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Odin v Kanoe (Lviv, Ukraine): "Live in the Museum of Ideas" (2012)
"Odin v Kanoe" (One in a Canoe) is the collective name of four Ukrainian musicians from Lviv. Together they have just released a live acoustic album, created in a hometown museum last month. The artists' credo in documenting their effort remains extremely straightforward: they declare an intention to play "simply and clearly, so as not to irritate people." In the same amateurish spirit, it is openly admitted that regular rehearsals are very unlikely... Everything is unadorned and probably unrehearsed.
We simply and clearly, so as not to irritate people
Local bloggers have responded well to this improvised ease or naturalness. "I discovered the band only by chance, but then I really got into them. These guys make truly heartfelt and sensitive music, with a delicate acoustic sound." Once those broad observations are established, listeners tend to document some personal parallels with the ensemble, since Odin v Kanoe minimize the distance between stage and audience. Their guilelessness is appealing and others seek to emulate it. One fan, hoping to find a connection between the band and her own lifeline, says: "I'm really glad to see a girl playing percussion, since I play the djembe drums myself... and know what magic is hidden within that instrument."
The two songs we've chosen - "Sky" and "Promise Me" - include these same emphases on a lyrical plane. They declare - with no fear of youthful hyperbole - that "The purpose of life is to find life." The same texts then suggest that any such plenitude is best discovered in the simplest way possible, for example by strolling carefree beneath the "gothic and baroque" patterns of the sky.
And then we learn that the most important hope expressed in either of the songs is a passionate, yet uncomplicated desire that the sun will rise tomorrow. As it always has.
Nature (free of charge) and continuity (free of problems) are both experienced and then expressed by a quiet, uncomplicated lyricism. Were there any more volume or ostentatious display in the delivery of these songs, they would contradict their textual content. Tales of artlessness require a certain style of performance. A lack of regular rehearsals certainly helps.
It's also worth noting the band's venue, a local "Museum of Ideas." This Lviv cultural center relates with pride ways in which the city's artistic and spiritual lineage have often been tied to monastic practice. Documenting in direct fashion the ongoing need to establish cultural dialogs since the fall of the Soviet Union, the Museum of Ideas sees its raison d'être in the same light as those erstwhile monks: as small-scale activity with some enduring, inspiring connections to very lofty notions!
Lviv should be open to the world - and vice versa! (Museum of Ideas)
If we wished to extend this stargazing, sometimes ramshackle aesthetic and apply it, say, to an organizational principle between collectives, then the Minsk artistic network known as Solntsetsvety ("Sunflowers") would certainly come to mind. The line-ups, recording timetables, and experimental styles associated with these Belarusian artists all operate at a considerable distance from logic. Here, as in Lviv, we find a philosophical practice linked specifically to post-Soviet experience. In existence since 1991, Solntsetsvety have produced and interwoven a large number of avant-garde ensembles, many of which have been showcased and discussed on this site.
People come and go with speed and ease.
Solntsetsvety and Damo Suzuki: Anton Krivulia on the right.
Publishing deadlines fall victim to this swirling, sometimes directionless activity. Compositions are recorded, often in an improvised, semi-acoustic fashion, yet there's no guarantee they'll be published - at least not in order. And that general disdain for chronology leads us to the organization's "new" release this week, which consists of material written several years ago, yet - for no special reason - left on the shelf. The examples on offer here come from so-called "Solntsetsvety anthems." In other words, they're designed as soundtracks to reflect and accompany the band's modus operandi. They're the right sounds for the right outlook.
These 'anthems' consist of [no more than] a few simple rhythms
"These anthems consist of [no more than] a few simple rhythms. Those rhythms, in turn, give rise to further structural development each time they're played live. And, in fact, you'll get completely different results with each performance. That's what makes them interesting!" More specifically, two chords are arranged in what the musicians call "wave-like" patterns. They then draw specific parallels with mantras, which - by means of their primitiveness - give rise to other, qualitatively different experiences. Simplicity is the groundwork for revelatory insights.
