Vlever Children The Sons and Daughters of

Clever Children:
The Sons and Daughters of
Experimental Music?
David Carter
B.Music / Music Technology (Honours, First Class)
Queensland Conservatorium Griffith University
A dissertation submitted in fulfilment of the requirements
for the award of the degree Doctor of Philosophy
19 June 2008
Keywords
Contemporary Music; Dance Music; Disco; DJ; DJ Spooky; Dub; Eight Lines;
Electronica; Electronic Music; Errata Erratum; Experimental Music; Hip Hop;
House; IDM; Influence; Techno; John Cage; Minimalism; Music History;
Musicology; Rave; Reich Remixed; Scanner; Surface Noise.
Abstract
In the late 1990s critics, journalists and music scholars began referring to a
loosely associated group of artists within Electronica who, it was claimed,
represented a new breed of experimentalism predicated on the work of composers
such as John Cage, Karlheinz Stockhausen and Steve Reich. Though anecdotal
evidence exists, such claims by, or about, these ‘Clever Children’ have not been
adequately substantiated and are indicative of a loss of history in relation to
electronic music forms (referred to hereafter as Electronica) in popular culture.
With the emergence of the Clever Children there is a pressing need to redress this
loss of history through academic scholarship that seeks to document and critically
reflect on the rhizomatic developments of Electronica and its place within the
history of twentieth century music.
Clever Children: The Sons and Daughters of Experimental Music explores the
relationship between the experimental music tradition and these Clever Children
through the application of a mixed method Collective Case Study examining the
work of Howard Bernstein (Howie B), Robin Rimbaud (Scanner) and Paul Miller
(DJ Spooky). This research utilises an analytical framework comprising interview,
document review and musical analysis to explore the artist and work under
discussion in order to identify areas of congruence, confluence and difference
with key musical and conceptual traits derived from an historical survey of the
experimental music tradition and Electronica.
The key historical developments of the experimental music tradition and
Electronica outlined in this research, though necessarily selective, provide an
overview and context of the broad trends and concerns that have emerged in both
traditions. This research identifies significant areas of confluence between the two
and this suggests that some form of influence may have taken place. When
examined in more detail however, this is revealed to be the result of parallel but
distinct developments owing more to external factors than any direct or indirect
influence. This is borne out to varying degrees within the Collective Case Study.
Case Study One examines the remix of Steve Reich’s Eight Lines by Howie B as
one example of the congruence, confluence and lines of influence that have been
drawn between minimalism and Electronica. This Case Study concludes that,
while Bernstein’s work demonstrates strong similarities with the experimental
music tradition, Bernstein has not engaged with Reich’s material in a manner that
is outside the scope of his usual practice. Furthermore this Case Study suggests
that key similarities between Bernstein’s remix and Reich’s original conform to
the overlap between Electronica and the experimental music tradition.
Subsequently, this Case Study does not support assertions of direct influence by
the experimental music tradition on Bernstein’s artistic practice.
The second Case Study examines Robin Rimbaud’s claims that he has been
influenced by the work of John Cage. Rimbaud’s 1998 sound-art piece Surface
Noise serves as a basis for examining the relationship between Rimbaud and
Cage. The Case Study suggests that Rimbaud has been demonstrably influenced
by the experimental music but that this influence has been subject to significant
reinterpretation or extrapolation. This Case Study supports Rimbaud’s claims
while pointing out key differences between the ways these influences have been
applied and how such ideas were understood in their original context.
The final Case Study discusses Paul Miller’s Errata Erratum (2002) with
reference to statements by the artist linking his work, and Hip Hop more
generally, with the experimental music tradition. Though Miller’s work displays
congruencies with the experimental music tradition, his diverse and overlapping
influences and pastiche-like approach to his music make it difficult to synthesize
the genesis of his ideas. This Case Study argues that Miller has drawn, often
indiscriminately and with significant creativity, from a complex web of influences
that includes the experimental music tradition.
Instead of representing a clear succession to the experimental music tradition, the
Clever Children discussed in this research delineate a new field of music that can
be best described as appropriating elements of experimental music and applying
these to new contexts. In such contexts experimentalism mingles with a
multiplicity of congruent and contrary musical and aesthetic ideals producing new
and exciting musical forms. By examining the relationship of the Clever Children
to the experimental music tradition and placing them within an historical context,
this research promotes an awareness and discussion of the alternate and divergent
musical practices that inform the music of our own time and may influence the
music of our future.
Table of Contents
Keywords.......................................................................................................................i
Abstract.........................................................................................................................ii
Table of Contents......................................................................................................... iv
List of Figures.............................................................................................................vii
List of Tables................................................................................................................ix
Statement of Authenticity..............................................................................................x
Acknowledgements......................................................................................................xi
PART I: The questions of clever Children........................................................... 1
Introducing the Clever Children.......................................................................... 2
A question of meaning.................................................................................................. 6
Gaps in the literature................................................................................................... 15
Research questions......................................................................................................23
Can the historical narratives linking the Clever Children with an experimental music
tradition be substantiated with reference to their artistic practice?....................................24
What are the historical narratives and key musical and conceptual traits of the
experimental music tradition and Electronica identified in existing literature as precursive
to or having influence on the Clever Children? ...................................................................25
What areas of congruence or confluence exist between the experimental music tradition,
Electronica and specific works of the Clever Children in which experimental influence has
been claimed?....................................................................................................................... 25
In what way do such confluences and congruencies support or undermine the claims of
influence made by or on behalf of the Clever Children in each instance and across the
multiple cases?......................................................................................................................25
‘Between’ Method Research Design.................................................................. 26
‘Lost’ histories and Clever Children............................................................................26
Case selection .............................................................................................................29
Musical analysis, transcription and ‘the score’............................................................31
Interviews....................................................................................................................37
Notes on participants and notational schema...............................................................39
Document review and the use of secondary sources....................................................40
Summary ....................................................................................................................41
PART II: AN HISTORICAL CONTEXT.......................................................... 44
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition.................................. 45
Introduction.................................................................................................................45
Noise...........................................................................................................................47
Futurism................................................................................................................................47
Edgard Varèse.......................................................................................................................49
John Cage ............................................................................................................................ 50
New sounds, new technologies................................................................................... 52
Process and indeterminacy ......................................................................................... 56
Stasis and repetition.................................................................................................... 61
Summary of key musical and conceptual traits........................................................... 71
Elder Siblings – A Brief History of Electronica.................................................75
Introduction.................................................................................................................75
Dub............................................................................................................................. 77
Kraftwerk....................................................................................................................78
Hip-Hop...................................................................................................................... 79
Disco...........................................................................................................................83
House & Garage – Disco’s twins.................................................................................85
Detroit Techno.............................................................................................................91
Raving, I’m raving!! – The UK sound.........................................................................97
Jungle / Drum ’n Bass............................................................................................... 105
IDM, ambience and experimentalism........................................................................110
Summary of key musical and conceptual traits......................................................... 113
Comparison of Key Musical and Conceptual Traits....................................... 116
PART III: Collective Case Study...................................................................... 123
Case Study One: Reich Remixed – Minimalism and DJ Culture..................124
Howie B ................................................................................................................... 126
Eight Lines Remix.................................................................................................... 129
Structure .............................................................................................................................129
Instrumentation and the use of samples..............................................................................133
Harmony / melody...............................................................................................................135
Rhythm................................................................................................................................ 138
Timbre, effects and sonic treatments...................................................................................141
Discussion.................................................................................................................144
Case Study Two: Surface Noise – A Cagean Approach to Electronica.........148
Robin Rimbaud......................................................................................................... 149
Minimalist influence........................................................................................................... 156
Surface Noise............................................................................................................ 156
The ‘score’.......................................................................................................................... 157
Discussion.................................................................................................................165
Case Study Three: Errata Erratum – Online Systems Music........................170
DJ Spooky, That Subliminal Kid...............................................................................170
Experimental influence............................................................................................. 174
Errata Erratum...........................................................................................................180
Discussion.................................................................................................................188
PART IV: A Case for Progignere...................................................................... 192
Conclusions and Implications for Future Research........................................193
Implications for Future Research ............................................................................. 201
From Clever Children to Voices in the Desert........................................................... 206
References........................................................................................................... 208
Appendix A .........................................................................................................225
Interview with Howard Bernstein via telephone, 22 April 2005................................225
Appendix B......................................................................................................... 232
Interview with Robin Rimbaud (Scanner) via email, 28 November 2004.................232
Appendix C......................................................................................................... 237
Interview with Paul D Miller (DJ Spooky) via email, 30 May 2005.........................237
Appendix D......................................................................................................... 245
Informed Consent Information Sheet Supplied to all Participants.............................245
Appendix E......................................................................................................... 248
CD of Audio Examples............................................................................................. 248
List of Figures
Figure 1: Concept map of research project structure.....................................................42
Figure 2: Comparison of musical and conceptual traits
in Experimental and Electronica...................................................................117
Figure 3: Plot of instrumentation against time of Eight Lines Remix ..........................130
Figure 4: Piano Loop 1 as scored for Piano 1 in Eight Lines Bar 1. p. 1.....................135
Figure 5: Piccolo Loop as present in Eight Lines Remix.............................................. 135
Figure 6: Piccolo Loop as scored for Piccolo in Eight Lines
p. 47 beginning Bar 373................................................................................135
Figure 7: Clarinet Loop as present in Howie B’s Eight Lines Remix............................136
Figure 8: Clarinet Loop as scored for Clarinet 1 in Eight Lines
p. 6 beginning Bar 41....................................................................................136
Figure 9: Clarinet ‘Solo’ as present in Howie B’s Eight Lines Remix
beginning at 3:34.......................................................................................... 137
Figure 10: Element of Clarinet ‘Solo’ as scored for Clarinet 1 in Eight Lines
p. 77 beginning Bar 609............................................................................... 137
Figure 11: Element of Clarinet ‘Solo’ as scored for Clarinet 2 in Eight Lines
p. 57 beginning Bar 461............................................................................... 137
Figure 12: Juxtaposition of loops in Section A1 of Eight Lines Remix...........................139
Figure 13: String Loop 1 as present in Howie B’s Eight Lines Remix
beginning 0:59..............................................................................................139
Figure 14: String Loop 1 as scored for Violins 1 & 2 in Eight Lines
p. 1 beginning Bar 1..................................................................................... 139
Figure 15: Hi Hat Pattern.............................................................................................. 140
Figure 16: Kick and Snare Drum Loop beginning 3:34..................................................140
Figure 17: String Loop 4 taken from Eight Lines score Bar 443. p. 56...........................140
Figure 18: Piano Loop 3 as present in Eight Lines Remix beginning 1:49.....................141
Figure 19: Piano Loop 3 as scored for Piano 1 in Eight Lines
p. 35 beginning Bar 286............................................................................... 141
Figure 20: Piano Loop 4 as present in Eight Lines Remix beginning 1:49.....................141
Figure 21: Piano Loop 4 taken from Piano 2 Eight Lines score
p. 43 beginning bar 335................................................................................142
Figure 22: Resulting rhythm pattern from Piano Loops 3 & 4........................................142
Figure 23: Cow Bell Loop as present in Eight Lines Remix beginning 1:50...................142
Figure 24: Musical and conceptual traits found in ‘Eight Lines Remix’.........................145
Figure 25: Time plot of Surface Noise Section One........................................................ 159
Figure 26: Westminster Quarters....................................................................................162
Figure 27: Musical and conceptual traits found in ‘Surface Noise’...............................166
Figure 28: Web interface for Miller's Errata Erratum.................................................... 183
Figure 29: One of the five ‘decks’ utilised by Errata Erratum........................................ 183
Figure 30: Musical and conceptual traits found in ‘Errata Erratum’.............................189
Figure 31: Overview of key traits of experimental music and Electronica plotted
against traits present in the Collective Case Study.......................................197
List of Tables
Table 1:
Samples and their location in the remix........................................................131
Table 2:
Timbral changes present in Eight Lines Remix by section............................143
Statement of Authenticity
The work contained in this dissertation has not previously been submitted for a
degree or diploma at any other higher education institution. To the best of my
knowledge and belief, the dissertation contains no material previously published
or written by another person except where due reference is made in the
dissertation itself.
David Carter
19 June 2008
Acknowledgements
Innumerable thanks go to my principle supervisor Professor Paul Draper for his
counsel, criticism and support throughout the period of my PHD candidature.
Without his personal and professional commitment and encouragement this
research would not have been possible. I would also like to thank Professor Huib
Schippers and Dr Stephen Emmerson for their valuable insight and guidance
throughout the research and writing process.
Similar thanks go to Professor Peter Roenfeldt in his role as Director of the
Queensland Conservatorium for financially supporting my candidature through
the provision of an Australian Postgraduate Award Scholarship and to Jenny
Bromley as Graduate Students Officer for her administrative support.
This dissertation was completed in studios, bedrooms, venues and tour-buses
across two continents and for this I would like to thank FAQ for the welcome
reprieve from the introversion of writing and Indee Records for the unique
opportunity to be part of a music industry in the making.
Final thanks go to my family – for teaching me how to think for myself and
always supporting the results; friends – for support and disinterest in appropriate
amounts; and Linda – for all that I could hope for.
For Linda,
confidant, inspiration and fellow adventurer
who knows me better than anyone else and
decided to share the road with me anyway.
To YHWH,
for the exhortation not to waste the privileges,
gifts and opportunities I have been given.
PART I:
THE QUESTIONS OF CLEVER CHILDREN
Introducing the Clever Children
In 1974, music critic Michael Nyman published Experimental Music: Cage and
Beyond, a history in progress of the then marginal and developing experimental
music tradition. Cage and Beyond documented the music, compositional practice
and philosophical underpinnings of many key figures in the experimental tradition
such as John Cage, Steve Reich, Cornelius Cardew, Philip Glass, Terry Riley,
Alvin Lucier, Gavin Bryars and La Monte Young. Twenty-five years later in the
preface to a second edition of the same work, Nyman queries the lack of scholarly
work documenting contemporary experimental music (1999; xvii-xviii).
