THE
BLOW UP (IT)
In
1970, a twenty-nine year-old sound conceptualist named Alvin
Lucier walked into a room containing only a chair and a microphone.
He sat down and, for the next forty minutes, proceeded to dictate
a single paragraph into the microphone over and over, until
he had repeated it 32 times. The paragraph in question dealt
with sitting in a room and repeatedly reading the same paragraph
into a microphone. As Lucier conducted these repetitions, his
recorded voice was continuously played back into the room, feeding
into the recording itself, until the room frequencies had been
magnified to such a degree that they corrupted the copy of the
copy of the copy. By the end, only a single tonal band remained.
The piece was aptly titled "I'm Sitting In a Room"
(available these days through Lovely Music).
This curious endeavor in the mechanics of sound production was
described thirty years later in the liner notes to German producer
Stephan Mathieu's Wurmloch Variationen (released on Ritornell
and translated literally as Wormhole Variations). The extended
description of Lucierís project, and his developmental
process, in the sleeve of Mathieuís album points toward
a kindred link between the world of sound installationists and
a new wave of electronic composers, who have begun to incorporate
the former groupís high concept principles into their
own work ethos. In Mathieu's recording, which he arranged and
played himself, an eleven-minute piano piece undergoes a total
of twenty-six copies, until the generational hisses and crackles
once buried in near-silence rise to a point where they threaten
to overtake their original source.
I use these examples as two aspects of an approach to "music-making"
that has remained chronically under-documented in a music industry
that, for the most part, considers it too conceptual. Too conceptual,
perhaps, because its participants deconstruct the definition
of "music-making" down to its most necessary parts
(sound, patterns, variances) before getting to work. Hence,
the musical narrative that emerges becomes something that is
about the process of "music-making." If you ask microsound
composer Richard Chartier, this is because "no narrative
is present in these patterns--except that implied by the compositions'
existence in time and the levels and plateaus serving as events
within that temporal space. A rhythm is created. Repetition
takes over as the predominating compositional quality of the
work. Knowable cycles slowly develop, but in that discernment
of pattern comes variances in the perception of the listeners.
In experiencing a stretched out and slowed down serial composition
that requires auditory focus, expectation of the next sound's
arrival dramatically increases the significance of the faintest
change in rhythm or the introduction of alternate events, as
well as the spaces in between."
Artistic self-reflexivity merits a keen interest in the exploration
of microscopic sounds, as is the use of regenerational cycles
as a means of construction and, conversely, deconstruction.
These are the cornerstones of what has been referred to as unessentialism,
a movement that has been experiencing a resurgence in recent
years. In this latest wave, artists as diverse as Carsten Nicolai,
SND, Thomas Brinkmann, Stephan Mathieu, Taylor Deupree, and
Richard Chartier have come to revitalize unessentialist elements
using contemporary means.
But what exactly is unessentialism?
The term ìunessentialismî has been used most often
to describe a musical direction in which the undesirable output
of machinery (clicks, glitches, atonalities, microscopic sounds)óusually
eliminated from the finished productóis instead recycled
back into the mix and made central. But if we were to define
unessentialist output properly, a good place to start would
be with the word itself.
Unessentialism
is best viewed as an offshoot of the philosophical doctrine
of modern essentialism, which is most commonly understood as
a belief in the real and true essence of things, in other words,
the invariable and fixed properties that define the ìwhatnessî
of a given entity. The definition of this ìwhatnessî
is a construction, a complex system of cultural, social, psychical,
and historical differences that position and constitute the
subject. Anti-essentialism questions the effect of this complex
system on the ìwhatness.î Unessentialism, on the
other hand, does not deny the effect of a system; rather, it
questions what the properties of this central ìwhatnessî
intend to hold in place.
This distinction is important, in that it affects the framework
in two ways. Firstly, without a centralized essence to imbue
meaning on a system, all that remains is a rhizomatic framework
of mechanics. In other words, the system loses its identity
and becomes another machine. Secondly, without its center the
parameters of a system are invariably affected, and it is at
this point that we can begin to redefine the utility of what
was at first considered systematic excess.
Every system, just as every machine, invariably produces excess.
This excess, this undesirable output, is a negation of what
Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari would refer to as the necessary
progression of any desiring machine.
