Words in the dark: a collection of writings

I don’t like to call what I write ‘poetry’. I’ll let others decide on that… But these words are important to me, especially at this stage of my life. I’m still learning how best to express myself, something not helped by periods of writer’s block. But I want to get better at painting pictures or capturing moments, as opposed merely to expressing emotions, which are generally dark and unhappy, retired goth that I am.

Writer's block

So here’s a short collection, generally written late at night. And probably often whilst being the worse for wear. Sorry if that shows. These are celebrations of friends, late night laments and pictures from other places. Hope they’re at least worth a read.

Down the road

At the close of the day
“May I have a pint of Asahi please?”
I asked
The music was too loud
But he heard and nodded
The golden flask was placed before me
And another day’s trying was swallowed away

Beside me the smiling woman leaned into the bearded man and laughed when he said he was from Guildford
Well you would, wouldn’t you?
They talked about Aldi and Lidl
Others milled about
Ordering more beer-filled vessels
Their conversations swallowed by Rihanna’s croon and general atmosphere

“There’s a form of solitude” I said
To the next untethered phantom
“That feels so good. Because everyone is everywhere”.
He/she laughed but didn’t reply
A companion in name alone

It was nearly 2am
On a Tuesday.
“I shouldn’t be here” I whispered to the wraith
As the happy woman described London to one of its inhabitants
Inside, an eye stretched towards
A flat I only glimpsed but had become a golem
Knowing it was close brought me back to my neighbour
And to another Asahi
Memories become heavy in this place

At 2am
Another man listened against all odds
To his own song
As Billy Idol blared down from above
The happy woman’s endless chat
Punctuated by “fucks” and “shits”
Turned more bitter

A man sat down beside me
Ordered a beer
I wanted to ask him “what’s up?”
But turned to glances instead and
He walked away
Such a hubbub, even so late
Words about football, lager, “that cunt” and more swirled around

As the clock ticked down
And I tried to forget that flat, that face
The happy woman stopped smiling
Rightfully angry but lost for words
The place started emptying
And then it’s just us few
And now that bell tolls
How long have I been here?
The shades have got bigger
And tomorrow’s still to come

last orders

It’s hard being an industrial-scale twat

It’s hard being an industrial-scale twat
You think you have the answers
And collapse the moment that
Reality screams upwards and bites
You on your suddenly massive arse

It’s hard being an industrial-scale twat
You believe your lover’s words
He says he loves you
You think “this is it, solution found”
And then no

It’s hard being an industrial-scale twat
The beautiful man swans through your life
Making you believe the lies you’d thought long gone
Now you’re hot, sexy, young
Oh wait, maybe not

It’s hard being an industrial-scale twat
When all you want is to not spend
Another night alone
Music is a great companion
But doesn’t deign draw breath
So as lovely as it is
The mattress remains cold on the other side

It’s hard being an industrial-scale twat
But what else can you do?
Your loves won’t take pity
And nor should you want them to
How about owning being that twat?
And then see how you go

Listening to Bernstein in Greece (for Jimmy)

Aeolus sighs a gentle caress
From Delos this way bound
It’s so late but this taverna
Perched over the water
Needs to last forever

Channel your anger
Sweet, kind, fragile nymph
And for every doubt please remember
You are loved

As the translucent azure
Winks traces of our species’ defiance
A lost American woman
Serenades us at the last
Cast off your doubts and fears
For they have no power over you here

mykonos

Listening to Billy (for my beloved AA)

It’s ridiculous
Just a loop
Potentially ad infinitum
And yet so perfect
It’s our not-song

A moment frozen in time
You and me, talking so long
Yet never saying “I love you” enough

Then we’d go to sleep
Wrapped around each other
In our own little parcel of London
A haven I wish I’d recognised

Now you have someone better
But you can’t see your own reflection
Not as I do
So I reiterate that stupendous loop
Wishing time would go back
That room, those gorgeous loops
Are our jewellery forever
Please hold on to them and him
Because I still want to celebrate
You