Specifically, Nyman calls for a “Son of Experimental Music” (p. xvii) that would
detail the development and influence of experimental and post-experimental
composers in order to extrapolate a 25–year history that Nyman felt had been
neglected. This situation is not unique to the experimental music tradition, but is
in fact symptomatic of a wider neglect throughout much of the twentieth century,
of many forms of music that fall outside the western 'classical' canon (Middleton,
1999) or mainstream popular music. In the editor’s preface to Settling The Pop
Score: Pop Texts and Identity Politics, Derek Scott (2002) argues that,
The upheaval that occurred in musicology during the last two decades of the twentieth
century has created a new urgency for the study of popular music alongside the
development of new critical and theoretical models. A relativistic outlook has replaced
the universal perspective of modernism (the international ambitions of the 12-note
style); the grand narrative of the evolution and dissolution of tonality has been
challenged, and the emphasis has shifted to cultural context, reception and subject
position. Together, these have conspired to eat away at the status of canonical
composers and categories of high and low in music. A need has arisen . . to recognise
and address the emergence of crossovers, mixed and new genres, to engage in debates
concerning the vexed problem of what constitutes authenticity in music and to offer a
critique of musical practice as the product of free, individual expression. (p. vii)
What makes this situation of particular relevance to experimental music is the
manner in which composers such as John Cage and Steve Reich appear to have
had their ideas and music appropriated by a range of artists and musicians external
to the experimental music tradition identified by Nyman. Bill Martin (2002)
claims that since the 1960s, there has been a tradition of pop and rock musicians
appropriating elements of experimental and avant-garde music “from John Cage
and Cecil Taylor to King Crimson, Sonic Youth, Jim O’Rourke, and Bjork” (p.
xiii). More recently, the adoption of ideas taken from experimental music has been
associated with composers of popular electronic music forms (for example
Techno). Kim Cascone (2000) suggests that during the early 1990s, a fringe group
of popular electronic composers, seeking new areas for musical innovation, began
to invoke the works of composers such as Karlheinz Stockhausen and John Cage
(p. 395). Cox and Warner (2004) posit that such composers represent a “new
breed of electronic experimentalism [and are part of] a large and growing body of
electronic musicians whose experimental sensibilities reflect the whole history of
electronic music, from Schaeffer and Stockhausen to Techno and beyond” (p.
365). Similarly, Emmerson (2007) refers to “examples of experimental
‘electronica/IDM’” (p. 31) that he believes draws on influences “from a wide
range of avant-garde, ambient and post-techno sound materials” (Ibid; p. 82).
In part, these assertions are the result of claims by the artists themselves regarding
the influence of the experimental music tradition on their own work. Such claims
are problematic however, as little documentary evidence is available to support
them. Moreover such assertions are often accompanied by contradictory or
conflicting statements by the artists themselves. Richard James (Aphex Twin) for
example, has at various times cited Steve Reich, Philip Glass (1996), Karlheinz
Stockhausen and Erik Satie (Weidenbaum, 1997) as influences on his work while
also claiming to have “never had any inspiration for any music” (cited in Petros,
1994; online). Despite this, authors, composers and performers associated with the
experimental music tradition often enthusiastically endorse the notion that their
ideas have been appropriated by a new generation of ‘popular’ musicians. Writing
in 2002, Ben Neill, composer and onetime leader of La Monte Young’s Theatre of
Eternal Music Brass Ensemble, observes:
Pop electronic music is . . rapidly incorporating many elements of art music:
experimental live performance techniques . . conceptual and process-oriented
composition . . collage . . performance art and theatrical spectacle . . and the extensive
use of experimental software and hardware. (p. 388)
Neill contends that in the work of these types of artists “Experimentation [has]
fully made its way to popular culture and a mass audience” (p. 389) and proclaims
a “new art music” (p. 389) emergent within 1990s electronic dance music. In
doing so Neill echoes Brian Eno’s observations in his introduction to the second
edition of Cage and Beyond (Nyman, 1999) that “what started as an esoteric
bubble at the very edges of music has become transmuted into a mainstream” (p.
xii). Indeed, Philip Sherburne (2004) argues “it’s impossible to hear Steve Reich’s
early tape works Come Out and It’s Gonna Rain and not hear the roots – however
accidental – of contemporary Techno” (p. 321). This claim is echoed by Reich
himself who acknowledges, “here's a generation that doesn't just like what I do,
they appropriate it!” (cited in Abbot, 2002; p. 68). Similarly, an article published
in The Wire (Witts & Young, 1996) positions composer Karlheinz Stockhausen as
progenitor of a group of early 90s electronic producers, his so-called ‘clever
children’.
These clever children are part of a group of DJs, producers and composers of
electronic music identified across writings by Cascone (2000), Cox and Warner
(2004), Emmerson (2000, 2007), Holmes (2002), Martin (2002), Neill (2002),
Prendergast (1995), Toop (1995), Veale (2007), Witts and Young (1996) and
others, as being in some way related to, or progeny of, experimental and / or
avant-garde composers. The artists identified include: Pan Sonic; Oval; Richard
James (Aphex Twin); LTJ Bukem; Daniel Pemberton; Squarepusher; Autechre;
Omni Trio; Wagon Christ; Goldie; Richie Hawtin (Plastikman); Coldcut; Thomas
Brinkmann; Robin Rimbaud (Scanner); DJ Shadow; Merzbow; Paul Miller (DJ
Spooky); DJ Olive; DJ QBert; Tone Lok and; Björk. Exemplary rather than
definitive, this list does not include homage projects such as 1999s Reich Remixed
or post-rock acts such as Tortoise or Sonic Youth, who cannot be classified as
strictly ‘electronic’ and whose output belongs to a more clearly articulated lineage
of rock music beginning with the Velvet Underground and progressing through
punk rock, new-wave and ‘art-rock’ (Salzman, 1988; p. 228).
These artists cannot be said to represent, nor do they describe themselves as
belonging to, a distinct genre or tradition per se but are instead linked by
associations with key electronic, experimental and avant-garde composers and an
‘experimental’ approach to music making that is said to reflect the concerns of
composers such as Cage and Stockhausen. Indeed, it was through my own
interest, collectively, in Björk, Squarepusher, Scanner, DJ Spooky and Aphex
Twin that I first came to really explore the works of composers such as Russolo,
Henry, Varèse, Cage, Reich and Stockhausen. While I had been introduced to
these ‘key figures’ as a music student it wasn’t until I was presented with a living
connection to my own culture and musical practice that I began to appreciate them
as vital and relevant, even revolutionary. After an adolescence spent championing
the songwriter-as-poet and manning the barricades on the Beatles side of the pop /
classical divide I was awakened to the profound impact that sounds themselves
can have as arbiters of ideas and meaning. This coincided with a renewed interest
in the study of music analysis and history – I was, and perhaps still am,
uncomfortable with the term musicology – as a way to provide a deeper
understanding of and suggest new directions for my own professional practice as
an audio engineer and producer1.
In the final year of my undergraduate music degree I immersed myself in a world
of sometimes beautiful and, in retrospect, horribly unlistenable sounds. In
between long nights in the recording studio honing my professional practice as an
audio engineer I began reading Cage’s Silence (1968) and Reich’s Writings on
Music (2002) alongside David Toop’s Oceans of Sound (1995); swimming in the
apparently interconnected sounds of what Mark Prendergast terms The Ambient
Century (1995). My reading and listening in turn influenced my practice and I
began dabbling, then seriously engaging, in electronic music composition, even
releasing an album of my own work – though to no great critical acclaim.
As my taste in music, and literature, moved on I began to think more critically
about the discourse I had previously accepted or perhaps imposed in relation to
the music and composers that fascinated me. The associations, inferred by
Cascone, Cox and Warner, Neill and others, appear to have been formed
deductively – through observation of similar musical ideas or traits that are used
to infer influence – rather than inductively – through a rigorous and detailed
1
Inspired particularly by Moylan’s Art of Recording: Understanding and Crafting the
Mix (2002).
examination of particular artists or works and their relationship to the
experimental or avant-garde composers. The resultant narrative – that during the
1990s a fringe group of ‘popular’ electronic musicians emerged who
(re)connected their work with twentieth century art music, citing Cage,
Stockhausen, Reich and others as primary influences – is thus predicated on
purportedly shared approaches to music making. This narrative is becoming
pervasive, particularly in magazines such as The Wire (Emmerson, 2007), and has
gone largely unchallenged despite a lack of clear antecedence or rigorous and
detailed research.
This state of affairs is symptomatic of what Holmes (2002) has described as a
‘loss of history’, and reflects the increasingly fractured and disposable nature of
much popular music coupled with an increased emphasis on individually
constructed and mediated identity and meaning. This coincides with a deep
distrust of meta-narratives resulting from the popularisation of the (often equally
individually constructed) grab-bag of philosophy, linguistics, critical theory,
literary criticism, and pop-culture identified variously as ‘post-modernity’. Where
once a clear line of influence may have been traced and musical developments
plotted, we are now confronted by composers utilising musique concréte
techniques to create minimalist inflected pieces while citing figures such as
Stockhausen and (German rock group) Kraftwerk as primary influences. More
broadly these trends can be understood as a function of the accelerated
technological and cultural change experienced in western (and many non-western)
societies in the late twentieth century. The advent of widely available recording
technology and of cheap playback mediums, as well as digital encoding
algorithms such as Mpeg layer 3 and peer-to-peer file-sharing networks have
conspired to obscure and problematise the emergence of new musical styles
amidst the vast torrent of music, art, culture and ideas available at the click of a
mouse button. These factors have contributed to an increasingly complex
juxtaposition of ideas and influences brought to bear on the acts of music creation,
realisation and reception as well as an appreciation for our culturally mediated
conceptions of what music is, how it is constructed and how it functions as an
expressive and communicative medium: what might be termed the musical
discourse. Rather than directly undermine the claims presented above, this ‘loss of
history’ instead reveals a need for research challenging the historical narrative that
has emerged linking experimental and avant-garde composers with forms of
‘popular’ electronic music.
A question of meaning
Given the lack of established academic discourse, it is useful to consider the
terminology to be used throughout this dissertation in order to refer to the broader
musical traditions under discussion. There is also a need to articulate what is
meant by commonly used descriptors such as experimental music in the context of
this research as the terminology is not consistently applied or understood in the
same way. The purpose in doing so is not to re-brand, repurpose or in some other
way lay claim to particular works or composers, nor to (re)write or right musical
history, but instead to provide an established reference for what is meant by
particular terms in the context of this dissertation. Language and human
classification are particularly imperfect tools through which to mediate meaning
as they can imply all manner of unintended associations and consequences.
Subsequently it is important to unpack the potentially loaded terminologies used
in this dissertation while acknowledge that, in the absence of a better
communicative medium, concessions must be made to the need for a practical
lexicon. Ultimately it is humans and not language that mean anything and we
must make do with the tools at our disposal to convey that meaning as best we
can.
As indicated above, there are a number of categorisations used among
commentators to describe the group of artists identified above by Cox and Warner
(2004), Neill (2002), et al. Most prominently these include Glitch, Ambient,
Electronic Listening Music and Intelligent Dance Music (IDM). Unhelpfully such
terms suggest associations with specific genres or periods of electronic music that
fail to encompass the breadth of musical practice exemplified by the ‘Illbient’
Hip Hop of DJ Spooky, kinetic sonic pornography of Merzbow and the genrehopping Icelandic pop of Björk (to name just three).
The labels Glitch and Ambient are most problematic because the terms are
normally used to refer to particular genres (or sub-genres) of electronic music.
Glitch, for example, generally refers to a style of electronic music predicated on
the creative abuse of, primarily digital, music technologies. German group Oval,
whose early work is often cited as pioneering ‘glitch’ music (Cascone, 2000),
crafted their album Systemisch (1996) from the clicks, glitches and skips created
by mutilating the readable surface of a compact disc. As a genre label Ambient
was first used to refer to producer Brian Eno’s 1970s albums such as Music for
Airports and On Land. In Eno’s original conception, Ambient described
environmental music used to enhance acoustic spaces by creating a particular
mood or atmosphere (Eno, 1978). In more recent usage the term has been used to
refer to artists, such as The Orb and KLF, whose work focuses on a contemplative,
atmospheric listening experience with a commensurate shift away from rhythm
and harmony as structural devices in favour of timbre and texture (Marcus, 2000).
Electronic listening music and IDM come closer to providing a useful
nomenclature in that these terms are generally used to describe electronic music
that occurs within a popular culture context that, perhaps oxymoronically in the
case of IDM, is not normally utilised for the purposes of dancing. Both terms can
be best understood as relating to a subset of electronic dance music emerging
from the UK Rave scene in the late 1990s. Referred to in some instance as
‘armchair techno’, these forms of music are most helpfully understood as a
reaction against the increasing speed and intensity of ‘popular’ dance music forms
at the time. As stylistic labels Electronic listening music and IDM are often used
to refer to any music functioning as a soundtrack to the chill-out spaces and drug
induced comedowns associated with 1990s Rave culture. Though not implying
specific genre associations in the same way as Ambient or Glitch these terms do
still infer a particular cultural, historical, geographical and musical context that is
unaccommodatingly specific in this instance. Significantly both terms also
engender a divide between dancefloor and domicile not always reflected in the
works of the artists such as Aphex Twin whose Didgeridoo and Windowlicker
became dancefloor hits. Furthermore the use of these terms can invoke the spectre
of ‘high art’ by establishing a disagreeable binary opposition with the ‘popular’
electronic dance of the time. IDM is particularly unsatisfactory in this regard due
to the implicit value judgement that other ‘dance’ music is somehow unintelligent. In fact the work of composers such as DJ Spooky is predicated on
moving nimbly across the nexus of ‘popular’ and ‘art’ (even ‘unpopular’) musics,
as evidenced by Neill’s (2002) suggestion that “Experimentation [has] fully made
its way to popular culture” (p. 389).
Further complications arise from a confusion of definitions and terminology
between, and sometimes within, scholarly and journalistic writings. Emmerson
(2007), for example, unhelpfully conflates IDM with Electronica (discussed
below) and goes on to suggest that
definition [of such terms] is impossible. They refer to a cluster of practices, emerging
from the late 1980s (though with many precursors) from a group of musicians and
DJs – loosely centred on club culture – who refer to but stretch way beyond bounds
[sic] the conventions of techno, dance genres and other electronically produced
popular musics (pp. 80–81).
