded me of the Martians in Quatermass And The Pit (1967) an appropriate response to a place frozen in time, yet still haunted by scary possibilities; cold wars.
I was engaged, not fully engaged, but more so, probably than Mat and Dave, who were busy counting the seconds until twelve, when Plaid (in a sense the only real 'act' of the night) came on. 'What time is midnight?', asked Dave at one point; then, a second later, 'How long is midnight?' Mat was busy making the case that, musically, we could do better ourselves. I returned from a visit to the hangar at one stage to find that they had invented 'dickcore'. Mat was planning our first video. What should be in it? 'Cunts. A lot of cunts. Cocks. Cocks in cunts... Arseholes.' Unsurprisingly he was pissed, his recurrent hiccups already improvising a bold first step in his experimental music career.
Plaid delivered, beavering away on laptops in a closed-off space in the middle of the floor. It was like they were at work, and we were peering at them over the top of their cubicle; effectively, I suppose, this was the case. But they didn't seem too pissed off about the situation. And there were other distractions: flashing lights illuminating a trackway at the end of which was a set of steps. These gave rise to expectations which you knew would not be fulfilled: Shirley Bassey swanning down them in some fabulous gown; or a giant space insect at the very least.
We had to wait for an hour for the cab. I passed the time twanging the tab on my coke can. In this context I was practically busking.
Next morning popular culture reasserted itself. I sat paralysed before the Hollyoaks omnibus. Someone called Max was run over and killed shortly after getting married. 'Don't be gay', his best man pleaded as he slipped away. Once, people used to moan about 'that word' being hijacked by, er, gays. Clearly, it has been hijacked again. And is still travelling, at high speed, and veering crazily all over the road. I wonder where it will end up this time.
At least the expiring groom got to say that it had been 'the best day of my life'. Wait! You got run over and died! I wouldn't like to see your worst day.
Vladislav Delay, one of the closest things FTS had to a 'star', was only on for 15 minutes or so and way down the bill, doing his swirling, clonking ambient thing with 'live percussionists.' These were: a woman who spent most of the performance with sticks raised in the air, poised to strike; and a guy quietly, almost shamefacedly, playing what was probably a xylophone. Not quite the Drummers of Burundi then. Tim Exile possibly fared a little better with live vocalists who whooped and shrieked while he (musically) beat them up.
The atmosphere was friendly, like a party. And apocalyptic. Whenever I returned to the hangar it was to discover a grim rumbling; or a bloke shouting about death while people waved torches around; or a woman making a cello sound like Diamanda Galas being sawn in half. It all climaxed with Mira Calix's seething and chirupping accompaniment to film of insect activities, images which reminded me of the Martians in Quatermass And The Pit (1967) an appropriate response to a place frozen in time, yet still haunted by scary possibilities; cold wars.
I was engaged, not fully engaged, but more so, probably than Mat and Dave, who were busy counting the seconds until twelve, when Plaid (in a sense the only real 'act' of the night) came on. 'What time is midnight?', asked Dave at one point; then, a second later, 'How long is midnight?' Mat was busy making the case that, musically, we could do better ourselves. I returned from a visit to the hangar at one stage to find that they had invented 'dickcore'. Mat was planning our first video. What should be in it? 'Cunts. A lot of cunts. Cocks. Cocks in cunts... Arseholes.' Unsurprisingly he was pissed, his recurrent hiccups already improvising a bold first step in his experimental music career.
Plaid delivered, beavering away on laptops in a closed-off space in the middle of the floor. It was like they were at work, and we were peering at them over the top of their cubicle; effectively, I suppose, this was the case. But they didn't seem too pissed off about the situation. And there were other distractions: flashing lights illuminating a trackway at the end of which was a set of steps. These gave rise to expectations which you knew would not be fulfilled: Shirley Bassey swanning down them in some fabulous gown; or a giant space insect at the very least.
We had to wait for an hour for the cab. I passed the time twanging the tab on my coke can. In this context I was practically busking.
Next morning popular culture reasserted itself. I sat paralysed before the Hollyoaks omnibus. Someone called Max was run over and killed shortly after getting married. 'Don't be gay', his best man pleaded as he slipped away. Once, people used to moan about 'that word' being hijacked by, er, gays. Clearly, it has been hijacked again. And is still travelling, at high speed, and veering crazily all over the road. I wonder where it will end up this time.
At least the expiring groom got to say that it had been 'the best day of my life'. Wait! You got run over and died! I wouldn't like to see your worst day.
posted by martin at 1:01 PM
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