A Piece Of String, A Sunset
REVIEW: THE LIMINAL (UK)
There seems to be a quest in much of Stephan Mathieu’s work to disrupt the linear nature of the time, to capture a moment and hold it forever, to reach back to the past and drag it through to the present day, or even to reverse the process of obsolescence. His is a very slow and quiet rage against the dying of the light. I saw a performance of his Virginals project (a version of which is to be released as an album later this year) in Berlin last year, which saw him bringing not just the room – the crumbling old Sophiensaele theatre – back to life, but also rejuvenating that renaissance Virginals keyboard and a Philicorda organ. He made them sing in ways their inventors couldn’t possibly have dreamed of, via versions of pieces by the likes of Charlemagne Palestine and Alvin Lucier. His much-lauded Radioland CD from 2008 grabbed threads of shortwave radio as they were vanishing into the cosmos, and span them into huge tapestries of sound, preserving them for posterity in these new forms. But it isn’t just about the fourth dimension, as the titles of these two new CDs for the 12k and Line labels, A Static Place
respectively, suggest. Matthieu is stepping outside the relentlessly flowing stream and into new eternities where whole new rules of time and space apply.
The first track on A Static Place
is even named “Swarzschild Radius”, a term which denotes the distance from the centre of an object which, if all of its mass were compressed into that space, would cause its gravitational field to be so strong that light could not escape – i.e. it would become a singularity, a black hole, an infinitely deep schism in the fabric of space-time. If this is already sounding a little scientific, consider Mathieu’s descriptions of his working methods on A Static Place: they involve “spectral analysis and convolution processes”, which sounds like something men in white coats would use at CERN to view the spirals traced by colliding subatomic particles as they try to unravel the mysteries of subatomic forces. But, gravitational fields aside, there is a much more human, emotional pull to this music.
A Static Place
is rooted in Mathieu’s passion for very early 78rpm records, which he has been collecting for some years (“I love the way they transport sound”, he has said). He plays them on, and collects the results from, his HMV 102 mechanical gramophones, which themselves date back to the 1930s. There is a further temporal dislocation involved here in that the pieces he uses on this album are recordings of material from the late Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque eras, works dating back centuries. And as such, they feature instruments which too have passed into desuetude, clavichords, lutes, and the like, whole families whose voices have faded to near silence. Mathieu is pointing his microphone directly at the past to collect these ghostly transmissions, much like an astronomer pointing a telescope at the night sky to detect in its faint red shift an echo of a time when notions of space and time were in fact meaningless.
As on previous work, such as the Transcription
album he made in collaboration with Taylor Deupree, he plays these records on the acoustic gramophones and captures the sound via microphone, feeding it back to his laptop. Such is the extent of his processing that you are quite hard pushed to pick out any of that aforementioned instrumentation, their unfamiliar tones and textures coalescing into a spectral orchestra. Or even at times a chorus, for there does appear to be a voice deep within that opening track, calling softly from amongst the galaxial arm of hiss and static, and from amongst samples of strings which have been stretched seemingly to perpetuity. Another piece, “Dawn”, bristles and buzzes like a field of insects in summer breeze-tossed cornfields, as if a version of Gershwin’s “Summertime” had been entirely deconstructed, all instruments being removed to leave only heat haze and a languidity that seems like it could linger forever.
Layers are built up by Mathieu, not just layers of different instruments, but more contextual ones which are bound into the very process of the work’s creation in a different way. The section entitled “A Static Place 1a” feels like a room thick with resonance, its harpsichord strings echoing into a three dimensional space and collecting glistening harmonics. But which space? Am I listening to the studio in which the piece was originally recorded? The room into which Mathieu was playing them back? Or, indeed, the one I’m playing them back into right now? When you let these sounds fill your environment, you help Mathieu to complete his masterful telescoping of a century of recordings and playbacks, of times and spaces, and you find yourself listening to something that is at once rather clever and very beautiful.
A Piece Of String, A Sunset