On an island

“How are you liking Mykonos?”
The friendly man asked
Of course, I said I liked it
And I did
Such a beautiful sea, pearlescent water lapping at the feet
Of albino towers and those windmills
The food – succulently unhealthy gyros, too little tzatziki and so much fish.
Ever that orb screaming its healthiness down at me
And I’m forced to admit – I’m glad.
I avoid the pool, but not the other liquids
So many names I can’t remember as the haze takes hold
Oh now I’m enjoying Mykonos!
And so many men, in shorts, tank-tops and designer t-shirts
Hunger drips from lascivious lips
Eyes roam each stretch of land
Potentials open like lilies blooming
I hope I’m brave to turn away
But maybe foolish
The end in sight I look for a reminder
Rembetika maybe, or a bottle of overpriced Ouzo
Or a photo, on this crap phone
That captures a fragmented cloud
A tired-eyed glimpse
I think he would have liked it here
How he loved to swim
And that’s mostly what’s all to do
At least before the drinks and men turn your brain to mush
I recommend you come here, raven
With whomever’s next
Say hi to Kostas, Kathy and Christina
Maybe some of the other guys will be back
Like every year
Either way – enjoy
Because I liked Mykonos
The beers by the piano under the windmills
The terrace laced with sass and Aperol Spritz
That food again
That luscious sea I avoided with admiration
That catwalk of strange folks parading against my cynicism
The cats, the gypsum, the cobbles, always the sun
Even though my inner words
Carried your name with me like a wretched mnemonic
I found smiles inside and laughter without
“How are you liking Mykonos?” the man -could have been a waiter, a passerby or a regular queen of the island- asked. Another man, maybe.
“Very much” I said, and it was so true
But how nice it would be with my raven’s feathers in my arms
That I couldn’t say
So I didn’t
I ate gyros, drank beer and watched the blue, blue sea instead

cropped-CE-night-GV-1.png

A night walk in Crouch End

Heads bowed, illuminated by miniature windows
A view into a world so wide, so irresistible that
The immediate path is rendered
Insignificant and unworthy
Two souls close enough to touch, passing a whisker from each other and me
A whisker from love, or friendship?
Those precious metals we so poorly mine? Or maybe from indifference and boredom,
eternal resources to plunder.

Overhead red lights scream unrelenting progress
The night pierced by emerging ziggurats and the wings of travels ending
Down this quiet hill my path keeps winding
Sliding past my bowed companions
More lights and tender destructive amber
Clamour for me

And I can’t sleep without them
Later, wrapped in dry cotton
Away from all brightness
I fly back to those two potentials
Feeling them multiply like rice on a chessboard
Climbing up and up as the night shivers with unheard voices
Stories that never unfolded tantalise my senses
They so dulled by another evening’s excesses
And remind me to prepare anew for more snatched meetings
That will never coalesce into something to hold on to

I’ve also reworked an older piece

On a village green (Dedicated to Sheila and Esther)

It’s spring
The balmy weather always threatens rain but
When the sun pierces it illuminates everything
No cricket here
Not here, Major, with your myth of England
Wrapped in colonial, aristocratic entitlement
But the grass grows green
And I think of how this warm and contradictory public house
Is open to us all, from my inevitable privilege
To those less fortunate from anywhere they’re found
This green is ours
We bask in the dwindling sunlight
In an oft-divided country, we defy and
bring the all together
Beyond our differences
A barn owl swoops over the Green
A reminder of what went before
Young Tegan and I relish its languid flight
And picture a future for this village green
That doesn’t depend on the myth of England

IMG_0898(c) Joe Burnett, 2018

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A Quietus Review: Nimrod is Lost in Orion and Osyris in the Doggestarre (December 8th, 2014)

Behind these enigmatic project and album title lies Richard Skelton, a man who has emerged over the last few years as one of the UK’s most exciting and reliable modern composers. I’m generally wary of the term “psychogeography” with regard to music, but Skelton is the exception to my unscientific rule, because his elegant string compositions, in which he builds up layers of atmospheric drones (many recorded outdoors), manage to convey such a potent sense of place (barren Lancashire moors, rugged Irish coastlines, the epic landscapes of the Lake District) that to delve into them is to be transported. Skelton’s music is so organic, you can almost smell rain and feel gusts of wind on your skin whilst listening to and album like Landings.

