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Crane's Dreams (Roman Barinov, St. Petersburg)
With some effort, it can be established that the moniker Crane's Dreams actually refers to a side-project by St. Petersburg musician Roman Barinov - who spends much time and energy on perfecting the art of evasion. Thanks primarily to his prior endeavor - Liveride - fragments of information still endure online, several of which help to contextualize the past and probable future of Crane's Dreams. Both of the projects have been relatively happy - so to speak - tagging themselves as "modern classical, ambient, drone," and, as an emotional framework, "melancholy." Thus we ascertain at least some degree of generic consistency.
Liveride emerged only at the start of 2010, which makes Crane's Dreams an even younger enterprise. Recordings from the latter have, in fact, only just appeared. They can be downloaded for free and draw upon the imagery of a dark, northern landscape. Here, too, we sense a certain continuity.
Modern classical, ambient, drone...
An extended look at Barinov's various web-venues, not of all which are regularly updated, will show that these chilly, windswept places hold much greater appeal than any overt portraiture. His music, in other words, is better framed by desolation than by people: absence is more desirable than presence. Although Barinov sometimes mocks his own efforts as those of a "one man band," he is clearly more intent on using the silence of uninhabited forests than on making any direct, lyrical statement. A "no-man band" would be better still.
That textual stance, established at a maximum distance from wordy exactness, is reflected visually, too. A further perusal of Barinov's photography, scattered once again across multiple networking profiles, is unlikely to reveal illustrations of a high(er) resolution. The flight from specificity endures.
Roman Barinov (still walking)
Sure enough, in the same spirit as this wanton imprecision, Mr. Barinov's very first recordings were entitled (in translation) "Through the Forests' Secret." The strange charm of a faraway, verdant address has nothing to do with human enterprise. Instead we're invited to ponder to the overall, abstract atmosphere of what this musician calls "sad and peaceful" places. On one particular site we stumble across a related admission, penned in the third person: Barinov apparently "finds inspiration in journeys taken on his motorbike. His fundamental lyric theme is that of nature." Self-expression is best conducted alone, especially whilst fleeing the irksome (urban) presence of others.
The fundamental lyric theme is that of nature
The seductiveness of almost noiseless minimalism - on the edge of absence! - grows: "All compositions are recorded at home 'on my lap,' so to speak - but with love and care. The primary accent always falls upon a melodic air and a general atmosphere of mystery... I'd like to think that my music is free of aggression, violence, hatred, and religious themes, be they positive or negative." In other words, free of all human failings.
This constant avoidance of ideological and/or religious dogma does not, however, guarantee higher levels of jollity. The chromatic range of the most recent release by Crane's Dreams acts as something of an emotional notification. Sunny temperaments, be warned.
Crane's Dreams: "August Fogs" (2011)
For all the admirable efforts of Mr. Barinov to save these ambient sounds from the paltry pigeonholing of language or restrictively fixed location(s), his St. Petersburg address - on the Baltic shoreline - cannot help but prompt associations with the growing ambient and tape-music scene in the nearby forests of Karelia. Here we find performers such as Anton Filatov, who designs his own soundscapes under the stage-name of Wind in [the] Willows - and who has been discussed on this site several times before. He both admires and celebrates the romance of hushed "Karelia, lost within the mist and bogs along the Finnish border. He plays on children's synthesizers and constructs walls of strident, drone-like guitars. The result [nonetheless] is a peaceful kind of psychedelia, lapsing on occasion into the realm of new age music."
Sounds from Karelia, lost within the mist and bogs along the Finnish border
When we first encountered these DIY recordings, they were tagged as "ambient," "experimental," "free folk," "psychedelic," and "Russian Federation." Concrete locations interfaced with druggie imprecision - and generic boundaries with an alleged "freedom." Those markers have now grown in number - and lessened further still in specificity. The music on display has been cataloged by its author as redolent of "the wind asleep in the trees, Karelian pine forests, and intergalactic contact."
These vague connections, as with Crane's Dreams, lead to a certain kind of visual support. Lo-fi, antique cameras do a good job of avoiding excess detail.
Anton Filatov, aka Wind in Willows (Petrozavodsk)
The appeal of a distant viewpoint, far across the treetops, becomes the starward yearning of a modern-day romantic. Put differently, the complete absence of modern society appears to be a reliable guarantor of other, better connections.