This is a structural and sonic stance that's adopted by one Solntsetsvety member - Anton Krivulia - for his new recordings as "Mox" (or "Mokh," i.e., "Moss"). He has just published, through his Belarusian colleagues' website, an album called "Plashka," which is a slang term for vinyl records used in years gone by.
Mokh (Minsk): "Plashka" (2012)
Krivulia, convinced ten years ago(!) that he would one day produce this monotone recording, committed it to tape last year in ways that were almost "mechanical... I used only the minimal tools of a drum machine and a guitar." To this was added deliberate tape distortion, "in order to get rid of any glossiness" in the sound. The result, he said, can be classified as "Minsk garage drone-rock." Melody, as we soon notice, was deliberately jettisoned in favor of "sound as a psychophysical manifestation."
Sound as a psychophysical manifestation
The result is designed to illustrate what Krivulia calls a "journey... It's all about the fact we can never go back [in life]." Linear passages lead - hopefully - to a qualitatively superior destination.
The quotidian sounds or field recordings we sometimes notice in the background, says Krivulia, are taken from a recent visit to Holland. Those audible intrusions are then connected to a 2011 revelation he had upon seeing Bruegel's "Adoration of the Kings" in The Hermitage. The painting is famous for the way in which it "decentralizes" the birth of Christ: many of the figures near the manger are distracted by minor details in surrounding mercantile or domestic activity. The narrative is stripped of one, singular importance - and filled with a multitude of uncomplicated, daily chores. The painting is dedicated, with the gaze of its subjects, to a host of little meanings.
Divine uniqueness is positioned with small-scale normality. And a lot of snow.
Bearing Krivulia's reference point in mind (unifying divine majesty and daily tasks!), we can see how the repeated incantation of wave-like patterns might help to instigate a suitable thought process. Just like any Hindu mantra, for example, this so-called "Minsk drone rock" is designed with very basic reiteration to create transformation. Radical simplicity offers great promise, turning the discrete units of speech or music into an ambient, ubiquitous state. Somewhere becomes everywhere.
We needn't make recourse to drone, however, if these romantic ideas are to be shown elsewhere. A similar outlook is celebrated by other local collectives, even if they're playing different styles. Within the same city of Minsk, we might choose the post-rock outfit Blackpaperplanes, who - despite the occasional grandeur of their chosen format - insist upon a commitment to "accessibility," come what may. "We try to combine various kinds of riff. They're simple and pleasant - but can veer into heavier, dramatic territory, too." The key factor mentioned here - the riff - has an etymology that's important to Solntsetsvety (who themselves owe much to the traditions of Krautrock).
We try to combine various kinds of riff. They're [typically] simple and pleasant...
The origin of "riff" as a noun or verb is still debated, but it seemingly goes back to early jazz slang and the notion of a basic "refrain" and repetition, which allowed for improvisation on top. The unadorned, looping use of a chord progression could lead to bigger and better expressive options, precisely because of its simplicity.
As one fan notes online of Blackpaperplanes's small, yet proud catalog: "Everything's done simply, to a high standard, and with taste." Within that simplicity lies a sense of propriety that's lacking in the outside world. As we can see from all these bands, in fact, the downside of modern composition or commerce has been avoided with a lo-fi, "low fuss" approach. Odin v Kanoe would rather not rehearse, Anton Krivulia does deliberate damage to his tape (lest things sound "glossy"), and the members of Blackpaperplanes employ all manner of "airborne" imagery with a structural insistence upon uncomplicated riffing. There are no claims here to showy workmanship or conclusive statement. The object of everybody's musical and philosophical attention lies far above standard forms of expression.
These are all bold concepts - yet exercised with minimum fuss, since the outside world has abused the relationship between quality and quantity. Louder, more ostentatious performance is no closer to verity. In fact, the more significant one's object of desire, the more it would - rationally - inspire a humble form of display.
One of the recent posts from Blackpaperplanes showed clearly how the daily practice of music-making can inhibit this kind of minimalism - and therefore make it a rare, cherished quality. "We're looking for some people who can help us organize the sort of concerts we play. We need help in reaching agreements with clubs... and then setting up events in various towns." Thus far, no names have been forthcoming.
Let the consoling mantras begin - going round and round as they do so.
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