The fact that a name like The Inwards Circles suggests a band rather than a solo artist is perhaps not a coincidence, as Skelton channels multiple realities on Nimrod, rather than focusing on his immediate surroundings. Even if his previous work provided -for the listener at least- a quasi-imaginary vision of actual territories, here those lands dissipate almost as soon as they appear to coalesce in the mind, as if the artist is desperately trying to recreate in sound vistas he only gets the briefest of glimpses of. In the majestic book that accompanies the album, he writes: “Nor are only dark and green colours, but shades and shadows contrived through the great volume of nature, and trees ordained not only to protect and shadow others, but by their shapes and shadowing parts, to preserve and cherish themselves.” These words hint at an exploration beyond immediate reality and into nebulous, tenebrous realms that never shape into concrete forms.

In a recent interview with the Quietus, Skelton asserts that he “wanted to draw attention to the role that the imagination plays, even when dealing with ‘real world’ landscapes” and, to be honest, it would be hard to come up with a better way to describe the music on Nimrod. When I first read about the album, I assumed for some reason that his strings would take a complete backseat to electronic processes, but the reality is far more nuanced. The acoustic natures of cello and clarinet are certainly toyed with and deconstructed, but still lingers like an echo. On the superlative 11-minute opus ‘An Art To Make Dust Of All Things’, deep low-end drones ebb and flow like sheets of rain coming off a mountain-top, whilst familiar scrapes evoke a landscape in thrall to nature’s whims. But as the piece develops, more and more distortion muddies the waters and obscures the actual nature of what one hears, like a gale swallowing up words even as they leave the speaker’s mouth. The result is more immediately dramatic than the subdued melancholia of Landings orSuccession, with something approaching an oblique narrative arc.

Although beautiful in its own right, Nimrod is best absorbed in tandem with Skelton’s writings. These sketch out half-formed vignettes of experiences half-remembered or imagined, twisting a tale as labyrinthine as it is evocative. In the aforementioned interview, Skelton refers to a line by Dorothy Wordsworth: “walked, I know not where”, and it’s this that sums up the experience of delving into Skelton’s words as other senses are subsumed by his music. It’s rarely clear if the texts are actual events, thoughts or memories (a paragraph like “I wish I could have gone with you. I longed to slip out unseen, and to run away by myself in amongst the hills and dales. Erratic and vagrant instincts tormented me, and these I was obliged to control, or rather suppress, for fear of drawing attention.” is laden with potential meanings never clarified), but, combined with the brooding accumulation of hazy textures on the record, they pain something abstractly beautiful, making Nimrod simultaneously the most difficult and most rewarding of all of Richard Skelton’s works.

A Dusted Review: Rituals by David Shea (November 21st, 2014)

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David Shea is an American avant-garde composer and occasional turntablist who has released records on experimental labels including Sub Rosa and John Zorn’s Tzadik, but who has clearly found an even more suitable stable in Lawrence English’s Room 40, on whichRituals see the light of day. The bulk, if not all, of the material(s) on Rituals was recorded in English’s native Australia, and from field recordings taken in the bush to the very psychological fabric of the album, it’s a work imbued with the spirit of that distant continent. From simple sources (found sounds, instruments, voices), Shea interweaves and juxtaposes each element into a rich sonic tapestry that instantly makes Rituals a challenging and invigorating experience.