Any such heavenly spaces, however, will remain far from the logic of human chatter. Our musician, when asked to tag his newer works with generic labels, insists that they "sound like whirr and shhhh." To what exactly, though, might that onomatopoeia refer? Once again he combines an empty forest with a rich imagination: dreams benefit from distance. Romance, as a result, begins tiptoeing into self-parody, even. Inspiration is purportedly found in the "murmur of rainbow unicorns, pine roots, Karelian trees, nights of love, polar lights, and northern stars."
Given this general framework, it only seems fitting that Filatov is now announcing the release of some brand-new sounds from the fledgling label 6th Planet Records, entitled "Overall Aura." Based both in Russia and the Czech Republic, 6th Planet channels its admirable zeal towards the creation of "peaceful drone and ambient" textures, all to be published in handmade formats.
Wind in Willows: "Overall Aura" (2011)
These links to folklore, an unpeopled wilderness, and latter-day craftwork need not, of course, be tied to a literally distant region. The sounds (or magic) of solitude can begin anywhere. Consider, by way of illustration, the Moscow instrumentalist Alex Tiuniaev, who takes his cue from a diverse range of composers, all the way from Philip Glass, Brian Eno, Sigur Ros, and Explosions in the Sky to... Vangelis and Bach. Language is clearly sidelined from the outset, just as Mr. Tiuniaev tells us: "I produce instrumental music. Sometimes I sing." He also declares the main object of his musical attention to be "silence."
Wintertime, minimalism, and coldness
Western champions of his beautiful, understated instrumentals discern or conjure some imagery redolent of "a quiet twilight musical journey through a wintery forest, with [various] sights and sounds fading in and out as we pass by. This is a journey whose ultimate destination we can only guess at." Tiuniaev himself is not averse to drawing upon the same metaphors of "wintertime, minimalism, and coldness," albeit in ways that are both "emotionally compelling and possess a touch of melancholia."
At least he affords us the occasional moment of levity.
Alex Tiuniaev (Moscow)
Distant - fading - strains of folk melodies are also remarked upon by Western listeners, leading our Moscow musician back out to the boundless, often freezing realms that are home to Barinov and Filatov. Those vanishing choral notes are even compared to aspects of a Gregorian chant, in which case we travel well beyond the simple social concerns of isolation - and towards an entirely different congregation, so to speak. This parallel between distant natural networks and some immaterial, painfully elusive equivalent in private experience has not gone unnoticed by overseas commentators. No matter how impressionistic their phrasing, the consistency of response is remarkable. We offer two examples:
The simplest of structures, the massing of strings and voices
Alex Tiuniaev's music recalls "a place beyond gravity, though it breathes in and out, organically. There is life here and where there is life, there is hope. [These sounds are] broken-hearted but still 'dedicated to those people out there seeking love.' The simplest of structures, the massing of strings and voices..." Or, elsewhere, these abstract sounds are turned into the imagery of somebody "accidentally walking into the passionate performance of a cathedral choir in full voice. The intensity, beauty, and emotive power of the vocals are incredibly moving."
If greater detail is needed, we might turn briefly back to the instrumentals on display from Crane's Dreams. Careful listening to one track reveals some lines spoken - almost inaudibly - in English. They come from the 1999 screenplay of Robert Zemeckis' feature "Contact," in which all manner of parallels are drawn between hopes for familial and cosmic bonds. In other words, the film interweaves a dual yearning for contact both in the workplace of astronomers and the failing families of earthbound scientists.
Could we talk to Jupiter?
The section faintly quoted actually reads as follows in the original. A father and daughter stare together at the night sky: "Could we talk to Jupiter? Or... what's the one after that? Don't tell me...." "I'll give you a hint: Hula Hoops." "Saturn. Could we talk to Saturn?" "Uh-hum." "Dad, could we talk to mom?" "I don't think even the biggest radio could reach that far."
Given this starry-eyed textual source, it would appear that the inspiration for at least one of our Russian composers lies very close to home. The attraction of icy, desolate vistas may come from the damage done by busier, more social locations. And so the imagery of flight continues - always due north.
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