Perplexingly Emmerson goes on to defines both terms as “experimental electronic
music forms which have emerged from a cross-cultural mix of (mostly) popular
and (some) art-music influences” (p. 81). Clarifying that “I am here concerned
with how we listen to and talk about genres with substantially different aesthetic
presumptions and artistic aims but with much in material and evident technical
tools in common” (p. 81). What Emmerson is describing is exactly the territory
that this dissertation is interested in but his use of terminology, while wonderfully
exemplary, is confused and confusing.
In the absence of a more suitable categorisation I will appropriate Rob Young’s
(1996) use of the term ‘Clever Children’ to refer to composers, producers and DJ’s
of electronic music who are to claimed represent a “new breed [my emphasis] of
electronic experimentalism” (Cox and Warner, 2004; p. 365). This term has the
advantage of having already been used to discuss links between the work of
Stockhausen and artists such as Scanner and Aphex Twin (Witts & Young, 1996)
and reflects the assertions in existing literature regarding such artists relationship
to their supposed antecedents in experimental and avant-garde music. The use of
Clever Children as a descriptor also reflects Cox and Warner’s reference to
“genealogies [their emphasis] of contemporary musical practices” (2004; p. xiv)
rather than musical ‘histories’ and, more broadly, a tendency 2 amongst authors
chronicling the Clever Children to link artists and composers based on similar
musical, ideological or aesthetic traits rather than clear historical developments
(discussed in more detail below). Less helpfully ‘Clever Children’, when applied
as a descriptive terminology, may imply immaturity or childishness on the part of
the artists it is used to refer to. Similarly ‘clever’ may infer a tacit (perhaps even
explicit) value judgement between ‘clever’ and ‘unclever’ in a similarly
problematic way to Intelligent Dance Music. Such secondary ‘loaded’
implications are worthy of consideration but in this instance the need for a
suitable terminology combined with the precedent use of the term to infer a
relationship between the artists identified and experimental / avant-garde
composers overrides such concerns at both a practical and abstract level.
Consequently the term Clever Children is applied cautiously, acknowledging it’s
faults while also conscious of the practical necessity for a lexical distinction to
separate the group of DJs, producers and composers of electronic music identified
above from the broader field of electronic music within a popular culture context,
itself in need of careful definition.
The Clever Children came to prominence within the context of 1990s electronic
dance music and can be more broadly placed within a continuum of electronic
music that encompasses popular music forms such as Disco, Dub, Hip Hop and
Techno. Though related to the development of electronic music within Western
Art Music (including musique concrete, electro-acoustic music and computer
music), at least in terms of a shared appropriation of music technology, this
‘popular’ electronic music represents a distinct musical tradition with its own
history, culture and innovators. In fact Emmerson (2007) suggests that in spite of
the widespread deconstruction of modernist dualities “these genres remain
stubbornly separate from a mirror set of initiatives from within the ‘art music’
world” (p. 71). In order to distinguish between these two contexts, the term
‘Electronica’ is used here to refer to a subset of electronic music that occurs
within a broad popular culture context during the latter part of the twentieth
century and beyond. Electronica has been used by some commentators to refer
specifically to work within electronic music that is external to the art music
tradition and intended for a home listening environment (for example, Cox &
2
Perhaps itself a function of popularised understandings of post-modern epistemology
and heterogeneity.
10
Warner, 2004). However in recent discourse the term has also been used as a
stand-in for the less useful ‘Electronic Dance Music’.
Electronic Dance Music (EDM) is often used to refer to ‘popular’ electronic
music forms (as in Peel, 2005b and Cox & Warner, 2004) and more specifically,
through a growing body of work within cultural studies dedicated to the mapping
of particular political, social and sexual ideologies within EDM (sub) cultures,
infers an association with dance music of the late 80s and early 90s in the US and
UK (for example Gilbert and Pearson, 1999). As evidenced by its use in recent
doctoral theses (see Ferigno, 2008 and Butler, 2003), EDM is becoming a default,
perhaps derivative / genre independent, term for electronic music in popular
culture as distinct from Western Art music. The use of EDM in this manner is
problematic however as not all forms of ‘popular’ electronic music referred to in
this dissertation are intended for a clubbing audience, nor for dancing. More
importantly the associations that EDM has with particular dance (sub) cultures
unhelpfully delineates, for the purposes of this enquiry, musical forms, genres and
histories based on modes of consumption rather than production. Instead of
distinguishing between Techno (a form of Electronic Dance Music), Dub and Hip
Hop, for example, on the basis of their (quite different) cultural contexts this
dissertation includes all three under the banner of Electronica because they are
created primarily through electronic means utilising electronically (re)produced
sound.
Of course this same definition could be applied to all electronic music and caution
must be taken to clarify that the use of the term Electronica is needed as a
practical measure to differentiate between the parallel, albeit related, historical
narratives describing the development of electronic music forms within the
contexts of Western Art Music, generally discussed in the context of the first three
quarters of the twentieth century, and popular culture from the mid 1960s onward.
The distinction between Electronica and, say, electro-acoustic music is not
intended to perpetuate binary opposition between ‘high’ and ‘low’ art or Western
Art Music and popular music. In fact not all Electronica is intended for or
consumed by a popular music audience and in some instances, as in the work of
the Clever Children, deliberately crosses the ambiguous divide between ‘art’,
‘popular’ and ‘unpopular’ culture. This reality is borne out in recent literature such
as the Cambridge Companion to Electronic Music, in which Nicholls uses
11
Electronica to encompass “popular electronic music . . . also including many
forms of experimental electronic music” (in Collins & d’Escriván, 2007; p. 3)
while Oswald applies the term as a catchall for any electronic music that is not
electro-acoustic music (cited in Collins and d’Escriván, 2007; p. 74). Similarly
Cascone (2000) identifies Electronica as “an umbrella term for alternative, largely
dance based electronic music … including House, Techno, electro, drum ‘n’ bass
[and] Ambient” (p. 395). It is with this precedence that Electronica is applied as a
categorisation throughout this dissertation, with the proviso that the term is not, as
yet, universally used or understood in this way.
The final label that requires some discussion is ‘experimental music’ or perhaps
more contentiously the ‘experimental music tradition’. As part of an established
discourse relating to ‘art’ music the ‘experimental’ tag brings with it the most
baggage and is subsequently most problematic. At its broadest ‘experimentalism’
may be thought of as referring to an approach to music making, indeed any forms
of human endeavour, which seeks out the unknown through intuitive or inductive
experimentation. Certainly this confers with Cage’s own definition of
experimental music as “an act the outcome of which is unknown” (1968; p. 13). If
this is taken as a foundational assertion experimental music might then be thought
of as any work that is non-deterministic, suggesting a wide field of musical
expression that is, by its nature, in a constant state of flux.
When placed in context of the various musical histories of the twentieth century
however ‘experimental music’ takes on a more specific association with a
miscellany of composers (usually) clustered around John Cage and his
contemporaries. Consensus regarding the intent, chronology and categorisation of
such a movement (if it is even identified as such) is rarely found however and the
ascribed meaning of the terminology is subject to a range of philosophical,
cultural and musical interpretations. While Cope (2001) and Nyman (1999), for
example, exhibit some level of agreement regarding the scope of experimental
music3 Cope identifies experimentalism as a function of broader musical
directions in the twentieth century distinct, though related to, indeterminacy and
minimalism. Nyman on the other hand subsumes indeterminacy and minimalism
3
Nyman’s predicated on Cage’s “questioning of the traditional unities of composing,
performing and listening” (1999; p. 2) while Cope (2001) suggests “a redefining of the
boundaries of music” (p. 103).
12
under the moniker of experimental music as a distinct musical tradition defined in
opposition to the avant-garde. Conflatingly, Manning (2004) and Emmerson
(2007), among others, draw on many of the same composers and works identified
by Nyman as exemplary of the experimental music tradition to outline the
development of electro-acoustic and computer musics. Perhaps the primary reason
for these varying narratives is because, as Yates (1967) points out, experimental
music does not represent “a concentrated tradition like the Germanic but a widely
dispersed and weedlike growth of fresh ideas in new soil” (p. 273).
The meaning of ‘experimental music’ becomes even more imprecise when used in
relation to the antecedents of the Clever Children. Where Nyman (1999) goes to
great lengths to distinguish experimental music from the avant-garde, authors
such as Holmes and Martin make little meaningful distinction between the two
bringing into question whether Nyman’s distinction is still relevant. Martin (2002)
freely interchanges the terms ‘experimental’ and ‘avant-garde’ indicating that, to
his mind at least, they are one and the same thing. He groups John Cage, Anton
Webern, Karlheinz Stockhausen, Morton Feldman, Steve Reich, Lamonte Young,
Stravinsky and Schoenberg as important or influential composers of the avantgarde tradition. Further, he describes the avant-garde as rooted in western
European art and literature, late 60s / early 70s Jazz epitomised by John Coltrane
and the American experimental music tradition of which John Cage could be
considered a figurehead. Holmes (2002) on the other hand uses the term
‘experimental’ to refer to a range of composers and compositional / performance
practices, encompassing Futurism, the avant-garde, the American Experimental
‘tradition’, musique concrète and Turntablism. Rather than representing confusion
on the part of Holmes or Martin these somewhat inclusive representations of
experimental music reflects the reality that in contemporary parlance the term
doesn’t refer to a neatly defined tradition but instead a range of musics existing
within the complex web of interrelated developments present in twentieth century
art, culture, music and technology.
Though it may be ascribed as a function of post-modernity part of this complexity
has undoubtedly to do with the prolific and varied output of composers such as
John Cage. To repurpose Walt Whitman, Cage contains multitudes and his work
and ideas figure prominently in contemporary narratives describing experimental
music (Nyman, 1999;), electro-acoustic and computer music (Cope, 2001;
13
Holmes, 2002; Emmerson, 2007; Manning, 2004) and the avant-garde more
generally (Griffiths, 1995; Martin, 2002; Morgan, 1991). In fact much of Cage’s
work, be it experimental or otherwise, conforms most closely with Wishart’s
(1996) notion of sonic art, comprising “music and electro-acoustic music . . .
[focusing] upon the structure and structuring of sounds themselves” (p. 4).
Regardless of where, or if, Cage should be positioned in relation to these
narratives what emerges, as the various associations and contradictions are teased
out, is that ‘experimental music’ as a descriptive terminology lacks distinction.
Of course neither musical categorisation nor tradition are static objects and it is
the contemporaneous usage of ‘experimental’ constructed in relation to the work
of the Clever Children, rather than how such terms may have been conceptualised
in the past, that is of most relevance to this research. When Cox and Warner
(2004) refer to a “new breed of electronic experimentalism . . . whose
experimental sensibilities reflect the whole history of electronic music, from
Schaeffer and Stockhausen to Techno and beyond” (p. 365) they use
‘experimental’ as a verb in much the same way as Cage (1968), namely “an act
the outcome of which is unknown” (p. 13). However the history of electronic
music that Cox and Warner claim is reflected by this new experimentalism
suggests electro-acoustic music on the one hand (Schaeffer, Stockhausen) and
Electronica (Techno) on the other. This discongruity is picked up on by
Emmerson (2007) who observes that:
Increasingly an ‘alternative’ view of electro-acoustic music history is appearing . . .
which claims for all experimental music made with technology, a lineage including a
mix of (typically) Varèse, Stockhausen, Xenakis, Cage, Pierre Schaeffer, Pierre
Henry, Steve Reich and other ‘avant-garde pioneers’ (p. 63).
While Emmerson is highly critical of this alternative narrative, preferring to
positions such developments as functions of the electro-acoustic tradition, he
succinctly identifies the manner in which the terms ‘experimental music’ and
‘experimentalism’ are applied and understood with respect to the Clever Children.
Emmerson points to a constructed canon or tradition of experimentalism that
foreshadows and, in some writers work4 provides precedence for, the emergence
of the Clever Children within Electronica in the late 1990s.
4
See Cascone, 2000; Cox and Warner, 2004; Holmes, 2002; Martin, 2002; McClary,
2004; Neill, 2002; Prendergast, 1995; Toop, 1995.
14
When examined from this perspective the makeup and function of such an
experimental music tradition is brought into sharp relief. It is, as Emmerson
suggests, a constructed lineage of composers described as being in some way
antecedent to the Clever Children. When taken in concert this lineage could be
said to include music of the twentieth century that radically challenges the
dominant musical norms of composition, realisation and reception of musical
works within the composers historical, cultural and musical context, often through
the application of new music technologies. Though I will return to specifics, the
who and why, later in this dissertation, such a definition would be inclusive of
figures such as Cage and Stockhausen as well as, more generally, musique
concrete, minimalism, electro-acoustic music and the avant-garde. Of course
post-modernity, and academic rigour, promotes a healthy distrust of such metanarratives and the very notion of ‘tradition’ and by extension influence has
become somewhat suspect. As Foucoult (1969) suggests
These pre-existing forms of continuity, all these syntheses that are accepted without
question, must remain in suspense. They must not be rejected definitively of course,
but the tranquillity with which they are accepted must be disturbed; we must show
that they do not come about of themselves, but are always the result of a construction
the rules of which must be known, and the justifications of which must be
scrutinised: we must define in what conditions and in view of which analyses certain
of them are legitimate; and we must indicate which of them can never be accepted in
any circumstances. (p. 25).
Consequently the experimental music tradition as discussed in the context of this
research is to be understood, not as an established historical movement but, as a
“claim[ed] precedence within an assumed historical stream” (Emmerson, 2007; p.
75) relating specifically to the claims of antecedence regarding the Clever
Children. In this instance ‘tradition’ is not an object to be theorised but an
assertion to be tested and so it will be necessary, throughout this dissertation, to
examine the relationship of the Clever Children to their ‘parents’ in significantly
more detail and rigour than has been applied in the literature thus far.
Gaps in the literature
Musicological works, both historical and analytical, document the development
and, to a lesser degree, the influence of the experimental music tradition. Nyman’s
Experimental Music: Cage and Beyond (1999) remains an important text
15
alongside more recent works such as Holmes’ Electronic and Experimental Music
(2002) and Shultis’ Silencing the Sounded Self (1998). In addition, sources written
by composers within the experimental music tradition are augmented by a number
of works focussing on the work of particular composers central to the
experimental music tradition discussed above. Additionally various historical
works of musicology such as Morgan’s Twentieth-Century Music (1991) and
Griffith’s Modern Music and After (1995) outline the work of composers such as
Cage, Stockhausen, Reich and Varèse within the context of developments in
Western Art music over the course of the twentieth century. These works are of
limited use to this investigation as their focus appears to preclude exploring the
impact, if any, that such composers have had outside of Western Art music. Where
such inferences are made, they generally concern the influence of the adoption of
music technologies on rock and popular music. Salzman (1988) for example
argues for a number of links between avant-garde music and rock, though he
refers only in passing to “disco [and] certain forms of electronic music” with little
context and no exposition (p. 229).