A title like Rituals of course suggests a spiritual dimension, and Shea takes inspiration from the Buddhist and Taoist traditions of east and southeast Asia. He opens the album with a more “western” (for lack of a better word) single voice incantation pitched somewhere between Popol Vuh’s Hosianna Mantra and the devotional folk music of Armenia, that almost imperceptibly transforms into an extended chanted period seemingly recorded inside a Buddhist temple. The incantatory vocalisations are melded together and then buffeted by all-encompassing drones on harmoniums, horns and strings that suggest a primordial force.

The vibrations become almost painful when played at high volume. All this comes within the first few minutes of “Ritual 32,” the album’s potent opening movement. As the voices recede, a piano takes over, playing out a circular, low-key melody in the post-jazz tradition of Keith Jarrett circa The Köln Concert. As with Jarrett’s masterpiece, what could have easily been puerile noodling is masterfully kept in check to be elevated into something affective and emotional, whilst lingering moments of decay evoke the minimalist piano works of Michael Nyman and LaMonte Young. By the time the voices return, “Ritual 32” has become an otherworldly experience as opposed to a mere composition, and the transition into an almost gamelan-esque final coda seems perfectly appropriate. Shea claims that a ritual “puts the experience of listening at the centre of the works,” and this has rarely been more true in music than on this opening masterwork.

Far from overshadowing what follows, however, “Ritual 32” merely sets the tone for an album that maybe errs on the side of excessive lengthiness but always stays true to its composer’s philosophy of sound and desire to create a work that’s truly immersive. Field recordings dominate “Emerald Garden” and “Wandering in the Dandenongs” in very different ways. On the former they are surrounded by clusters of abrasive white noise, movie-soundtrack eerie synths and austere moments of contemplative drone.

In the latter the harsh environment of the Australian outback is recreated initially with the fidelity of a Chris Watson piece, although Shea quickly shows his interest in the music of Luc Ferrari as all preconceptions of field recordings are destabilised.Lo-fi flutes and recorders kick in around five minutes in, joined by other primitive instruments such as hand drums, whilst the sounds of birds and insects are amplified, as if the listener has just stumbled onto some bizarre, substance-fueled campfire ritual during which perception itself is rendered unreliable and more than a little treacherous. Less imposing than the similarly-lengthy “Ritual 32,” “Wandering in the Dandenongs” achieves similar results by simply being unfathomable and oblique.

Throughout Rituals there is an insistence on focusing on the very impact of music upon the physical realm, as if this could somehow make for a crossover into domains far beyond human perception. It’s no surprise to see Australian multi-instrumentalist and prolific composer Oren Ambarchi crop up on two tracks (notably the emphatic incantatory closer “Green Dragon Inn”), not to mention Lawrence English on another, because both have attempted similar experiments in traversing planes through sound. I’m no spiritualist, but Shea makes a compelling case on Rituals, his deep, resonant, vibrating assembly of tones, drones and sounds reaching deep into the listener’s body, causing it to tremble with cymatic force.

A Dusted Review: Faith in Strangers by Andy Stott (November 19th, 2014)

The evocative, monochrome artwork that adorns every Andy Stott release for Modern Love is like a mirror for the stripped-down, minimalist brand of dance music that the Manchester-based producer distills. However, this only tells a part of the story of an artist in constant evolution, drawing together strands of music both dance floor-orientated and otherwise to create his own vision of electronica. 2012’s Luxury Problems felt like a conclusion, or at least a crystallization, of all the influences that had fueled Andy Stott, from Joy Division to dubstep, resulting in a perfectly-formed capsule of Northern English dance, and left us grateful listeners wondering where he could go next.

