It’s impossible to fully comprehend the “less is more” ethic without considering Jason Kahn’s exemplary Cut label. In fact, for Kahn, such an ethic is more of a mandate than a precept, for he and his cohorts have helped to usher in a sub-genre of electroacoustic improv (whether one calls it “lowercase”, “minimal”, or “reductionist”) that is now its own cottage industry. Aligning himself with other micro-level artisans occupying similar axises (Günter Müller, John Hudak, Tu M’, Steinbruchel, the Erstwhile and Rossbin camps, to name but two), Kahn’s approach, whether solo, in collaboration, of spotlighting like-minded colleagues, is never less than aurally stimulating, consistently challenging and frequently fascinating. The fact that genre demarcation lines are often ruthlessly blurred by his artists signifies a unique examination of sound and vision shared by few others.
Oh, and lest anyone think that “reductionism” breads quietude need only listen to the cochlea-sharpening tones exacted by Fullman and Meehan. Weapons of choice here are decidedly acoustic—Fullman’s is a homemade string driven thing whose 14-meter fibers extend into her backyard, Meehan’s a simple snare drum with cymbals—but such an economy of means doesn’t limit the arcing sonorities both artists coax from their respective instruments. Without overdubbing or needless electronic embellishment, Fullman massages piercing horizontal drones that resonate with barely restrained cacophony, a multitude of death-defying cries decaying into the surrounding space. Meehan’s use of a dowel and simple friction practically reinvents the innate nature of sound vibration—every small, calibrated movement brings a different fluctuation, every changed gesture palpably felt in both aural cavity and chest cavity.
Downright brash and noisy, particularly the high-end striations that open track two, this work synthesizes the drone particulates of Phill Niblock, Alan Lamb’s natural wind symphonies, and progenitor Alvin Lucier’s wire tapping into provocative, bracing new ideologies. Uneasy listening to be sure, and diminutive these works might be, but Fullman and Meehan’s modus operandi belies the idea that simplistic tools must begat simplistic designs. Environmental music for cracking stations? More like cosmic tones for mental therapy, Fullman and Meehan massaging our frontal lobes in earnest.
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