Our presiding system is, of course, that of the market economy;
we populate a capitalist framework. But if we theoretically
devalue this machine's essence, our sense of desireóour
needs and wants, which fuel and perpetuate the marketóthen,
in a way, we redefine what constitutes its waste.
Historically, this notion of excess has not only been associated
with post-war capitalism, but also with its ideological opposite,
the inherently self-conscious nature of post-war artistic creation.
Creativity operates within a paradox; it must occur outside
a framework, but must also reflect upon the structure that excludes
it.
Musical unessentialism has, to an extent, always highlighted
its self-consciousness and, in attempting to place itself outside
a structure that necessarily includes its participants, has
made a virtue of its paradoxical existence. It thereby constitutes
a reactionary and indirectly politicized movement. Whereas the
dominant structure of capitalism espouses progression, unessentialism
values regeneration or, at its best, cyclical stasis. Furthermore,
it present artists with aesthetic tools they can use to manipulate
sound, but the definition of what constitutes an excessive or
unessential sound transforms along with the dominant market-driven
model. In a digital age, our cultural excess is the excess of
our digitality--the microscopic sounds and white noise of our
dominant machines.
Unessentialism shares common interests with minimalism, but
what distinguish the former from the latter are precisely these
politicized intentions regarding cultural waste. Even so, their
common bonds cannot be ignored. It is by no means accidental
that elements of John Cage's theories on musical silence bear
influence on microsound proponents such as Taylor Deupree, Bernard
Guenter, and Richard Chartier, or that the minimalist notion
of repetition weighs heavily on the early works of SND and Thomas
Brinkmann.
What is often referred to as the first wave of "industrial"
music constitutes the second pertinent precursor to modern unessentialism.
After all, early ìindustrial musicî relied heavily
on the use of pipes, barrels, and other found objects, usually
deemed as industrial waste, to create a rhythmic foundation.
Just as, in the mid- to late-seventies, Einsturzende Neubauten
and Throbbing Gristle used the excesses of an industrial age
for creative ends, this generation of experimenters has found
inspiration in the excess of a media-driven economic structure.
As stated early on, we would also be amiss to ignore the profound
influence of avant-garde sound installationists like Alvin Lucier
and, to a lesser extent, the impact of William Burrough's cut-up
tape experiments, which highlighted a lengthy series of tape
loops, and voice and sample manipulations.
Yet for all these precursors, today's unessentialism seems to
have evolved most directly out of the minimal techno and IDM
(Intelligent Dance Music, as developed by artists like Autechre,
the Black Dog, and labels like Warp) movements that took form
in the early to mid-nineties. Whereas the former influenced
the rhythmic inclinations of the regenerative process, the latter
justified electronic music as a form that could exist outside
the framework of DJ's, clubs, and twelve-inch records.
Most critics would agree that these precursors first synthesized
into a sum larger than their originating parts in 1996, with
the release of Oval's Systemisch album (released initially through
Frankfurt-based label Mille Plateaux and consequently through
Chicago's Thrill Jockey). On this recording, Markus Popp, Sebastian
Oschatz, and Frank Metzger's use of the skips in defunct compact
discs as the basis for musical composition succinctly mirrored
the denouement of an age of cultural mass production in which
the dominant technology used to sell music (the CD) fettered
away after an average life expectancy of seven years. By magnifying
these glitches and teasing syncopated rhythmic tendencies out
from the repetitions, Oval spearheaded a new wave of electronic
producers who saw opportunities in creating a form of music
in which the end material product could, in some fashion or
another, be incorporated back into the means of production.
Unessentialist criteria to date have worked best when integrated
into already existing genres. This adaptability to and absorption
of other types of music is what has rendered it a justifiable
movement rather than just an intriguing, but ultimately dead-ended,
endeavor.
The advent of a fully virtualized age, in which the white noise
of computers, modems, cellular phones, and numerous other machines
has superceded more industrial means of production, has also
instigated a flurry of unessentialist creative activity. By
1999 Mille Plateaux, the label responsible for the release of
the first two Oval albums, was consistently releasing similarly
minded works. Raster-Noton, 12k/LINE, Fallt, and Ritornell were
quick to follow suit.