As it turns out, “next” means a return to basics, and Faith in Strangers retains little ofLuxury Problems’ hermetic universe, instead sees Stott reaching out and grabbing, almost hungrily, a wealth of sounds and styles. There is, however, one constant, namely the shape-shifting vocals of Alison Skidmore, Stott’s former piano teacher, who featured already on Luxury Problems. If on that album she was, consistent with Modern Love’s “hauntological” aesthetic (see Demdike Stare), a ghostly, elusive presence, on Faith in Strangers she often stands front and centre, with Stott contorting his music around her crystalline words and eructations.

This eclecticism delivers mixed results. Luxury Problems showcased Stott’s remarkable talent for crafting infectious, hypnotic rhythms: snaky, tremulous beats that owed in part as much to the unflinching repetition of the Durutti Column or Joy Division as they did to dubstep or techno. Here, the rhythm is stripped away on numerous tracks in favour of swathes of ambience and industrial drone textures. It certainly makes for a more expansive work, but loses some of the immediacy that defined Stott’s music as recently as on Drop the Vowels, released earlier this year in tandem with Miles Whittaker from Demdike Stare (as Millie & Andrea). The rhythmic backdrop on tracks like “On Oath” and “Science and Industry” are spindly and minimal in the way Suicide’s primitive drum machines were, and inevitably dominated by the combinations of synths and Skidmore’s Beth Gibbons-like voice. Elsewhere, the title track feels beamed out of the mid-1990s, Stott’s avowed admiration for Cocteau Twins shining through and again driven by the vocals, even if these are as wispy as mist.

The shift in focus can leave a seasoned Stott fan bemused, but you have to salute the man’s creativity and versatility. On a number of occasions, he expertly draws a line between old and new styles.  Tracks like “Violence” (a masterpiece) and “How It Was” evoke memories of trip-hop acts like Massive Attack and more recent electro-dance contortionists such as Actress or Burial. “Violence” is simply incredible, with cavernous passages of baleful silence punctuated only by menacing electro blurts and Skidmore’s isolated moaning. When the beats and bass kick in, they go straight for the guts with the kind of shuddering force you’d hear at a Raime or King Midas Sound gig.  The tempo is reduced to almost overwhelming levels, as saturated low-end tumbles and crumbles forward unrelentingly. There’s little doubt “Violence” and the more industrial-sounding “No Surrender” will form the centrepiece of any forthcoming Andy Stott live set, although, if Faith in Strangers proves anything, it’s that predicting what the man will do next is impossible.

A Dusted Review: Draconis by Skullflower (October 30th, 2014)

Skullflower

Listening to the music of Skullflower is a psychedelic experience in the same way that staring at a blank wall or ceiling in the dark whilst on acid, drunk out of your skull and/or high on grass (delete as applicable) can be. It’s as overbearing and unwavering as the open-ended violin drone compositions of Tony Conrad or the blasted walls of sound spat out by the likes of Vomir or the Rita. It’s proof that a full-on sonic assault can, in the right context, be as blissful and, I’ll say it again, psychedelic as the tripped-out musings of a Grateful Dead or Amon Düül II. It just takes more patience and a willingness to enter into labyrinthine minds of Matt Bower and Samantha Davies. Bower, in particular, has been ploughing this arcane, extreme furrow for the best part of 30 years, gradually honing it until he’s reached something approaching “tantric noise,” like Pärson Sound with the acoustic circular melodies replaced by unending acidic mechanical bile.

For Draconis, the duo returns to the absolutist vein of 2006’s Tribulation and Strange Keys to Untune God’s Firmament from four years later: this latest album, is impossibly long. The tracks bleed into one another like melting glaciers and the primitive song structures of 2011’s superlative Fucked on a Pile of Corpses are whittled away by saturation and excruciating volume. But compared to those two releases, Skullflower have been given (or gave themselves) license to flesh things out a bit, notably via the lush packaging. The album comes in a six-panel double-digipack, complete with a 16-page booklet overflowing with lush illustrations and bizarre photographs that both detail Draconis’ thematic concerns and deepen the mystery.

