On today’s spin I’m reminded more than once of the similar odd sound produced by Hans Reichel and his “Dachsophon” or Daxophone, which he invented in 1987 and played on The Dawn of Dachsman, and other recordings. Reichel’s wooden instruments were carefully carved tongues mounted in resonant wooden boxes, but like Hornorkesteret he tended to apply the bow and likewise produced animalistic whines and grunts. Qvale and team also add percussion and some conventional instruments to the mix, but to remind us of their quasi-pagan roots, there are four antler-players in the band, plus the use of bone flute, moose skull and hoof rattle tells us that animals are never very far away – in spirit, and in a very corporeal sense.

I like the way they keep the melodies very simple – if they were rock musicians, this could almost be very rough post-punk riffing or even a form of acoustic Black Metal (which is something they ought to try, in my view), but they can’t help syncopating their rhythms, in an attempt to get us onto their dancefloor and watch us execute a lumbering stomp. When I say dancefloor, it’s probably a charmed circle in the forest with mushrooms and stones and goblins nearby. Elaborate cover art curlicues, emblems and pastoral scenes likewise confirm this “wild men of the woods” image they’re trying to push, as do the charming silhouette pix of the band indicating that long hair and nudity are entry-level requirements if you wanna “blow” with the Hornsters. At the same time, they’re also urban sophisticates who are keen to blend krautrock and minimal-improv moves with their folk-inflected antics. Some nice moments of wildlife field-recording punctuate the tracks, but I don’t think they actually recorded it in the open air. (11/11/2024)

Available in the UK through Cold Spring

Today’s release Drinking Songs Live 20 Years On (ICI D’AILLEURS IDA163) coincides with the 20th anniversary of the original, supposed by some to be a form of “dark folk”, and which was evidently so popular that the label put it out as a vinyl reissue in 2011, and it went through two represses to cope with the demand. The original release had better cover art – cleverly insinuating the concept into a European between-the-wars milieu and obviously intended to evoke the depressive spirit that led many an absinthe drinker to suicide. That said, the Victrola on today’s item does hark back to a similar era, and even further back in time if can discern the Mocha influences in those swirls of abundant hair on the pipe-smoking nude who smiles at us with the self-assurance of a femme fatale. I get the idea that Elliott is alluding to great human tragedies, including deaths at sea, world wars, and “victims of the USA’s foreign policy”, and accordingly each minor-key setting is an opportunity for him to issue laments, plaints and whines in a slow and painful manner. This is especially effecting on ‘The Kursk’, where he pretty much does it without words for nearly 17 mins. With its simplistic chord changes and limited progressions, it’s unlikely to be mistaken for the compositions of Kurt Weill or even a torchy ballad from the 1920s.

Mostly an acoustic album, but for those who yearn for Elliott’s electronica, tune in to ‘The Maid We Messed’ which adds incongruous layers of beats and sequencer squelches to the dirge-like tune. (01/11/2024)

Very good to hear these somewhat unusual instruments deployed in an experimental context. Barkas has learned and drawn inspiration from her collaborative work, sometimes in a free improvisation mode, and whatever sparks may currently be flying in the musical arenas of Strasbourg. She’s also inspired, this time around, by folk and traditional music, and the hurdy-gurdy side of the cassette cites songs by Alice Prieur; the French lacemaker Virginie Granouillet, who was a custodian of folk songs in the Haute-Loire and earned the name of “La Baracande”; and the Cajun singer Blind Uncle Gaspard, about whom little is known, and very few recordings of his are extant. I am impressed by Barkas’ choices here and I imagine that a rewarding conversation could be held with her about the importance of protecting the flickering candle-flame of folk music and keeping it burning. I say this because the sound of her hurdy-gurdy playing is so lonely and attenuated, seemingly stressing the fragility of her obscure sources, but also the fragility of life itself.