By contrast, popular music journalists, authors and scholars are much more
engaged with the ‘experimental’ fringe of Electronica. Prendergast’s The Ambient
Century (1995) places key developments within the experimental music tradition
and certain Clever Children within the context of a meta-narrative of ‘ambience’
in music spanning the twentieth century. Suffering from the problems inherent in
trying to codify the extraordinary variety of twentieth century music into a
cohesive narrative, Prendergast’s work is highly selective and does not justify his
claims with suitable argumentation or rigour. Similarly David Toop’s somewhat
esoteric Ocean of Sound (1995) draws an amorphous free association between the
work of Cage, Reich, Varèse and other key figures in twentieth century art music
with contemporary electronic composers and performers such as Scanner, Aphex
Twin and DJ Spooky. Holmes (2002) provides perhaps the best exposition of both
the experimental music tradition and its influences outside of Western Art music
but falls short of detailing historical developments linking the experimental
tradition to Electronica. While mentioning artists such as DJ Spooky and the
Incredibl Scratch Picklz, Holmes falls short of discussing the actual history and
developments of Electronica, though his book does close with references to the
adoption of technology within popular or mainstream music along with an
16
associated “loss of history” (p. 273). Such shortcomings reflect the wider reality
that neither analytical nor historical musicological texts have engaged deeply with
Electronica generally, or the Clever Children specifically.
Two notable exceptions are recent PHD dissertations by Mark Butler (2003; later
published by Wesleyan Press in 2006) and Emily Ferrigno (2008). Butler’s work
Unlocking the groove: rhythm, meter and musical design in electronic dance
music presents detailed musical analyses of the way in which rhythm and meter
are used across a number of forms of Electronic Dance Music (interchangeable
with Electronica in the context of this dissertation). Ferrigno’s Technologies of
creation: creating and performing drum and bass is more specific in its focus on
the Jungle / Drum ‘n Bass idiom within Electronica while at the same time
exploring a broader sphere of enquiry that addressing issues of culture and context
more fully. Both works are significant for their engagement with forms of
Electronica as music but this distinction only serves to highlight the lack of
similar scholarly material. Other recent scholarly research engaging with
Electronica, such as Sellin’s DJ: performer, cyborg, dominatrix (2005) and
Vechiolla’s Detroit’s rhythmic resistance: electronic music and community pride
(2006), tend to approach the subject matter from the perspective of cultural theory,
largely ignoring the role of analysis in informing our understanding of music and
its (culturally informed and mediated) meanings. As Ferrigno (2008) herself notes
of the field:
with the exception of Butler's study, there is a surprising lack of focus on musical
analysis and a virtual absence of an approach that would seek to examine sound and
structure as narratives of culture (p. 15)
The current state of scholarship about rather than around Electronica bears strong
resemblance to the study of ‘Rock’ music in the early 1990s. At the time Moore
(1993) noted, with some exasperation, that “Rock is now well into its third
decade . . . and is still, at the detailed level, largely unstudied” (p. 1). Replace
‘Rock’ with ‘Electronica’ and Moore could be perfectly describing the field under
discussion here, though Electronica is now more accurately moving into it’s
fourth decade.
Recent publications such as the Cambridge Companion to Electronic Music
(2007) refer only peripherally to electronic music that occurs outside of academic
17
or art music contexts. This is apparently a deliberate exclusion rather than an
oversight. Kevin Saunderson does contribute a paragraph on Techno but this
appears little more than a concession as his is the only direct reference to the style
in the entire book. Similarly, Joel Chadabe’s Electric Sound: The Past and
Promise of Electronic Music (1997) makes no real reference to Techno, Hip Hop
or any number of other key musical developments driving the adoption and
application of electronic sound sources within the popular music tradition.
Manning’s Electronic and Computer Music (2004) comes closer to engaging with
Electronica within the history of electro-acoustic and computer music but such
links are not explored in any depth and are predicated on modes of production
rather than with musical analysis. Within the ten pages devoted to ‘Rock and Pop
Electronic Music’, Manning focuses primarily on the adoption of music
technology, notably the synthesizer, by “rock and pop music . . . during the late
1960s and early 1970s” (2004, p. 168). Devoting the bulk of his attention to
‘rock’ acts such as the Beatles, Beach Boys, Jimi Hendrix and Pink Floyd
Manning does eventually address Electronica skipping fleetingly over Disco, HipHop, Ambient (name-checking Aphex Twin) and Techno while providing almost
no context for each genres development and no real discussion of the music.
Manning suggests that “the most important feature of Techno has been its
extensive use of electronic music technology . . . [and that] the demands of
popular music have become the dominant driving force in the development of new
commercial products” (2004; p. 178). For Manning, Electronica appears only
worthy of interest inasmuch as it functions as a footnote to electro-acoustic and
computer music resulting from the commercialisation of technologies developed
for more serious applications. Similar predilection is evidenced by the way in
which Electronica is dealt with primarily as an offshoot of pop music rather than
as a form of musical expression in its own right. The Cambridge Companion to
Rock and Pop (2001) restricts discussion of the various forms of Electronica to a
chapter on 'dance music' of which a scant half devoted to electronic music forms
while Grove Music Online clearly delineates Electronica as popular music, as
distinct from the Western Art and electro-acoustic traditions.
Further complicating matters is the confusion among authors regarding the
development of electronic musical styles. Ian Peel’s fifteen paragraph discussion
of ‘Dance Music’ in Grove Music Online provides only a scant overview of the
18
tradition and is, at times, factually incorrect. For example,
In the late 1980s, Hip-Hop developed into House when Derrick May, based in Detroit,
combined it with funk and soul grooves, the use of 4/4 beat-based drum machines and
early sampling techniques. Other early instigators of house included Carl Craig and
Todd Terry. The first house records to achieve mass appeal in the UK were Love can't
turn around (1986) by Farly Jackmaster Funk, followed by the UK's first number one
house hit, Jack Your Body (DJ Int., 1986) by Steve Silk Hurley (based in Chicago),
and later by the UK's first home-grown house number one, Pump Up the Volume
(4AD, 1987) by M/A/R/R/S, which was also one of the first Indie music-dance music
crossover tracks. (Peel, 2005b; para. 12)
In fact, Derrick May and Carl Craig are proponents of a related, though distinct,
style of electronic music known as Techno. While May’s Strings of Life (1987)
did achieve widespread popularity and does include the use of synthetic strings, a
mainstay of house music’s sound at the time, May did not invent the style which
was instead the product of Chicago-based producers in the early 80s beginning,
most probably, with Jesse Saunders’ On and On (1983) (Rietveld, 1992)5.
Moreover, House is not, as suggested, an amalgamation of Hip-Hop, Funk and
Soul but rather – both stylistically and culturally – an extension of Disco as noted
in Fulford-Jones’ (2005c) article on the subject. Such blatant factual errors
illustrate the lack of academic awareness of the field but are unfortunately all too
common. While sites such as Wikipedia cannot as yet be considered of the same
scholarly value, it is interesting to note that the factual errors regarding electronic
dance music in Grove Music Online are not present in similar Wikipedia articles,
which outline this much more efficiently and accurately.
Confusion also arises from the terminology used to describe electronic dance
music as the lexicon is far from universally understood or systematically applied.
The term Techno, for example, refers to a particular style of electronic dance
music developed in Detroit in the 1980s. The term has also been used as a
descriptor for all types of electronic dance music by scholars and pop culture
commentators “so much so that almost any dance music that could not reasonably
be described as house or garage was given the label” (Fulford-Jones, 2005e,
online). Part of the problem arises from the complicated and unclear
documentation of electronic dance music, (which, where it exists, tends towards
5
See below at pp. 87–93 for further discussion.
19
sociological rather than musicological study) and the scarcity of original texts
making definitive research difficult (Sherburne, 2004; p. 321). As Bracket notes
writing about electronic music is problematic as the music
. . . discourages talk of auteurs, almost never contains verses and choruses, and, to
complicate matters, is rife with musicians who are continually changing their names.
The chief building blocks of pop music criticism of the last fifty years – concerts to
review, albums to judge – are de-emphasized. (1999; p. 7)
As mentioned above, external to the field of musicology the most active
engagement with Electronica can be found within the sphere of cultural studies
(see Gilbert and Pearson, 1999; Thornton, 1996; O’Conner, Redhead and Wynne,
1997; for example). Such work valuably informs our understanding of the
function, ascribed value, production, consumption, perception and 'meaning' of
music in culture with particular regard for the political, social and sexual.
However research in this field is by its nature focussed on the context in which
music occurs as until comparatively recently popular music was broadly seen as
the realm of sociologists and cultural theorists. Such examinations of Electronica
have then, understandably, tended towards consumption theory, the sociology of
youth cultures and subcultures and the role of music in society. Consequently
where historical narratives are described they tend to be demarcated by changes in
culture not music. Further, the literature that best articulates the historical
narratives concerning Electronica tends to be critical or journalistic, rather than
academic. Shuker indicates that there exists a “substantial, historically situated,
body of critical journalistic work” (2001, p. 85) that, whilst primarily interested in
‘rock’ music, does document the work, ideas, and practices of composers of
Electronica. Martin (2002) cites UK publication The Wire as an “invaluable
resource” (p. 191) and similar magazines such as Future Music, Keyboard
Magazine and Wired often contain artist interviews, reviews, and discussions of
composition technique and aesthetic or conceptual intent. In addition, a number of
popular culture works and works of historical journalism do outline the field of
Electronica and, to varying degrees, its history. Shapiro’s documentary
Modulations (2000a) and the accompanying text are notable for providing an
engaging overview of developments within Electronica, as is Simon Reynolds’
Energy Flash (1998). Such works do seek to address the historical development of
Electronica but take a more sociological or historical approach, failing to engage
20
with specific musical concerns in significant depth and often lacking any real
insight into the musical makeup and developments of the forms of music they
document.
There is also a lack of consensus as to how particular musical styles or genres
came into existence and developed. In part this is testament to the, often complex,
discourse surrounding how musical works and artists come to be grouped together
for the purposes of classification and consumption (see Frith, 1996; Walser, 1993;
Moore, 1993; DeNora, 2000 & 2003). Though emphasis may vary, it is generally
agreed that style / genre6 labels can function as a sort of musical and sociological
short-hand to communicate what music ‘sounds like’ as well as positioning
musical producers, product and consumers within a commercial, social and
cultural context in which meaning and value judgements are transacted.
Problematically such short-hand relies on constructed, and hence subjective,
signifiers that can vary dramatically depending on the commercial or cultural
context. In addition, Frith (1996) notes that genre / style definitions are viewed
differently by those musicians, marketers and consumers within a genre – for
whom the boundaries are constantly being re-evaluated in light of new releases
and directions – and those who study genres – who retrospectively examine the
ways in which genre labels come to be associated with particular musicians and
musical practices. Frith observes that these different approaches can come into
conflict when attempting to situate genre / style developments in an historical
context. The accounts given by those who experience such developments firsthand and those that study them after the fact will produce necessarily different
understandings and interpretations of events.
I would extend Frith’s argument one step further and suggest that, with regards to
Electronica, even accounts by ‘insiders’ vary significantly depending on where the
author is placed in relation to the continuous adaptation of (sub) genres / cultures.
Moreover variation in historical accounts can also occur depending on whether
the definition of a particular style / genre leans more heavily on “delineating
musical parameters” (Walser, 1993; p. 28) or the ways in which music is used or
consumed, “illuminat[ing] music as it comes to be lodged within a wider network
6
The two terms are essentially interchangeable the purposes of this discussion as both are
used to refer to the grouping of music and musicians into categories related to their
creative output and how this is consumed.
21
of objects and symbolic meanings” (DeNora, 2003; p. 135). A final complicating
factor is the complex and constantly changing nature of many ‘popular’ music
forms of the late twentieth century in general and Electronica in particular.
Emmerson (2007) suggests that the categorisations associated with Electronica are
extrinsic in that they “point outwards and refer to entire social cultures of their
time . . . [and that] those references will progressively dissolve over time in both
individual and collective memory” (p. 83). Consequently the histories of
Electronica that do exist present varying, at times seemingly contradictory,
accounts of the development of key styles / genres as, regardless of how they are
constructed, such labels will be necessarily transient and ambiguous (Moore,
1993).
As a subset of Electronica then, the work of the Clever Children falls largely
outside the bounds of current scholarly discourse. While the emergence of this
group of composers is noted in works such as Cox and Warner’s Audio Culture
(2004), Martin’s Avant, Rock (2002) and Holmes’ Experimental and Electronic
Music (2002), their music-making is not documented or discussed in specific
detail and certainly to nowhere near the extent to which the works of Cage,
Stockhausen or Varèse and their contemporaries are chronicled and picked over.
To date the only work to critically engage with the emergent narrative regarding
Electronica’s relationship to the experimental and avant-garde is Emmerson’s
Living electronic music (2007). Emmerson (2007) positions Electronica in an
uneasy relationship with electro-acoustic / acousmatic music, convinced that
“there remains a divide, hard to bridge, between the two streams” (p. 64).
Referencing Witts and Young (1996) and Neill (2000), Emmerson (2007) suggests
there is a classic head / heart dualism is at play between the ‘Apollonian’ music of
Stockhausen and the ‘Dionysiac’ nature of Electronica while at the same time
acknowledging that a symbiotic relationship exists between “Reich, Henry,
Parmegiani, Xenakis and others” (ibid) and certain Electronica artists. Limiting
his discussion of Electronica to a handful of pages and opting “not to examine any
individual piece exhaustively” (ibid; p. 82), Emmerson ultimately arrives at a
position that views Electronica as historically distinct from electro-acoustic music
though acknowledging an “increasing exchange” (p. 87) between the two. Though
mindful of the “’alternative’ view of electroacoustic [for my purposes conflatable
with experimental] music history [that] is appearing (in publications such as the
22
Wire (UK))” (p. 63), Emmerson fails to illuminate how or why such a ‘history’
may have emerged and whether it has any merit in helping to understand the work
of the Clever Children that are the focus of this research.