Bower has long had a fascination with arcana and mythological lore, although his focus is, as ever, enigmatic. The paintings that adorn these pages are abstract yet sinister, with vivid colours and strangely animalistic shapes creating an unerring sense of moody drama, as if we’re gazing at ancient humankind’s primitive attempts to recreate the legends of the earth’s creation or the epic battles of Norse mythology. Obscure symbols crop up here and there, whilst sketches and texts evoke trees, dragons and pyramids under the stars, drawing lines in myth and science from the north of England to Bhutan via ancient Egypt and the Hindu goddess Kali. Keeping things as vague and mysterious as possible only accentuates the album’s heady form of lyrical psychedelia. I cannot pretend to understand Bower and Davies’ vision, for I do not have their knowledge or imagination, but it sucks you in like a tornado, because you can’t help but try to figure it out.

“Tornado” is also a great metaphor for the music on Draconis. Each track on disc one is a veritable maelstrom of noise with extensive layer of “strings” (live they focus on guitar and violin, but sometimes I swear I can hear synths on Draconis, albeit bludgeoned into abstraction by effects) superimposed and swirling around one another like gales of wind blowing in every direction at once. Disc two is slightly more nuanced, from the two-minute opener “Alien Awakening” (there are aliens in here as well!) that sounds like Keiji Haino recorded in a wind tunnel mid-solo to the epic musical tapestry of 15-minute closer “Dakshinikalika” via “Dresden Spires”’ crumbling blocks of industrial crunch.

These are some of the most epic and evocative tracks ever released by Skullflower: huge slabs of metaphysical noise with the awe-inspiring primeval-ness of ancient stone circles, ice-capped mountains or ruined industrial buildings. In translating nature’s mystery and majesty into noise, Skullflower have thrown a curveball into the genre’s progression, taking out of sweaty club spaces and into somewhere more spectral, contemplative and, yet again, psychedelic. It’s no wonder the band mention Popol Vuh on the label’s website.

But should anyone reading this be tempted to regard Bower and Davies as little more than two slightly unhinged hippies with a taste for noise and post-pagan mumbo-jumbo, I urge you to check out their back catalogue and anything else you can find on them. There’s a vein of sly, sardonic humour that runs through their entire work (encapsulated here by a picture of their cat looking bemused in the booklet), whilst all this sturm-und-drang conceals first and foremost a deep sense of humanity: our past, our present, our future, our emotions and our fears.

It’s hard to tell if this hour and fifteen minutes of noise and drone is a definitive Skullflower statement, but it does what all great music must: it throws open the doors of possibility, asks more questions than it answers, and aims for something beyond the mundanities of reality.

A Dusted Review: Persistence of Vision (April 21st, 2014)

VHS Head is the pseudonym of the enigmatic Adrian Blacow, and he uses it as a vessel for some of the most bizarre, unfathomable electronic dance music you will find. Blacow uses old, library-sourced VHS tapes (hence the name), in this case apparently horror films, and then dissects them and splices them back together into high-octane dance floor pounders, of a weird sort.

Demdike Stare mines similar territory to VHS Head, but uses it to conjure up subliminal vignettes mirroring nightmare visions of collective unease, as if the ghosts of the Pendle or Salem witches and the Witchfinder General could be recreated as music. Blacow’s music is wrenched from any clear context, a sort of flipside on the coin of hauntology. There are none of the wispy drone textures, bursts of noise and muted vocal samples that dominate the works of other horror plunderers, replaced instead by jerking break beats, unsettled synth melodies and ever-shifting tempos.

This frenetic energy makes for an often thrilling, but equally distracting, listen. Some songs bristle with melodic hooks and rhythmic propulsion, especially the exciting opener “Enter The Devil,” where pounding techno beats collide with swooping synth lines. “Frozen,” meanwhile, is dominated by seductive, see-sawing synth lines that sound like a madly entwined Vangelis and Jean-Michel Jarre reimagined for a 21st-century dance floor.