The bagpipe side doesn’t draw on folk music, but does name two people (Bernard Jacquemin and Sean Jones) who I assume are contemporary pipers themselves, and may have built or lent her the musette with 20 pouches and hümmelchen for these pieces. (At any rate they both show up in the bagpipe society database.) With her concern for authenticity and honouring the lineage and culture of these ancient instruments, the actions of Lise Barkas are not too far apart from what Rhodri Davies is doing for the Welsh harp. A fine release of beautiful music – sadly the cassette version is sold out now. (04/10/2024)

The Polish composer Waclaw Zimpel has been brushing the brisket with four talented classical musicians from Southern India, playing in the Carnatic tradition; where our Polish genius supplies the electronics and jazzy woodwinds, the team of Udupa, Baba, Raja and Karthik dazzle with an array of traditional instruments. The stodgy word “collaboration” doesn’t really fit here when faced with such invention and infectious delights. Zimpel has been greasing this particular horn since 2015; he comes to us from a varied background in free jazz / improv, minimalist-inspired composition, something referred to as “folk trance”, and solo electronica albums. Indeed it’s even claimed that the Saagara project sprang to life out of a “jam session”, a term which I thought had long been deprecated.

The achievement here feels like something much greater than a run-of-the-mill “East meets West” contrivance, which has plagued recorded music for longer than it should, but I’m at a loss to explain what it might be. My familiarity with Carnatic music is less than minus-zero, but the juice in these grooves comes close to plugging into a universal language. Maybe Zimpel is attempting to reach a condition of “world folk” as he finds rich seams of commonality between free jazz and Carnatic, while continuing to honour traditions and never once settling for kitschy easy listening approximations. John McLaughlin is invoked in name, and it would be nice to think he approves mightily of this significant musical development. (23/09/2024)

The original Telyn Rawn came out in 2020 – it was played on a horsehair harp, which was built for him specially (requiring a small team of specialists); presumably it’s all part of Rhodri’s plan to reinvigorate Welsh culture and identity through the history of its music, and these historical instruments (as he did on Telyn Wrachiod, where he explored the pegged Bray harp). In passing his original 2020 improvisations to the players on this record, he devised quite specific instructions; they had to imagine that Rhodri’s music was somehow “ancient”, dating from the medieval period, and their response had to be something that took place centuries later. Using prose instructions for directions, interaction, gameplay or role-playing has been used by certain improvising players in history (Chris Cutler, John Zorn, Rova Saxophone Quartet), but Rhodri’s approach is unusual – requiring the use of creative thought, inviting speculation on history, and thereby (we hope) arriving at new insights into the way that music, art, and culture can evolve. It seems less formulaic than just handing out colour-coded cards, or printed with prose updates on Oblique Strategies.

The resulting miniatures here are more than just good music, and the project somehow amounts to something more than an intriguing collaborative experiment; at its best, the album invokes the deeps of musical history so profoundly that it almost allows us to travel through time and space, an impression I personally felt most strongly when hearing Dawson’s ‘A Garden Farewell’, with its gentle off-beat guitar work recorded with birdsong in the open air. Besides guitars, you will also hear the hurdy-gurdy, the recorder, the banjo, the fiddle, the Scots small pipes, the flute, the viola – and even some electronics and computer music. I think this release is testament to the power of imagination. The album presents a fascinating enigma in 18 chapters; Rhodri Davies has enabled and realised a profoundly human and moving statement. (02/04/2024)

Festival/concert arranger, experimental music label; Sweden’s ‘House of FRIM’ (Association for Free Improvised Music), has now seen fit to release Serbian violinist/vocalist Tijana Stanković’s follow-up to her solo debut Freezer (LOM Records/2020/Slovakia). Her background began in folk during her mid-teens and she eventually found herself studying ethnomusicology at Serbia’s Novi Sad Academy of Arts. Over time, her blend of indigenous folk music and improv disciplines saw her participating in Paniks, the Budapest-based Argo and the internationalist Hyperion Ensemble. During 2023, she also received a number of gold stars from those in the music press for her contributions to Dens; Lenhart Tapes’ folked-out noise album on the Glitterbeat imprint. While her debut release zeroed in on a large chunk of contemporary impro, Folk Songs digs deeper into age old folk signatures while still keeping a watchful eye or two on that very important chance element. This is perfectly encapsulated by “Song for the Bees” and “Jano Mori”. Inspired by a ritual song of the beekeeper, the former track seemingly (?) heads towards a bout of rosin-deficient bowing, in order to get that extra bark and bite, while the latter sees Tijana extending and embellishing themes from a traditional song that originated from Macedonia.