Given the contemporary nature of the subject matter, it is perhaps unsurprising
that the most detailed sources regarding the works of the Clever Children are
written by the artists themselves. Though not extensive, these sources document
the work and ideas of a number of Clever Children through (often self-published)
articles, liner notes, manifestos and on the Internet. Paul Miller (DJ Spooky) has
published articles detailing his artistic practice, philosophies and politics through
his personal website (2002). One such article is included in Cox and Warner’s
Audio Culture (2004) and a number of others are collated, in modified form, in
Miller’s own book on DJ culture, Rhythm Science (2004a). Similarly, Robin
Rimbaud (Scanner) has published in the Leonardo Music Journal (2001)
discussing his compositional process and the conceptual underpinning of his
work. Many of the Clever Children have discussed their work at length through
interviews with fans and journalists published in a range of online and print
sources. UK Magazine The Wire is notable in this regard for an engagement with
the work of the Clever Children.
Therefore these artists are not as a whole, discussed in any great depth by music
researchers and the claims made on their behalf are not always substantiated nor
have they been scrutinised closely. Available literature reveals an inadequately
documented period in music history of some 30 years in which it is inferred that
an experimental music tradition has in some way birthed a generation of
electronic music producers. This research project aims to explore the work of the
Clever Children – be they bastards, orphans or protégés – to discern what, if any,
relationship they bear to the experimental music tradition.
Research questions
The apparent appropriation of musical ideas by the supposed progeny of the
experimental music tradition highlights the lack of scholarly work documenting
the influence of this music on contemporary forms. This ‘loss of history’ (Holmes,
2002) has become increasingly pronounced while at the same time ‘fringe’
musical movements (including the experimental music tradition itself) have
“become transmuted into a mainstream” (Eno, 1999; xii). With the emergence of
23
the Clever Children there is a pressing need to redress this loss of history through
academic scholarship that seeks to document and critically reflect on the
rhizomatic developments of Electronica and its place within the history of
twentieth century music.
The purpose of this research is therefore to determine whether claims regarding
the influence of the experimental music tradition on the Clever Children within
the context of Electronica can be substantiated. While there may be a tendency to
view such enterprise as unduly modernist the point is not the establishment of
some historical or evolutionary precedence but an analysis of the historical
narrative constructed in relation to the Clever Children. My assertion is not that
the Clever Children represent the heirs of some axiomatic oeuvre but that there is
an emerging and largely unchallenged narrative that seeks to establish and
legitimise an historical ‘art music’ precedent for the work of the Clever Children
in the form of a contrived experimental music tradition. Therefore my goal is to
compare the narratives relating to the Clever Children’s adoption of experimental
ideas to their practice in light of analysis of this narrative and their own work. Put
another way, this project asks the question:
Can the historical narratives linking the Clever Children with an
experimental music tradition be substantiated with reference to their artistic
practice?
To answer this question it is necessary to place the Clever Children within an
historical context with reference to both experimental music and Electronica. At
issue here is not that no histories of Electronica exist but that they are
inconclusive, not widely known and, with regard to the Clever Children, have not
yet been written. The purpose then is not historical documentation as such but
rather to provide the cultural and musical context within which an understanding
of the relationship of the Clever Children and their purported musical antecedents.
Because the Clever Children cannot be said to represent an ‘historical tradition’,
this research will focus not on the Clever Children as a group, but rather, on three
specific examples where existing claims regarding the influence of the
experimental music tradition can be examined and tested. It is not within the
scope of this dissertation to determine whether these Clever Children represent an
emerging group of producers, composers and DJs of electronic music that may
24
have been influenced by the experimental music tradition. Instead, I will argue
determinations with regard to the specific works under discussion and will
compare these to identify if any broader concerns and similarities emerge for the
purposes of future research. Consequently, the project will address the following
sub-questions:
What are the historical narratives and key musical and conceptual traits of
the experimental music tradition and Electronica identified in existing
literature as precursive to or having influence on the Clever Children?
What areas of congruence or confluence exist between the experimental
music tradition, Electronica and specific works of the Clever Children in
which experimental influence has been claimed?
In what way do such confluences and congruencies support or undermine
the claims of influence made by or on behalf of the Clever Children in each
instance and across the multiple cases?
Answering these questions will: i) identify a possible historical context for the
Clever Children; ii) explore the areas of confluence between their works, the
experimental music tradition and Electronica; iii) and provide a basis for
determining whether the specific works under discussion can be said to
demonstrate the influence of the experimental music tradition. This will address
the primary research question by arriving at an informed position on the
relationship of the Clever Children to the experimental music tradition with
reference to both historical precedence and specific musical works.
25
‘Between’ Method Research Design
‘Lost’ histories and Clever Children
In order to compare and contrast the musical and conceptual traits present in the
work of the Clever Children to those of the experimental music tradition and
Electronica, it will first be necessary to undertake a survey of the key historical,
musical and philosophical developments within both fields. With respect to the
experimental music tradition this means examining the historical narratives that
have been proposed within existing literature linking the Clever Children to
composers such as Cage, Reich and Stockhausen. With regard to Electronica this
means addressing an ‘alternate’, and potentially equally credible, narrative of the
development of electronic musical forms within a popular music context.
Accordingly the historical survey which forms Part II of this dissertation will
outline these narratives from which I will draw a list of musical and conceptual
traits present in the experimental music tradition and Electronica that are claimed
to be in some way ‘precursive’ or antecedent to the work of the Clever Children.
These ‘key traits’ will then be examined to determine what similarities exist
between the experimental music tradition and Electronica and to discuss whether
this is the result of congruence, confluence and influence. The purpose of this is
twofold: firstly to provide a reference against which the work of the Clever
Children may be compared and contrasted as a basis for testing the claims of
influence made by and about them and; secondly to respond to the ‘loss of
history’ (Holmes, 2002) surrounding Electronica by exploring the historical
narratives from which the Clever Children have emerged. With an appropriate
reference established it will then be possible to examine the work and artistic
practice of the Clever Children themselves for areas of congruence or confluence
with regard to the experimental music tradition and Electronica.
Next, this research project will examine three specific works, and their creators
through a series of case studies in order to explore the validity of claims of
influence by the experimental music tradition on the Clever Children. ‘Case
study’ is concerned primarily with the case, whereas a ‘collective case study’ on
the other hand, seeks to provide insight and understanding of a particular field
through joint study of a number of cases “in their similarity and variety [leading
to] better understanding, perhaps theorizing, about a still larger collection of
cases” (Stake, 2000; p. 473). Within this research project then, Collective Case
Study is used to identify and examine three specific works and artists in order to
understand how and why the works were created, the artists’ influences in the
creation of the work as well as similarities and differences to works within the
experimental music tradition.
This will be achieved through the application of an analytical framework based on
“between method triangulation” (Denzin, 1989; p. 244). Between-method
triangulation technique uses a pre-defined number of different methodological
approaches so that any flaws of one approach are compensated by the strengths of
another. By combining methods the researcher can achieve the best of each
approach while overcoming their individual limitations (Ibid). The purpose of
triangulation is to examine the object under investigation from a variety of
perspectives and methodological devices in order to minimise the possibility of
inaccurate interpretation and representation (Stake, 2000).
Triangulation does not offer a watertight argument for the validity of observations
made by the researcher, as no two approaches will ever be completely congruent.
However, research literature continues to support triangulation as “a means of
refining broadening and strengthening conceptual linkages [and allowing
researchers to] offer perspectives other than their own” (Berg, 2001; p. 5). Denzin
(1989) argues that, when used with sufficient rigour, triangulation will “broaden,
thicken, and deepen the interpretive base of any study” (p. 247). Bracket (2000)
suggests that the application of triangulation to the study of music would involve
“the triangulation of ideas expressed by the author within the musical text (lyrics,
music, samples) and externally to the musical text (interviews, writings etc.)” (p.
16). Similarly, Stake (1995) indicates that methodological triangulation within
case studies involves observation, interview and document review. This research
will utilise just such an analytical framework, comprising: interview, document
review and musical analysis to explore the artist and work under discussion. This
will then enable me to identify and examine areas of congruence, confluence and
difference with the key musical and conceptual traits identified with the
experimental music tradition and Electronica.
Even within this framework however, discerning influence is a subjective
proposition – music is made by artists who often approach questions such as
practice and influence not as things to be dissected and categorised, but as the
result of individual, indefinable, even anarchic processes within the creative mind.
Rather than arrive at any ‘definitive truth’, the Collective Case Study presented
herein is designed to identify whether artists’ claims of influence are consistent
with the work itself, and whether there are demonstrable relationships with the
experimental music tradition. Where some level of congruence with the
experimental music tradition is present, this research will attempt to determine
whether this is more likely due to influence, confluence or coincidence through
reference to the subjects’ stated intentions and influences expressed through
writings, interviews and their creative output.
Whilst comparative analysis is not the driving motivation of case study research
in general, for the purposes of this Collective Case Study it is important to build a
level of transferability into the research design. This is to ensure that, while
acknowledging the necessarily unique approach to each Case Study, meaningful
discussion can take place within the broader context of this dissertation. In
practice, this will mean identifying key areas of investigation that can be applied
to the examination of each artist and work without being case-specific. In order to
facilitate this, each of the three individual Case Studies will comprise:
i.
a background of each artist focussing on broader points of contact or
influence with the experimental music tradition;
ii. a background to the work under discussion, including claims relating the
work to the experimental music tradition;
iii. a musical analysis of each work; and
iv. conclusions comparing and contrasting each work and artist and their stated
influences to the experimental music tradition and Electronica.
The Case Studies can thus be collectively assessed, compared and contrasted in
order to draw conclusions about the relationship of the Clever Children to the
experimental music tradition. This approach brings with it a potential danger that
the contrast and comparison of the cases may become more important than the
understanding of the cases themselves. Consequently each individual Case Study
will be concerned primarily with accurate description and disciplined
interpretation. While a similarly structured approach is taken in each Case Study
the tools applied in each instance are uniquely constructed and respond to the
specifics of each Case. Only once this is completed will any comparative analyses
be made, from which it should be possible to develop and refine a broad
understanding of the relationship of the composers under study to the
experimental music tradition at large.
Case selection
The process of case selection raised a number of challenges. The first of these was
whether case selection should be made on the basis of the artist or their work.
Because this research explores claims of influence, it was important that there be
some association between the artists and the experimental music tradition.
However, as specific musical works were to be the focal point of each Case Study,
it was also important that such claims of influence could be related specifically to
a particular work within the given artist’s output. More generally, case selection
raised questions as to whether the artists and their works should be chosen on
such matters as: popularity; CD sales; the representative nature of their work;
perceived ‘authenticity’; their relationship to particular genres of music; or any
number of other value judgements that distinguish one artist from another. While
a selection of cases based purely on production and consumption runs the risk of
acquiring a populist bias, selections based on the artistic merit of selected works
are flawed due to the problematic nature of ‘authenticity’ (Kivy, 1995). There is a
need therefore to recognise that some form of value judgement is inherent in the
case selection process. Simon Frith (1998) states that “to deny the significance of
value judgements in popular culture . . is, if nothing else, hypocritical . . I’m sure
in my own cultural practice that Jane Eyre is a better romance than a Mills and
Boon or Harlequin title” (p. 573). Even where these considerations can be
appropriately addressed, the value of a ‘sampling’ approach is questionable, as
Stake notes:
Case Study research is not sampling research. We do not study a case primarily to
understand other cases. Our first obligation is to understand this one case. . . . The first
criterion should be to maximise what we can learn. Given our purposes, which cases
are likely to lead us to understandings, to assertations, perhaps even to modifying
generalisations. (1995; p. 4)
Stake (2000) also argues that cases selected must be “of some typicality, but
leaning toward those cases from which we feel we can learn the most” (p. 446).
While acknowledging that this may mean that case selection is made depending
on how accessible the subject matter is and how much time can be spent
observing the subject, it is better to “learn a lot from an atypical case than a little
from a seemingly typical case . . . the primary criterion is the opportunity to learn”
(pp. 446–447). On the basis of these considerations, case selection for this
30
investigation was informed primarily by five key criteria. In order of importance
these were:
•
The works, and artists, selected for study have been identified, either by the
artist themselves or a third party, as expressing some level of influence by or
association with the experimental music tradition.
•
The works are available in a format suitable for study, which could be
experienced on more than one occasion across multiple locales and
distributed widely enough to be available to readers of this study.
•
The artists studied are available and willing to take part in interviews.
•
There was an existing body of information about the artists and works,
including liner notes, interviews, reviews, essays and journal articles.
•
The works studied are demonstrative of different approaches to composition,
realisation and / or reception of musical works.
Subsequently, selection of the Cases examined in this research was dictated by the
availability of works in an accessible format by Clever Children who had accrued
a level of recognition as being in some way related to the experimental music
tradition, who possessed a significant catalogue of works as composers and/or
performers – though not necessarily accompanied by commercial success – and
who are mentioned as being of major importance by current practitioners in the
field, journalists or other sources. These criteria were designed to ensure that the
works and artists selected could be studied in appropriate depth and were known
widely enough to be considered broadly representative of the Clever Children.
On the basis of these criteria a pool of artists were selected for potential study
including Aphex Twin, DJ Spooky, Scanner, Squarepusher, Autechre, Oval and
Japanese ‘noise’ artist Merzbow. In addition, the 1999 Reich Remixed album was
considered as a source of potential Case Studies due to its clear association with
the work of Steve Reich. Aphex Twin, DJ Spooky, Scanner, Oval and the Reich
Remixed album proved the most prominent in existing literature including
magazine articles, interviews and manifestos. Scanner and DJ Spooky presented
themselves as particularly strong foci for Case Studies as they have both written
and spoken extensively about the ideas and influences that are present in their
31
work. Aphex Twin and Oval were dismissed as potential candidates because
contacting them to secure an interview proved impossible. This left the output of
Scanner and DJ Spooky as well as the Reich Remixed album as the most
promising source of works to be examined by the Case Studies. Scanner’s Surface
Noise and DJ Spooky’s Errata Erratum were chosen, as the artists themselves
have claimed the pieces exhibit a level of influence by the experimental music
tradition. Howie B’s remix of Eight Lines was selected from the Reich Remixed
album, given that Reich had singled out his remix for specific praise
(Weidenbaum, 1999). More practically, Howie B refers to this remix in a number
of interviews given around the time of the album’s release. As will be discussed
later, all artists confirmed their availability to participate in this project.