In this context, however, the fact that these tracks started out as spools of horror film VHS tape is somewhat immaterial. Blacow makes seductive, hyperactive dance music that feels as far from a video nasty as the latest Burial EP. Snippets of mutated dialogue (“Don’t look in the closet!” intones a grim voice on the track of the same name), and track titles such as “Mutant Nights” and “Tracking the Moon Beast” hint at the nightmarish and phantasmagorical, but the brightness of the synths and booty-shaking beats render such references bewildering rather than unsettling.

As such, Persistence of Vision is an exhausting listen. The VHS extracts are so distorted, I assume for copyright reasons, that there is no sense of the music’s place outside of Blacow’s head, and, to an extent, the dance floor, although you’d be hard-pressed to keep up the album’s pace all night. When Blacow’s blender approach clicks, the results are a kaleidoscope of weirdness and sensation, but at other times one is left reeling in a sonic environment without a structural anchor.

A Quietus Review: Fog Tapes/Gradual Requiem by Ingram Marshall (April 17th, 2014)

 

A lonely moor stretches out in all directions, barren grass mottled by craggy boulders and moss-covered outcrops, buffeted by ice-cold winds that sweeps down from a distant cluster of hills. The only features of this bleak landscape, appearing only as shadows beneath a damp wall of fog, are occasional lofty stone formations, either human made or natural. It’s impossible to tell. Is this a land long untouched by human presence, or one that resisted human presence, turning them away by its very harshness? Either way, the wind seems to carry the echo of ghostly voices, their cries inchoate, all meaning lost.

This is the world that Fog Tropes/Gradual Requiem, originally released in 1984, conjures up in the listener’s mind. Ingram Marshall distills a form of minimalism that eschews the austere formalism of the genre’s early landmarks (by the likes of LaMonte Young, Tony Conrad and Pauline Oliveros), instead focusing on using the barest of means to conjure music that is deep in atmosphere and emotional potency. ‘Fog Tropes’ is based on samples of fog horns recorded in San Francisco bay, but wrenched from any locational context by the injection of a ghostly voice lamenting sadly behind the distant sounds of intermittent brass interjections, birdsong and wind. In such a melancholic context San Francisco could not feel further away and we are pitched straight off the bat onto that shadowy landscape of barren moorland and fog-wreathed dolmens. The piece gradually unfolds with dramatic timing, the voice multiplied, the brass becoming more and more insistent, laden with dolorous portent.

‘Gradual Requiem’ is divided into five parts and, as its title suggests, there’s a funereal quality at play that means it fits neatly alongside ‘Fog Tropes’. Balinese percussion gongs are gently caressed or tapped, sending rippling tones back and forth whilst a haze of tape manipulations and electronic effects dampen the sense as if heard from under a mortuary shroud. Each part of ‘Gradual Requiem’ is distinct from the others, forming an emotional tapestry that follows the composer’s reactions to his father’s death. ‘Part 2’, for example, features almost ebullient, comforting piano, whilst ‘Part 3’ is dominated by jauntily plucked lute or guitar arpeggios, which slowly recede into a drifting, mournful duet between guitar and piano, somewhere between the sadder sections of Keith Jarret’s Köln Concert and the more wistful works of Sandy Bull. On ‘Part 4’, an echoing chorus of wordless vocalisations intone a melancholic lament, the voices multi-layered into they form a haunted eulogy. Gradual Requiem is an emotionally potent, even harrowing sonic voyage, and one of the most affecting pieces of modern minimalism I’ve ever heard.

When so much modern music is described as being “haunting” or “liminal”, it’s easy to become a bit blasé at such terms, but these two compositions resonate with intangible, phantomatic grace and unease, conjuring up emotions and visions that seem to reach beyond time and location into something that swirls beneath the collective consciousness. It will have different meaning for different listeners, but few will come away from Fog Tropes/Gradual Requiem unmoved.