Captured in the presence of a live audience at Stockholm’s Fylkingen venue in 2022, John Chantler’s thankfully basic recording set-up (with Guiseppe Ielasi on mastering duties), makes for an intensely personal vision that adds a fresh and unique edge to genre fusion – and oh, a twinning of the bows with fellow avant violinist Mia Zabelka would be pure ear candy.

What he’s doing here is playing an ‘Urquhart Bray Harp’, made by the specialist harp-makers Ardival, whose website describes it as “typical of those used across Europe in the 16th and 17th centuries”, instantly confirming the lineage and history of this venerable musical instrument. Matter of fact, it might even go as far back to the 14th century, was the harp of choice to any self-respecting Renaissance player, and was known to have been used in Wales well into the 19th century, a fact which I am certain guided Rhodri’s decision, well-informed as he is of his country’s sense of identity, and rightly proud of it too. The instrument is equipped with “bray pins”, wooden pegs which barely touch the strings, but cause a very distinctive buzzing sound when the strings are played. Indeed this buzz or natural drone is what gives rise to the “bray” name – they bray like donkeys. Speaking of historical knowledge, Rhodri Davies also supplies one quote from Ossian Ellis, published in his book The Story Of The Harp in Wales, confirming the detail that the bray pins can be adjusted and pushed as needed when the buzzing effect is required, and further that such a harp could generate a percussive noise when the occasion called for dancing.

So much for the technical aspects of the Telyn Wrachïod, and the history of it. On these 12 gorgeous tracks of beautiful music, we can immediately hear how the musician has already learned all the subtleties and resonances he can produce by depressing his bray pins, and the assurance with which he does so is typical of this strong-willed and innovative player. After all, he’s been “preparing” his harp in a John Cage like manner in an improvisation context for many years, plus made bold use of detunings and the e-bow. To a non-music scholar like myself, much of this album resembles traditional folk tunes; each tune tends to stay in one key, and employs scales which sound ancient in origin. But it’s also very unusual folk music, as if being invented in real time by a primitive futurist who managed to make his way back to our Celtic origins, yet still found musical forms that could express the contours of the modern mind. It takes a special kind of genius to compress such rich statements into short tunes of three minutes in length (on average), but that is exactly what has taken place here, all in the space of a single recording session in August 2023.

Hints of what he can do when he sets off down a road like this have been vouchsafed before, especially in his uncanny performances in the group Hen Ogledd (with Richard Dawson, himself one who could be characterised as embodying a strain of “wild folk” that cannot be easily contained). But neither has Davies forsaken his other musical skills, as indicated on ‘Cildraeth Sienco’; it’s an improvisation, but based on a composition by Angharad Jenkins (reminding us also that Rhodri is no stranger to modern minimalism and has played with Apartment House), and uses alternative tunings as prescribed by Robert ap Huw in his manuscript of 1613. This seminal figure compiled this text in the late medieval period, bringing together transcriptions of music written between 1340 and 1500, and it’s now reckoned as a highly important primary source for understanding Welsh music.

Summa: beautiful folk-inflected music, flawlessly played, the product of what I expect was a period of intense scholarship and research, informed by history and national identity, yet still managing to incorporate many modernist precepts within its frame. How many living artists can claim such integrity, and such a comprehensive sweep within their statement, and manage to embody it all in the music they compose and play? The result is a near-perfect masterpiece; unequivocal recommendation. From 2nd April 2024.

Further reading:
Bill Taylor: Interpreting the Robert ap Huw MS.

There is a certain pastoral charm and whimsy in the overall feel of Liminous, and some of the melodies alight on a not-unpleasant sunlit bank, conveying a balmy vibe. I’m still struggling with Mason’s singing voice, which now sounds even more earnest and heavy-handed as he plods his way through his incomprehensible lyrics, and those ill-fitting melodies delivered with his inelegant phrasing; but even so we have to admit he’s totally immersed in his own world of creation, as evidenced also by the faraway look in the eyes of the fellow on the cover who is collaged together with his brother moths. An image of the owl, another motif popular with pagan folk types, can be found inside the gatefold. What I hear as earnestness may simply be a token of his conviction.