Musical analysis, transcription and ‘the score’
The central purpose of musical analysis within each Case Study is to examine
works of the Clever Children for areas of congruence and possible relationship
with the experimental music tradition. To do this it will be essential to engage not
just with the structure and syntax of a piece but with the conceptual,
compositional and technological processes brought to bear by the composer. As
Martin (2002) notes, the field of music under discussion is concerned primarily
not with musical products, but with ideas and how these are realised through the
creation, realisation and reception of musical works (p. xiii). In examining the
work of the Clever Children, the ideas, concepts, processes and philosophies
brought to bear on a piece by a composer are of at least equal significance to
melody, harmony and rhythm in examining the influence of the experimental
music tradition.
The act of composition – that is, the conceptual and technological processes used
by a composer in creating a piece – forms a significant part of this. Moore (1993)
suggests a useful direction in this regard when he breaks down the question “what
does the text consist of” into “how is it made?” and “why?” (p.6). This forms a
useful basis for the analysis of works of Electronica. While certain musical traits
pointing to an experimental influence may be able to be identified by ‘traditional’
musical analysis, it will also be important to get inside the creative process to
place oneself in the position of the composer. Holmes (2002) states that “it
makes . . . sense to me to discuss the music from the standpoint of composition:
32
the aesthetic and technological approaches used by a composer to work with the
sound material” (p. 5). Similarly, Nicholas Cook (1987) notes that “when you
analyse a piece of music you are in effect recreating it for yourself” (p. 1) and that
this is true equally of both notes on a page or the electrical impulses and digital
signals that are part of the modern recording process.
Music technology impacts on the ways we think about, create, disseminate and
listen to music, and consequently it becomes important that any discussion and
analysis of works of Electronica must be referenced to the techniques by which
they were created. Since the electronic experimentations of Stockhausen, Eimert
and Varèse in the 1950s, music technology has ceased to be a transparent device
for the recording of existing music and instead acts as a vehicle for the creation of
new music. Furthermore, this fundamental shift in the use of music technology
has affected the way we listen to and engage with music. Writing on this subject,
Thom Holmes (2002) notes that,
Composers now think differently about the music they make. Their aural vocabulary
has no bounds, and the structures they impose, or choose to avoid, are all made
possible by technology. The audience now listens differently to music because
recording has changed the way music is experienced. (p. 1)
To appropriately engage with the works under investigation, a set of tools is
required that can help examine the ways in which a work is communicating.
Cateforis (1993) suggests that “as analysts in popular music studies broaden their
areas of interest and address new musical genres and styles, so their analytical
methodology must change as well” (p. 53). This is particular true of Electronica
and the work of Clever Children, which demonstrate significant variety in the
composition, realisation and reception of musical works.
By comparison traditionally conceived analytical methods tend to emphasise
musical parameters, which can be easily notated, due in part to the
(mis)representation of the score, and by extension transcription, as an accurate
and complete graphic representation of a musical event. This has led to a biasing
of musical analysis towards easily transcribable parameters such as diatonic /
chromatic melody and harmony, rhythm expressed in mathematically simple
durational relationships, through composed structures, texture and orchestration
(Tagg, 1987). Though, as Winkler (1997) warns, “notation is the unreal
33
approximation of real music” (p. 193).
In effect, European notation has become a filter through which all music is
passed. When viewed through this filter, other forms of music, such as 20th
century popular music, are disadvantaged because they appear deficient by
comparison to Western Art Music (Bracket, 2001). This has led to a syntactic and
methodological bias that privileges works within the ‘classical’ repertoire due to
“selective, and often unconsciously formulated, conceptions of what music is”
(Middleton, 1990; p. 104). Such privileging, interspersed with the modernist
precept of historical progress towards an ideal, has resulted in a self-reifying
canon. Consequently any allusions to an objective and comprehensive ‘scientific’
approach to the study of music are completely undermined by a focus on
repertoire that reinforces methodological approaches and assumptions that
privilege and further legitimise this repertoire as a focal point for musicological
enquiry. While it is possible to develop forms of notation and transcription more
capable of dealing with the parameters and idiosyncrasies of ‘non-classical’
repertoire the fact remains that notation is not a neutral device. Instead notation is
an “intrinsic part of the message and impacts on the ways in which musicians [and
analysts and audiences] conceive and perceive music” (Williams, 2001, p. 36).
In contrast, the role of the ‘score’ in popular music forms generally takes on a
descriptive rather than prescriptive role, often in the form of musical transcription.
In this instance, transcription can include the use of traditional notation, visual
notation and the use of spectrum analysis among other techniques in order to
represent the recorded sounds / communicate sonic elements of a recording or live
performance to the reader. Moore (1993) identifies the fundamental difference
between the function of musical texts in relation to the analyses of popular and art
music forms, asserting:
although the analysis of art music is, normally, the analysis of the score, an analysis
of rock [and most other forms of popular music, including Electronica] cannot follow
the same procedure. It must refer to the primary text, which is, in this case, what is
heard. (p. 33)
Electronica rarely circulates in written form and even where this is the case,
published sheet music for example, the ‘score’ is often an incomplete or
simplified transcription. Conception of the ‘score’ as a way to construct, record
34
and represent music is almost completely foreign. Instead works of Electronica
are constructed using, often digital, music technologies and are realised and
disseminated through ‘live’ performances and recorded media such as CDs, tapes,
vinyl records and, in more recent years, digital audio formats such as MP3. Thus
musical analysis of Electronica needs to be concerned with shifting the emphasis
away from notatable parameters and ‘the score’ and toward an examination of
‘non-notatable’ parameters, ‘live’ performances and audio recordings – what
Moore (1993) would term the primary text(s). Holme’s argues:
You will rarely find an electronic work that can be accurately transcribed and
reproduced from sheet music. It does not exist as “potential music” except in the
form of notes, instructions, and ideas made by the composer. Conventional musical
notation is not practical for electronic music. You cannot study it as you would a
piece of scored music . . Even those works that are transcriptions of conventionally
composed chromatic music cannot be fully described on paper, because the elements
of electronic instrumentation, sound processing, and performance defy
standardization. (Holmes, 2002; p.12)
This is not to suggest that musical analysis, as traditionally conceived, is of no use
in understanding Electronica, but that there is a need to acknowledge the
limitations of such an enquiry when trying to understand musics that don’t
conform to the norms of ‘classical’ repertoire. There are some instances where an
analysis of melody and harmony will produce rewarding results and provide
insights, just as there are instances where such analysis would be completely
inappropriate. As Covach (1997) rightly points out we must be wary of “the
assumption that because such techniques were developed to study art music they
could never produce anything but a distorted reading of popular music [or
Electronica]” (p. 136).
Nevertheless, there is a need to look beyond the tools of traditional musical
analysis in order to engage with the works of the Clever Children under
discussion. Music and sound - the primary text - is still of significant importance
however a ‘musicological’ approach to Electronica music must go hand in hand
with an examination of socio-cultural elements. While there is a need to get the
details of the music right this does not necessitate “an exercise in ‘wrongheaded
formalism” (Fast, 2001; p. 10). DeNora (2000) argues that music analysis “is
insufficient as a means of understanding musical affect”, arguing instead that what
35
is needed are “new ways of attending to music . . . that are overtly
interdisciplinary, that conjoin the hitherto separate tasks of music scholars and
social scientists" (DeNora, 2000, p. 23).
While the importance of ‘socialised’ material cannot be downplayed, it is not
without its own set of problems. The tangled interrelationship between music, its
creators, the context in which it is produced, and the audience is not always easy
to plot or to understand. Middleton (1997) warns that there is a tendency for such
analysis to “retreat into sociology” wherein the music is “interpreted solely in
terms of the social categories into which the industry or the fans can be fitted - or
an aggressive ‘insiderism’, which stresses that interpretation is ‘intuitive’, ‘antiacademic’ and intrinsic to the music culture itself” (p. 117). Such criticisms
notwithstanding, both analytical rigour and depth of understanding benefit from
being informed by “a discursive framework that is sensitive to many kinds of
social experience even as it focuses on specifically musical practices” (Walser,
1993; p. 41).
Consequently it is important that the methodologies used for the purposes of
analysis in this research be flexible and responsive to the individual needs and
contexts of each case. Everett (1999) suggests that the most appropriate analytical
approach depends “on the piece-specific characteristics of the works themselves”
(Everett, 1999; p. ix). Throughout the Case Studies, transcription will be used
where appropriate, as will audio examples (these can be found on the
accompanying CD at Appendix E), diagrams and descriptions. Such approaches
will be informed by and correlated against interview data and existing literature
relating to the conception, content and context of each work by the composer. As
noted above, there are instances where an analysis of melody and harmony will
produce rewarding results and provide insights, just as there are instances where
such analysis would be of limited use. It is important to understand that the
application of such tools does not form the analysis itself and is “in no way
intended to replace the real primary sources” (Fast, 2001; p. 10). The point is not
to transcribe or otherwise document an existing musical text, but rather, to make
observations that can be communicate with reference to the text itself. As Cook
contends:
If musical analysis is a process whereby the analyst’s experience of the music is
36
modified, then the series of graphs or tables by means of which it is communicated
should not really be thought of as ‘the analysis’. . they are not like tables of scientific
data; they do not have any intrinsic meaning or validity. They only acquire meaning
and validity by virtue of the musical experience they engender. (1987; p. 229)
Ultimately, musical analysis is only useful inasmuch as it furnishes a greater
understanding of the work under examination. Scruton (1997) argues that the role
of analysis is to bring to the listener’s attention those points that allow them to
make sense of the work under discussion and that, “the assumption is that the
analyst will discriminate between salient and peripheral features; between things
which go without saying, and things that might well be missed; and between
important and unimportant episodes” (p. 396). Scruton further asserts that it is
understanding, on the part of the listener, which is important rather than the
method used to achieve this, that it is less important that “one theory rather than
another should have been used for the job. What matters is the experience with
which the analysis concludes” (p. 427). Reinforcing this point, Winkler (1997)
asserts strongly that such inherently subjective readings of musical texts “should
be recognized not as a fundamental weakness, but as a fundamental strength”
(Winkler, 1997; p. 200). Cateforis (1993), whose discussion of the analysis of
Post-Punk music comes closest to articulating the problems inherent in this
research concurs, suggesting that the analysts “goal must then be one of selective
communication” (p. 54). Throughout this research project musical analysis will
therefore be used to highlight particular elements of a work that support or
challenge the claims made about the work in relation to influence by the
experimental music tradition. Such analysis will be highly selective and will seek
to draw the reader’s attention to the particular traits deemed relevant to the case at
hand. For example, if it is claimed a particular musical work has been in some
way influenced by minimalism, the accompanying musical analysis would
reasonably look for techniques and outcomes similar to those found in a
minimalist composition. Rather than opt for ‘accurate’ or ‘complete’ transcription,
the musical analysis contained in the Case Studies makes use of a variety of tools
in order to highlight and represent elements of a recording or performance that are
relevant to the case for or against influence as identified by the key traits to be
argued later in this dissertation (see p. 121).
37
Interviews
The artists under examination in this research were not easy to access, due in part
to their celebrity, disparate locations and touring commitments across the world.
This problem was compounded by the extraordinary procedures some artists have
employed to avoid or limit direct access to themselves. Several unsuccessful
attempts were made to contact DJ Spooky through his management and various
collaborators before a teaching colleague at the European Graduate School, where
Spooky co-lectures a subject, agreed to pass on my request for an interview.
Though attempts were made, it proved impossible to conduct face-to-face
interviews with all the subjects of this research due to conflicting touring
schedules and distance. Telephone interviews were a second option, but this was
only possible with one of the participants, Howie B, whose manager suggested a
phone interview would be preferable as the artist is “not a great one for the written
word [and likely to give a] much more informed response” in conversation
(Burmiston, personal communication, 7 April 2005).
The difficulties associated with setting up synchronous interviews lead to the use
of email to contact and interview the remaining artists. Email was chosen as the
best option for these interviews as it was the most convenient method of
communication, not being dependant on time zones or location of either the
interviewer or interviewee. Mann and Stewart (2000) note a number of other
advantages of Email communication that proved useful in this context, namely
that Email is easily documented; archived; referenced and; as email is a verbatim
of the whole interview the accountability of the data is easily demonstrated (pp.
21–22). Email, though less immediate, is perceived as a more personal and
thoughtful form of computer mediated communication. Walther (1992) notes that
users of computer mediated communication “desire to transact personal,
rewarding, complex relationships and . . they will communicate to do so” (p. 68).
While email provided the solution to the practical problems of access, distance
and scheduling, there were also a number of problems that need to be considered.
Mann and Stewart (2000) offer that “a key debate in email interviewing is
whether to send questions or ‘cues’ for thematic areas all at once, or whether to
stagger them” (pp. 148–149). The organisation of questions is a significant
problem as, on the one hand, interviewees may be unwilling to respond to a series
38
of in-depth emails and, on the other, interviewees may respond only to questions
which they feel strongly about and skip others. The best way to address this
problem is through good rapport with interviewees and well-designed questions.
For this research non-standardised, semi-structured interviews were used, with
questions addressing the artists work, ideologies, influences and compositional
techniques both broadly and with reference to the specific work under discussion
in each Case Study. As the interviews were non-standardised, each of the
interviews was tailored to address specific elements of the subjects musical and
conceptual concerns with reference to claims of experimental influence, the work
under discussion and existing documentation such as interviews, web postings and
liner notes (see Appendixes A, B & C).
A further problem with email interview is that of ‘authenticity’. Disregarding for
the moment questions of ‘truth’ and ‘fiction’, there is a need to be able to
determine whether information gained through interviews can be seen as an
accurate representation of the author’s thoughts. Wherever a level of misdirection
or deception does take place it is important to try and understand why this
happens. Mann and Stewart (Ibid) suggest that the researcher needs to take a
pragmatic approach, assessing the ‘candour’ of participants and the value of the
data by how well they address the questions raised.
