Toumani Diabaté, The Barbican, 29/10/08

I was on a train from London to Bournemouth this week when one of the cabin crew (or whatever the train aisle-shuffler equivalent is) made a very peculiar announcement. “The onboard computer is not working,” he said, “so we’ll have to make manual announcements on this service.” Manual announcements? What on earth are they, I wondered? Sign language? Is someone going to come down the aisle doing Give US A Clue-style charades? “The next station will be….three syllables…last syllable: gun. No, shot. The next station is Aldershot!” It occurred to me the other night at the Barbican that if there is anyone who could actually make their hands talk, it would be the great Toumani.

Szilard Mezei Ensemble, Nad/Reed (Red Toucan)

 

The moment when jazz’s self-imposed restrictions were lifted in the early to mid 1960s resulted in a thrilling explosion in all directions. Ornette Coleman brushing aside established idioms on the prophetic The Shape Of Jazz To Come. Coltrane’s 1965 epiphanies on Impulse. Sun Ra’s Arkestra shedding their suits in favour of robes and outlandish headgear. Albert Ayler leaving the army and signing up with ESP. Even the Blue Note label got the bug, finding homes for Cecil Taylor and Eric Dolphy, with the likes of Andrew Hill and Grachan Moncur kicking over the rubble left in their wake. The prevailing wind reached South Africa, taking The Blue Notes’ music of their homeland far from its original source. Things weren’t out-and-out free at this point; these artists with bristling with melodic and rhythmic ideas, and produced some of my favourite records of all time. Even mentioning Szilard Mezei in the same paragraph as these artists is high praise, yet on the evidence of Nad/Reed, it is well deserved.

James Devane, James Devane (Bremsstrahlung)

Any fans of Christian Fennesz and Tim Hecker reading this? Uh-huh, one there…there’s another…I think there’s another with his hand up standing behind the pillar…and another…another standing in Moldova (I almost didn’t see you there)…and another…

Actually I suspect that most people reading this are fans of both Christian Fennesz and Tim Hecker. The sum total of number of days by waited by readers of this piece for a new album from either of those two would be..well, lots. Years. Decades. *gets calculator out* Actually, centuries, bashing on towards a millennium. I hope they feel guilty, the workshy fops.

Well, dear reader, I have two pieces of good news for you. One: a new Fennesz album is imminent. Two: in the mean time, those who are deficient in vitamin processed-guitar to the point of dizziness can suck on this fine extract from the same root, the new album by James Devane. For free.

Africa Now, The Barbican, 23/10/08

I had to make one of my occasional visits to the surreal landscapes of London’s Docklands this week, with its towering shards of metal and glass rising directly from pools of grey water. It felt somewhat quieter and less frantic than usual; no-one was paying any attention to the scrolling share prices wrapped around the building outside the station. Except me as I passed on my way out on the light railway. Down. Down. Deeper. And. Down. As the little train steered itself on towards the City, my attention was soon taken by another set of lights: the first set of domestic Xmas lights I’ve seen so far this year, over two months before the day itself. They blinked on and off in an enthusiastic if tawdry fashion, as if they were somehow trying to repel the prevailing bad vibes emanating from the financial institutions up the road. Uh. Uh. Xmas. Is. Coming. Fuck. Yeah. Uh. Uh. Uh. However if they really wanted to forget about such things and transport themselves to a more joyful place, the inhabitants of that house should have followed me: exit at the Bank, and walk up Moorgate towards that other strange towering setting – the Barbican -for Africa Now.

Pit Er Pat, High Time (Thrill Jockey)

Having been a bit busy in the last few weeks, with sporadic internet connection for much of that period, I really feel a bit out of touch with what is going on in the world. I passed a newspaper billboard on the way home yesterday which said “Almunia: we don’t fear the Turks” and my mind began to spin. What was this Turkey-Spain conflagration which I hadn’t heard about? Had Turkey developed the bomb? Were they planning on using it to settle some score they had forgotten about for the best part of five hundred years? Sadly, the truth turned out to be more mundane: Almunia turns out not to be the PM of Spain, but in fact plays in goal for some local football team or other. Ho-hum. Some things appear to have stayed the same over this period though. For example, that American election seems still to be NOWHERE NEAR happening as far as I can tell, and Thrill Jockey continue to release beguilingly quirky rock records. Some of which don’t even feature any members of Tortoise.

Halal, is it meat you’re looking for?

Apologies for gloating, especially if you were on a rival team. Team “Halal, is it meat you’re looking for”, featuring an assortment of clever clever types (and me) continued its dominance of the London pub quiz scene last night by winning the inaugural Rough Trade pop quiz at the Lexington last night. By a margin of 18 (EIGHTEEN) points. We’re currently working on a plan to accumulate Rough Trade gift vouchers until it has a huge off-balance sheet debt in our favour, and we can eventually walk in and say: thanks, we think we own this place now.

Juana Molina, Un Dia (Domino)

No-one has made the crossover from TV comedy star in their own country to internationally-renowned artist in another medium quite like Juana Molina. Except of course Takeshi Kitano, whose switch from giggling host of surreal Japanese Its-A-Knockout knockabout Takeshi’s Castle to deadpan ultraviolent yakuza must surely be the most remarkable volte-face in the history of, well, anything. Molina’s transition to esoteric electronic-tinged folk artist has been effortless, and with this, her fifth album, she has raised the bar yet again.

Pussycat, pussycat…

…where have you been?

I’ve been to London, to see some spectral music at the Queen Elizabeth Hall. Amongst other things. Why, where did you think I’ve been? Out chasing mice? Pffffffft.

I’m back, pretty much. I did the ISP shuffle dance and after some heavy-handed fumbling consummated the relationship a couple of days ago. We’re very happy together so far, thanks for asking.

Since we last spoke, I’ve been to a couple of London Sinfonietta-related gigs. I hadn’t located my camera amongst all the boxes littering the new pad, so there aren’t any pictures. And I can’t locate the memories amongst my increasingly short-term internal filing system, so there aren’t many words either. Do forgive me.

Flitter, happier

I’m moving house this week. I’m hauling all my belongings (which appear to be break down as 40% back issues of the Wire, 30% John Coltrane CDs, and 30% whisky) across the lawless N8/N4 frontier. Service, if indeed that is what this is, may be fitful over the next couple of weeks while I do the ISP-shuffle dance.

Richard Skelton, Marking Time (Preservation); A Broken Consort, Box Of Birch: New Edition (Sustain-Release)

There are many layers to the work of Richard Skelton. I don’t just mean instrumentally, for there is so much more to him as an artist than simply the music. His work is inextrically bound up with emotion, with imagery, with history, with location, with nature, and even with poetry. While I have written about his spellbinding (now re-recorded and remastered) A Broken Consort project on here before, it may well be his Landings project which represents the apex of his achievements as an artist, combining all of the above elements into a cohesive, compelling narrative. With this first release under his own name Marking Time, he strips back much of this ornamentation to produce a work of immense clarity and focus.