The guest musicians on woodwinds and strings also make Liminous a more palatable proposition, especially on the instrumental sections, evidently drawing inspiration from Shirley Collins records such as Love, Death and The Lady or Anthems in Eden, with their unique and innovative settings by Dolly Collins. Listen to the end of this quirkular album if you want to hear what becomes of the Caterpillar King who “crawls to rightfully receive his crown”. But I feel Mason missed a trick here, and could have capitalised more on the story potential of his moth and caterpillar imagery; the album should start with a chrysalis, reach caterpillar stage in the middle, and finish with a butterfly or moth. (19/12/2023)

This band were a four-piece of talented Belgian players who formed in Antwerp in 1992 and put out this first album in 1995, on the Jack & Johnny Recording label. They were classically trained musicians, these four: Buni Lenski (violin) and his brother Simon Lenski (cello) with Han Stubbe (clarinet) and Roel van Camp (accordion), but what they play is very far from classical music – it’s derived from Roma, klezmer, and east European folk music, mixed up with jazz-ish elements. At least, that’s what we hear on this record – extremely lively tunes as if we’d been invited to a wedding in Romania and we’re the only ones not wearing the acceptable traditional garb.

DAAU (as they abbreviated) have a firm grasp of dynamics and precision and perform this material with verve and elan, but also an odd sort of precision and intellectual coolness, that indicates they’re not necessarily out to earn eighteen badges of “authenticity” from the New York Klezmer Series. On the contrary, DAAU thought of themselves as punk rockers, or at any rate they wished to foster a rebellious spirit in their bones, and if there was any grain to be had in Antwerp, against it they would go. Interestingly, the accordion player indicates they also emulated sixties psychedelia, progressive rock and new wave genres with their all-acoustic set-up (not on this record, though), and they bore aloft their instruments with pride – thereby avoiding the trap of being “just another rock band” with electric guitars and drums. Apparently this move went down very well in the Antwerp of the 1990s, home to bands such as dEUS, Zita Swoon and Kiss My Jazz – none of whom were ever heard by us, but the name of that last one suggests there was a band who paraded a similarly irreverent attitude towards conventional jazz genres.

As mentioned, DAAU play flawlessly on this record, an index of their classical training – which for them seems to be something of a paradox. They wanted to protect their hard-earned skillsets and continue to hone their craft, but also yearned to do something distinctive with music and create something new of their own. It’s not just in the playing, but also in the compositions here; five of the six tracks follow a pre-arranged three-movement structure, reflected in the name ‘Drieslagstelesels’, almost like a mini-symphony format into which the irrepressible folk modes must be pushed. The mere fact that they pull any of this off is worthy of anyone’s admiration, even if the “punk” thing doesn’t seem as self-evident to me as perhaps it ought. I’d say that DAAU intellectualised their rebellion right from the start, but then I suppose the same could be said of many UK post-punk bands too, and if they didn’t contextualise everything then the writers of the NME certainly did so in 1980-1982.

Even their name is lifted from a literary source; it comes from Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse and is supposed to convey something about the outsider mentality and the halls of Bedlam. Well, this music didn’t exactly make me lose my wits, but it’s unique and well-crafted. I see the band are still playing to this day, although there have been personnel changes since this debut, and it didn’t take long for them to be signed up by Sony Classical – a fate which, as yet, has not befallen Johnny Rotten, The Clash, or The Damned. Vinyl edition also exists, the first time on that medium for this music. (24/10/2023)

They’re here today with Wunderrad (col legno WWE 20461), a suite in 12 parts which seems to have been inspired by the life and work of Simon Stampfer, a historical mathematician, who invented the stroboscopic disk (and thus established a principle which fed into the use of stop-motion cinema). Through their lively and accessible chamber music, The Knoedel hope to convey a sense of wonder in the face of scientific achievements – which takes us up into space in a rocket ship and sends us back to earth in the middle of a desert. The players – on guitar, harp, strings, woodwinds, brass and percussion – are incredibly nimble and light-fingered, performing technical miracles of their own on these fast runs and dense but delicate compositions by Dienz. Nothing objectionable here, but I still grumble – it’s too user-friendly for me, as if calculated to appeal to an audience of listeners who don’t really like classical music. The opening moments, with their vaguely pleasing mixed chords, made me think of a watered-down version of Gil Evans, but that brief interlude turned out to be untypical of the remainder.

There’s a booklet of notes by the composer where he shares his notions in prose form, confirming the very visual-narrative dimensions and associative impressions which he intends to convey with these pieces. (31/10/2023)