If the key requirements of a study is that participants have ‘informed’ knowledge of a
specific area then individual identity may not be so crucial. . . . a defence of data
would depend . . . on displaying a participant’s knowledge of the substantive issues of
the research (which the CMC-generated text could demonstrate). (p. 212)
As with face-to-face research, computer mediated communication requires the
establishment of trust between interviewer and interviewee and that this is a twoway process. A pragmatic approach is difficult to argue for without resorting to a
defence relying on the intuition of the researcher, however “such criticism is most
likely to come . . from those with little personal experience of [computer mediated
communication].” As the use of computer mediated communication becomes
more common, trust in the medium will grow and “it is likely that the perceived
potential for duplicity in online communication will diminish until it is no greater
than for [face to face] communication” (Ibid; p. 215).
While seeking clarification is a key feature of qualitative research in general, it
39
becomes increasingly important in email interviews where “ambiguity can arise
from faulty sentence structure . . poor choice of words . . and/or misunderstanding
of connotation” (Ibid; p. 150). Fortunately, email software easily allows the
interviewer to isolate problematic statements and cut and past them into a return
mail for clarification. Problematically, none of the participants in this research
were available to answer more than a single set of questions. Scanner, who
initially declined a request to be a part of this research due to a hectic international
touring schedule, responded to interview questions while en route to Brussels via
Eurostar train (Rimbaud, personal communication, 28 November 2004). Similarly,
DJ Spooky responded amidst a busy international touring schedule and the phone
interview with Howie B was conducted whilst the artist was, quite literally,
passing through British customs on the way to a performance in Europe. While
the telephone interview with Howie B allowed some follow-up questions to be
asked, the email interviews with Scanner and Spooky afforded no such
opportunity. Because of this, some of the questions emailed to Scanner and
Spooky included a number of two-part questions that acted as quasi-probes,
encouraging the participants to expand on their answers in the same way as a preprepared follow-up question in a face-to-face interview. While such two-part
questions may be perceived as off-putting during face-to-face interviews, the
asynchronous and more personal and reflective nature of email communication
worked in the favour of just such an approach and both interviews elicited indepth, thoughtful responses.
Notes on participants and notational schema
The three participating artists are high profile international musicians each with an
impressive catalogue of commercial releases and critical acclaim:
Howard Bernstein, aka Howie B, is a producer and DJ of electronic who has a
notable solo career and has collaborated with artists including U2, Brian Eno,
Sly and Robbie and Massive Attack. His remix of Steve Reich’s Eight Lines is
explored in Case Study One (p. 128).
Robin Rimbaud, aka Scanner, is an international sound artist whose infamous
early works Scanner (1992) and Scanner 2 (1993) made use of intercepted
telephone conversations and cemented Rimbaud as an important voice in the
Electronic Listening Music genre. Rimbaud’s 1998 work Surface Noise forms
40
the focus of Case Study Two (p. 152).
Paul Miller, aka DJ Spooky, has released several critically acclaimed albums
and is one of the key figures within the ‘Illbient’ genre. Miller has collaborated
with a range of artists including Dub legend Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry and the
Kronos Quartet. Miller’s online installation work Errata Erratum is examined
in Case Study Three (p. 176).
Due to the need to associate the research participants with their musical work,
interviews and other creative output this research has avoided the use of
anonymous cases and interviews. This research was granted ethical clearance (see
informed consent proforma at Appendix D). Responses to interviews are
referenced using an abbreviation of the artists name and the answer number as
laid out in Appendices A, B and C. Each set of respondent's initials is followed by
up to three characters indicating the questionnaire response. For example:
HBa2: Indicates participant Howard Bernstein’s response to question two as per the
questionnaire found in Appendix A.
RRa8: Indicates participant Robin Rimbaud’s response to question eight as per the
questionnaire found in Appendix B.
PMa10: Indicates participant Paul Miller’s response to question ten as per the
questionnaire found in Appendix C.
Document review and the use of secondary sources
In order to inform the interviews and provide a ‘thicker description’ (Geertz,
1975) of the works and artists under discussion, this research relies on the use of
‘secondary’ sources in order to furnish a fuller understanding of both the musical
text and it’s contexts. These include liner notes, interviews, biographies and
writings, which are related to a particular piece or more broadly to a composer’s
conceptual and philosophical preoccupations. While eminently useful, such
sources bring with them issues related to the authority and reliability of text and
author. For example, along with a collection of his own writings DJ Spooky has
posted a number of interviews on his website, many of which lack basic
bibliographic information such as the original source, date of publication (where
this actually exists) and in some instances the name of the author. While in this
instance there is a direct link to the artist in question it underscores the point that
41
there is a need to critically evaluate both the content and authorship of such
secondary sources and acknowledge their often unclear origins.
Consequently, the process of document review (or literature survey) is used to
examine these secondary texts for information relevant to the research at hand.
Samuel Bracket (2000) notes “while musical texts may retain a ‘relative
autonomy’ . . they gain their meaning by circulating with other texts from other
media which may include mass media publications, videos, film, industry
publications, and ‘historical’ documents” (p. 18). Such information provides a
framework for the examination of meaning derived from an understanding of a
composer’s ideas, aesthetics, processes and philosophies brought to bear on a
piece of music. This type of approach to music scholarship is common within
popular musicology (Shuker, 2001; Fast, 2001; Bracket, 2000; Walser, 1993;
Moore, 1993), ethnomusicology (Merriam, 1964) and, more recently, the field of
new musicology (Cook & Everest, 1999; Williams, 2001). Each of these subdisciplines attempts to “draw context into its discourse, as well as engaging
directly with issues of performance and perception” (Samson, 1999, p. 53).
Understanding the context surrounding a piece of music involves identifying
compositional techniques and processes, the philosophies and conceptual
constructs behind a composers work, genre guidelines and the functions the music
is used for. In practice this is similar to the musical ethnography described by
Anthony Seeger (1992) who outlines “a descriptive approach to music going
beyond the writing down of sounds to the writing down of how sounds are
conceived, made, appreciated and influence other individuals, groups and social
and musical processes” (p. 89).
42
Summary
The application of the preceding methodology leads to a four-part structure for
this dissertation represented in the following diagram and subsequent exposition:
Figure 1: Concept map of research project structure
Part I includes the introduction, literature review of scholarly and non-scholarly
works written in this field and the methodological argumentation discussed above.
This provides a context and justification for the research project and outlines the
research design.
Part II traces the historical development of the experimental and electronic music
traditions and identifies key musical and conceptual traits present in each
tradition. These traits then provide a reference point for the analysis of the works
of the Clever Children. This section also responds to the first sub-question posed
by this research by providing an historical context for the Clever Children.
43
Part III of the research project presents a Collective Case Study, which explores
the works of Howie B, Scanner and DJ Spooky. Each Case Study examines the
respective artist’s relationship to the experimental music tradition through the
examination of the conceptual and stylistic traits present in their work. In line
with the second research sub-question, Part III seeks to discern whether these
specific works of the Clever Children can be said to demonstrate the influence of
the experimental music tradition.
Part IV discusses the findings of each case to discern whether, when taken as a
whole, the Collective Case Study supports or undermines the claims of influence
made regarding the influence of the experimental music tradition. The dissertation
concludes with an informed position about the relationship of the Clever Children
to the experimental music tradition and suggests areas for future research.
44
PART II:
AN HISTORICAL CONTEXT
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
Introduction
The purpose of this section is to explore the historical narratives that have
emerged with regard to the influence of an experimental music tradition on the
work of the Clever Children in the writings of Cascone (2000), Cox and Warner
(2004), Emmerson (2000, 2007), Holmes (2002), Martin (2002), Neill (2002),
Prendergast (1995), Toop (1995), Witts and Young (1996) and others. These
emergent narratives position a range of experimental and avant-garde music of
the twentieth century in a continuum leading to Electronica and the Clever
Children. When taken in concert these writings concur broadly with Emmerson’s
assertion of an emerging historical narrative or genealogy of all experimental
electronic music that includes “a mix of (typically) Varèse, Stockhausen, Xenakis,
Cage, Pierre Schaeffer, Pierre Henry, Steve Reich and other ‘avant-garde
pioneers’” (2007, p. 63). As noted in the Introduction, some commentators
position these narratives or genealogies within the context of electro-acoustic
music whereas others draw parallels to the US and UK experimental ‘tradition’
denominated by Nyman (1999) (among others). In each instance however there
can be said to be an appeal to ‘experimentalism’ in some form, at the very least
inferred by the recurring historical significance ascribed to composers such as
John Cage. Take for example Veale’s assertion that
the experiments of post–World War II composers such as John Cage, Karlheinz
Stockhausen, Steve Reich, and LaMonte Young eventually influenced a generation of
experimentally inclined popular groups worldwide, who fused popular rhythms with
tape based and electronically generated elements, as well as with formal designs
inspired by minimalism and indeterminacy (2007; pp. 2–3)
Abstracted, with consideration to variations in construction between authors, this
tradition can be said to draw on the musical application of noise and electronic
sounds, often through the application of new music technologies; the use of
process based compositional strategies including aleatory / indeterminacy and; the
adoption of stasis and repetition with regard to musical form and content 7.
7
See again Cascone (2000), Cox and Warner (2004), Emmerson (2000, 2007), Holmes
(2002), Martin (2002), Neill (2002), Prendergast (1995), Toop (1995), Veal (2007), Witts
and Young (1996).
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
46
Consequently, the experimental music tradition discussed below can be
understood as a composite of the various narratives describing the supposed
relationship of composers such as Cage, Stockhausen and others to the Clever
Children.
Care must be taken not to conflate these narratives, detailing the Clever Children’s
appropriation of elements of the experimental music tradition, with modernist
notions of linear progression. Cox and Warner (2004), whose Audio Culture is one
of the central scholarly works advancing this narrative, suggest that rather than a
linear unfolding of history the Clever Children have achieved “a new kind of
sonic literacy, history, and memory … [that] flattens the distinction between ‘high
art’ and ‘mass culture,’ and treats music history as a repository from which to
draw random-access sonic alliances and affinities” (p. xiv). While Cox and
Warner draw obvious parallels with the cut-and-paste aesthetic of much latetwentieth ‘post-modern’ culture and art I would suggest that a more interesting
observation is the way in which such selective adoption of musical precedents can
be used to ‘legitimise’ the work of the Clever Children.
Though I will return to this later, it is interesting to note that one of the functions
of the historical narratives surrounding the Clever Children is to in some way
suggest their work is of equal value to, and perhaps even a progression of, the
work of composers such as Cage or Stockhausen. Select practitioners of
Electronica are in effect being inducted into a high art pantheon reifying the very
distinctions between ‘serious’ and ‘vernacular’ artistic endeavour that their work
is claimed to undermine. Consequently the historical narratives surrounding the
work of the Clever Children have constructed an experimental music tradition that
provides a useful starting point to test the claims of influence made by and on
behalf of the Clever Children. This section will survey this ‘tradition’ for what
might be deemed 'precursive' or antecedent musical, philosophical and cultural
memes or ideas that have been identified as relating to the Clever Children. This
will assist in developing an historical and musical reference point, the key traits,
that will enable comparison between the experimental music tradition and
Electronica in order to identify possible congruence, confluence and influence
with respect the Clever Children.
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
47
Noise
The musical application of ‘noise’ in the twentieth century delineates a central
concern of the experimental music tradition as identified in relation to the Clever
Children (Russo and Warner, 1998). Where Morgan contends that “the single most
important and encompassing feature of twentieth–century music has
unquestionably been its move beyond functional tonality” (1991; p. 8) authors
addressing the Clever Children tend to focus beyond the “emancipation of
dissonance” (Schoenberg, cited in Yates, 1967; p. 30) toward the liberation of
sound itself.
Beginning with the Italian futurists the introduction of non-musical, mechanical
and Electronically generated sound sources proffered a dramatic challenge to the
traditional constituents and organisation of music. Throughout the nineteenth
century chromaticism and dissonance came to play an increasingly prominent role
in Western Art music. However there was still a tendency for works to be
composed and understood within the context of functional tonality even where
this was not necessarily obvious to the listener. The adoption of non-musical
sound was driven by a number of developments in the early part of the twentieth
century including the adoption of rhythmic composition as an alternative to
tonality, the development of new mechanical and electronic instruments and the
invention of recordable media. Each of these elements is underpinned by a desire
to seek out new sonic possibilities for music, often through the use of new
technology.
Cascone (2000) contends that the use of noise and ‘unintentional’ sound in the
work of the Futurist composers, Cage and Stockhausen (among others) “best
describes [the] lineage” (p. 395) leading to artists such as Aphex Twin, Oval and
others identified in this research as Clever Children. Similarly, Cox and Warner
suggest “from Russolo through DJ Culture, experimental music practices have
inhabited that borderland where noise and silence become music and vice versa”
(Cox and Warner, 2004; p. 6).
Futurism
The first, and perhaps most striking, instance of noise as a musical device in the
twentieth century is found in the work of the Italian Futurists. Futurism expressed
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
48
a revolutionary zeal for the new, advocating a kind of year zero in which all
preceding art and culture would be, violently, deposed to make way for new
conceptions of art based on the technological, particularly mechanical,
advancements of the new century. In his polemic Futurist Manifesto, figurehead
Fillipo Tomas Marinetti clamours:
Do you want to waste the best part of your strength in a useless admiration of the past,
from which you will emerge exhausted, diminished, trampled on? . . Heap up the fire
to the shelves of the libraries! Divert the canals to flood the cellars of the museums!