Within this network of labels, artists are exchanged and artists
are free to release with whoever suits them. Unlike the traditional
label/artist relationship, the defining characteristic behind
the labels that propagate unessentialism is the conspicuous
absence of propriety, which otherwise formulates the central
ìwhatnessî of the music business. Also conspicuous
is the subversion of artistic individuality, a characteristic
highlighted by the homogenous, standardized packaging many of
these independent labels endorse for their releases. Still,
several artists have emerged to establish names of their own.
With the release of 1999's makesnd cassette (Mille Plateaux),
SND signaled a shift in unessentialist aesthetics toward the
incorporation of more genre-specific rhythmic templates. Using
contact mics to access microscopic sounds and then delineating
this source material through a rigidly linear structure distantly
reminiscent of hip hop and R&B, SND provoked many critics
to credit them with opening up new possibilities for both electronic
music and the then sagging state of "urban" music
production.
By building a second arm into his turntable, Thomas Brinkmann
was able to access sounds from vinyl that were never intended
for the listener. Innovating on ideas about the creative process
first put forth by Oval, the incorporation of these previously
hidden sounds into Brinkmann's severely regenerative brand of
minimal techno was considered a major innovation at a time when
the sound of minimal techno was slightly changing with what
seemed to be every fifth release. His technique works best when
reconstructing the vinyl pressings of other producers' music.
More so than others in the field, his manipulation of vinyl
sets the most pertinent question posed by unessentialism squarely
before us. What is a finished product exactly? His reworkings
of Richie Hawtin's Concept 1 series (Minus 8) and Mike Ink's
Studio 1 album (Profan) are still considered requisite releases
within the genre.
Taylor Deupree and Richard Chartier are perhaps unessentialism's
most notable contributors to the developments of the microscopic
sound movement, and they are also North America's most prevalent
participants in this otherwise European phenomenon. Notable
for the advent of late-nineties ultra-minimalism, their releases
on 12k and LINE are characterized by high-pitched frequencies,
atonalities, and a very subdued assortment of mechanical interruptions
and reconfigurations. As curator of the album Microscopic Sound
(Caipirinha), released in 1999, Deupree is responsible for establishing
a communal entity for a number of otherwise anonymous micro-sound
producers.
Also of importance is Carsten Nicolai, whose work as a conceptual
artist and as a producer has earned him a following in both
galleries and record stores. As co-owner of Germany's Raster-Noton
label, he has been responsible for creating a sound that incorporates
SND's deconstructed genre templates with the atonal bursts and
frequencies of the microsound movement.
But most would agree that the greatest propagation of unessentialism,
as a verifiable artistic movement, came in the form of Clicks
+ Cuts, a comprehensive, almost encyclopedic, compilation series
released by Mille Plateaux. This series not only introduced
the larger electronic music community to the proliferation of
unessentialism, but also established the movement's presence
as a fully-fledged, mature community, capable of producing,
manufacturing, and promoting artistic inventiveness.
There are too many notable contributors to mention here. Certainly,
the work of Ryoji Ikeda, Ekkehard Ehlers, Janek Schaefer, Stillupsteypa,
and numerous others warrants closer scrutiny. As does the trajectory
of more recent unessentialist output, for it is not without
its criticisms. Some have noted that the sheer proliferation
of participants, coupled with their exponential proliferation
of individual releases, has led to a cultivated level of pedantry
and predictability within the genre. That unessentialism's resurgence
in electronic music is finite, but its aesthetic principles
will most likely evolve elsewhere, perhaps in other musical
contexts, perhaps in other artistic ventures. After all, the
discerning eye can see unessential elements at work in, for
example, the experimental films of Stan Brakhage, or Jeff Noon's
novel, Cobralingus, in which source passages from numerous literary
works, rendered public property by their age, are pulled from
their traditional structures, regenerated, and assembled into
new contexts. And then there is unessentialism's presence in
the conceptual world of sound installation.
In the end, unessentialist principles have arguably gained momentum
recently because of two factors: the increasingly stringent
transitions in technology and the emphasis this places on the
materials it uses, and a momentary lapse of creative evolution
in the music scene at large. The advent of technology as a driving
force behind not only the making of music but also the way in
which we listen to the end result has changed the dynamic of
how we, as a critical audience, approach the act of listening.