Let the glorious canvases swim ashore! Take the picks and hammers! Undermine the
foundation of venerable towns! (1909; online)
The musical application of Futurist ideals by Italian painter Luigi Russolo
delineates a similar aesthetic. Russolo advocated a dramatic rejection of western
music tradition in favour of the sonic possibilities inherent in non-musical sound /
noise. Rossolo entreats, “we must break out of this limited circle of sounds and
conquer the infinite variety of noise-sounds” (1913; p. 11). Interestingly, though
advocating a break with tradition, Russolo positions his music of noises as an
evolutionary development in human hearing “enrich[ing] mankind with a new and
unsuspected pleasure of the senses” (Ibid; p. 13). Russolo argues further that the
groundwork for the adoption of noise in a musical context is demonstrable by
trends towards chromaticism, dissonance and atonality:
In order to excite and stir our sensibility, music has been developing toward the most
complicated polyphony and toward the greatest variety of instrumental timbres and
colors. It has searched out he most complex successions of dissonant chords, which
have prepared in a vague way for the creation of MUSICAL NOISE. (Ibid; p. 11)
To fulfil his vision Russolo invented a series of mechanical noise makers or
intonarumori that would comprise the futurist orchestra. The intonarumori
produced noise by the mechanical vibration of a stretched diagram placed inside a
box and amplified through a horn attached to the front (Holmes, 2002). Radical in
conception and execution the music of the Italian Futurists did not find favour
with audiences of the time and the immediate influence of the movement was
limited, though links are suggested with Dadaist sound art and specifically the
sound-poetry of Kurt Schwitters (Concannon, 1990). Despite this, Futurism may
be understood as prefiguring the experimental music tradition discussed here in
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
49
three important ways. Firstly, the rejection of musical convention; secondly, the
use of noise and non-musical sounds in a musical context; and finally, the
Futurists’ use of mechanical instruments reflecting “the first clear manifestation of
a major and enduring concern: the relationship between new music and modern
technology” (Morgan, 1991; p. 117).
Edgard Varèse
In the wake of the Futurists, the next significant development towards the musical
application of noise within the experimental music tradition identified in this
research can be seen in the works of Edgard Varèse. While a precedence of sorts is
also present in the 1917 theatrical work Parade, for which Erik Satie composed a
collage-like juxtaposition of music and Parisian street noises (Chadabe, 1997),
Varèse was the first post-Futurist composer to engage with noise in a structured
way. In line with the move towards atonality at the beginning of the twentieth
century, Varèse’s work shifts further from the use of pitch as a central
compositional determinate. Where Schoenberg desired the emancipation of
dissonance however, Varèse positioned himself as championing the liberation of
sound, “that music should break away from notes to noise” (Yates, 1967; p. 276).
In the absence of pitch as an organising principle, Varèse turned his attention to
percussion music as the most promising medium through which to introduce and
explore non-musical sounds. In works such as Amériques (1921), Intégrales
(1923) and Ionisation (1930) there can be seen a focus rhythm, dynamics and
texture though, interestingly, “the traditional idea of developmental process and
variation plays virtually no role in his music, which is composed of planes and
volumes” (Salzman, 1988, p. 140). Expressing ideas that would later be echoed by
John Cage, Varèse conceptualised sonic material in much the same way a sculptor
might consider his medium, as ‘sound objects’ that could be malleably plied to
suit the composer’s ends. Initially frustrated in his attempts to realise new
electronic music, Varèse returned to the medium in the 1950s with Déserts (1954)
and, perhaps his best known work, Poème Électronique (1958) both of which took
advantage of the creative possibilities offered by magnetic tape (discussed in more
detail below).
Varèse believed the electronic medium “freed music from the tempered system,
which has prevented music from keeping pace with the other arts and with
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
50
science” (1962; p. 20). Predicting the sonic possibilities that would later be
realised through sampling and synthesis technology, Varèse “envisaged
sophisticated electronic machines that would make available such unprecedented
sound possibilities as a continuous range of pitches, including all possible
subdivisions of the tempered scale, which could also be precisely controlled by
the composer” (Morgan, 1991; p. 307). Unlike the Futurists, Varese saw his work
as an integral extension of the Western Art music tradition. Rather than the
destruction of everything that had gone before Varèse advocated the adoption of
non-musical and electronic sounds as a way to extend or build upon the advances
of the past. Varèse argued that “it is because new instruments have been
constantly added to the old ones that Western music has such a rich and varied
patrimony” (1959; p. 19). Though his work exhibits traits experimental in nature,
Varèse did not consider his music as such, stating, “my experimenting is done
before I make the music” (cited in Yates, 1967; p. 279).
Varèse’s key innovations were the assimilation of musical and non-musical sound
under the banner of ‘organised sound’; an emphasis on percussion writing as a
way to assimilate non-musical sound into musical contexts and; the use of tape
and electronic sound sources. These innovations have “influenced all subsequent
sound–music” (Yates, 1967; p. 279) and are “fundamental to much of the music of
recent decades” (Salzman, 1988; p. 142).
John Cage
The shift towards percussion writing as a medium through which to engage noise
in a musical context became a central tenet of John Cage’s early works. Similarly
to Varèse, Cage viewed percussion music as “a contemporary transition from
keyboard-influenced music to the all-sound music of the future” (1968; p. 5). In
his compositions for percussion, Cage explored the musical potential of noise,
viewing the distinction between noise and ‘musical’ sound as an arbitrary division
similar to that of consonance and dissonance (Ibid). The confluence of noise and
percussion music in Cage’s work is eloquently demonstrated by the composer’s
use of the prepared piano. In his notes to Sonatas and Interludes (1948) Cage
describes the prepared piano as “a percussion ensemble under the control of a
single player” (p. 76).
Cage’s percussion compositions and his use of noise can be seen as an extension
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
51
of Schoenberg’s exploration of dissonance. Cage suggested that Schoenberg’s
emancipation of dissonance did not go far enough and that what was needed was
to emancipate “music from its notes”(cited in Yates, 1967; p. 8). Cage felt that the
traditional Western predominance of pitch as a structural device, over and above
other compositional elements, was flawed. In his lecture Forerunners of Modern
Music, Cage stated that:
Sound has four characteristics: pitch, timbre, loudness, and duration. The opposite and
necessary coexistent of sound is silence. Of the four characteristics of sound, only
duration involves both sound and silence. Therefore a structure based on durations
(rhythmic: phrase, time lengths) is correct (corresponds with the nature of the
material), whereas harmonic structure is incorrect (derived from pitch, which has no
being in silence). (1968; p. 63)
For Cage, time was the ‘most fundamental’ musical characteristic and he
developed a method of structuring his compositions dependent not “on tonal or
thematic articulation, but on a rhythmic structure consisting of precompositionally determined temporal divisions” (Bernstein, 2002a; p. 70). Cage
suggested that by utilising a durational structure both musical and non-musical
sounds could be organised by the same method (Cage, 1942). In this regard Cage
was influenced by Varèse’s conception of music as ‘organised sound’, which
could reasonably contain a gamut of sonorities between noise and more
traditionally understood musical events (Morgan, 1991).
In Cage’s work the application of noise in a musical context is realised at an
ultimate philosophical level with 4’33” (1952). The composition aims to focus the
listener’s attention on the environmental noise surrounding them. Cage suggests
that everything that happened within the performance was music stating,
“formerly, silence was the time lapse between sounds, useful towards a variety of
ends . . where none of these or other goals is present, silence becomes . . not
silence at all, but sounds, the Ambient sounds” (1968; p. 22). In addition to a kind
of quintessential ‘noise’ piece 4’33”, represents a strong philosophical statement
regarding what can and cannot constitute music in much the same way as
Duchamp’s Fountain (1917) did for the visual arts. Indeed Joel Chadabe (1997)
suggests Cage’s use of noise or “found sounds” (p. 24) can be traced to the
influence of Marcel Duchamp’s series of readymade works utilising found
objects.
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
52
Cage’s works and ideas represent some of the key musical and conceptual traits
present in the experimental music tradition. Cage’s use of noise and durational
structure extends on the work of Varèse, ultimately giving way to the musical
acceptance of ambient sound with 4’33”. While Varèse embraced musical and
non-musical sound within a musical context, Cage’s use of noise challenges the
very notion of the musical context in which such sounds may be located. This
type of challenge to traditionally understood notions of the composition and
realisation of musical sound forms a central tenet of the experimental music
tradition as it relates to the Clever Children.
New sounds, new technologies
Another important outworking of Cage’s exploration of noise is his use of
electronic sound sources and instrumentation. Scored for two variable speed
turntables, test tone recordings, piano and cymbal, Imaginary Landscapes No. 1
(1939) is one of the first electro-acoustic compositions and Cage’s first to utilise
electronic non-musical sounds. In fact, the application and conception of
electronic sound sources and treatments delineates a fundamental feature of much
subsequent experimental music and suggests strong parallels with Electronica. In
a prophetic and often-quoted excerpt from his Future of Music: Credo Cage
claimed:
I believe that the use of noise to make music will continue and increase until we reach
a music produced through the aid of electrical instruments which will make available
for musical purposes and all sounds that can be heard. (1968; pp. 3–4)
Cage stated further that “the ‘frame’ or fraction of a second, following established
film technique, will probably be the basic unit in the measurement of time. No
rhythm will be beyond the composer’s reach” (Ibid; p. 5). Both predictions are
abundantly fulfilled by the emergence of the sampler, sequencing software and
Digital Audio Workstations (DAWs) – all used widely within Electronica in the
creation and realisation of musical works –whereby a composer can control every
facet of a sound and place it within a time grid at a resolution of up to 1/192,000th
of a second. In what could have been rallying cry to the Rave movement, Cage
wrote, “percussion music is revolution . . tomorrow, with electronic music in our
ears, we will hear freedom” (1939; p. 87).
In the years following the Second World War electronic music emerged as a field
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
53
unto itself as composers turned to audio technology for a variety of new sounds
and compositional techniques. One key factor in this development was the
commercialisation of magnetic tape recording technology captured from Germany
during the war. The wider availability of recording technologies suggested new
possibilities for the realisation of musical works in recorded form. Recordable
discs and magnetic tape allowed composers to work directly with recorded
sounds, juxtaposing and moulding them in a manner similar to that suggested by
Varèse and Cage. French composer Pierre Schaeffer along with audio engineer
Jacques Poullin pioneered this new form of composition with a series of works
known as the Etudes de bruits. Comprising manipulate recordings of locomotives,
bells, piano, children’s toys and a range of other sounds taken from nature the
Etudes represent the first works of musique concrète, a term invented by
Schaeffer to refer to his use of recorded sounds taken from the real world.
Schaeffer’s method of composition utilised a number of new techniques to
transform and modify sound made possible by the electronic medium including
editing, isolating and juxtaposing individual sounds; altering the playback speed
and associated pitch of a recording; retrograding or reversing a recording; filtering
out certain frequencies of a recording; adding reverberation; looping segments of
sound; altering the volume of a recording to create fades (Holmes, 2002;).
The musical application of recordable media, such as tape, represents a dramatic
change to the act of composition in that, for the first time, composers could work
directly with sound itself and realise musical works without the need for a score,
performer or performance. Significantly the development of recordable magnetic
tape and the subsequent adoption of the recording-as-instrument is referred to by a
number of authors as an important antecedent to Electronica.
Waxing lyrically, and at times incomprehensibly 8, on the emergence of Hip Hop
Manning (2004) conflates the DJs use of break-beats and scratching with the
pioneering musique concrète works of Schaeffer and Henry suggesting that “at a
stroke, one of the fundamental techniques of early musique concrete was reborn”
8
Manning (2004) confuses Rap – a vocal style prominent in contemporary Hip Hop –
with Hip Hop itself – a musical and cultural descriptor that encompasses DJing, breakdancing, graffiti and Rapping; scratching with the use of breakbeats – and appears
generally confused as to origins of Hip Hop and, more importantly, the precedence of
Dub in the musical application of pre-recorded material to create new works (see pp. 78–
84 of this dissertation for more detail).
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
54
(p. 176). While similarly unclear on the origin of such developments 9 Cutler
(1994) argues that “the widespread plundering of records for samples that are
recycled in HipHop, House and Techno” (p. 152) sits within an historical narrative
beginning with concrete and taking in works by Varèse, Schaeffer, Stockhausen
and Cage as well as the “captured visual images” (p. 146) of Duchamp’s readymades. In concurrence with both Manning and Cutler, Cox and Warner (2004)
position Cage’s Imaginary Landscapes No. 1 and Schaeffer’s work as effectively
birthing DJ Culture suggesting that “Pierre Schaeffer is surely the godfather of
sampling composition. … anticipat[ing] HipHop and electronic dance music” (p.
329). A level of caution is required regarding such claims however for, as Gann
warns:
[Though] it would be gratifying to claim that the explosion of so-called postmodern
music in the 1980s and 1990s based, via samplers and DJ performances, on recordings
was the direct result of Cage’s early experiments [with radios and turntables in
Imaginary Landscapes No, 4 (1951), Water Music (1952), Variations IV (1963)]. .
Many young urban pop musicians, however, had probably never heard the name John
Cage until long after they had been spinning records on turntables by hand. (2002; p.
248)
Running parallel to the development and concerns of musique concrète is the
emergence of sound synthesis technologies and their application to music. Where
musique concrète is concerned with the manipulation of recorded often naturally
occurring sounds, synthesis technologies seek to create entirely new sounds
through the use of electronic means such as oscillators and noise generators.
Crucial to the development of this parallel stream of electronic music was the
establishment in 1952 of an electronic music studio within the West German
Radio (WDR) by Herbert Eimert. The studio was notable in that
In addition to variable-speed tape recorders and the filters, echo chambers, amplifiers,
and the like found in musique concrète studios, [it] also contained electronic soundproducing devices: oscillators and noise generators. With these, composers could
construct their own material ‘from the ground up,’ rather than relying upon natural
9
As with Manning (2004), Cutler (1994) displays some confusion related to the adoption
of the turntable-as-instrument in popular music confusing scratching for beat-juggling
and suggesting both were the product of “radical black disco music” (p. 150) rather than
Hip Hop, seemingly unaware of key figures such as DJ Kool Herc and Grandmaster
Flash.
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
55
sounds with predetermined timbral characteristics that, even when modified, could not
be completely removed. (Morgan, 1991; p. 464)
Eimert’s elektronische musik studio played host to, among others, Karlheinz
Stockhausen who created his Studie I (1953) and Studie II (1954) at the facility in
an attempt to realise the application of serialist principles to the construction of
sound itself through additive synthesis using proportionally related sine tones
(Griffiths, 1995;). Similarly to works of musique concrète, early electronic music
challenged traditional conceptions of the realisation of a musical work by doing
away with the role of performer. In a 1958 lecture Stockhausen proclaimed, “in
electronic music, the interpreter no longer has any function. The composer, in
collaboration with some technicians, realizes the entire work” (p. 373). In this
context Stockhausen notes that “sounds and noises are in the first instance
nothing but material. Neither one nor the other of these acoustical phenomena is
by nature good or bad. The only crucial thing is what one makes of them” (Ibid; p.
375). Stockhausen’s Gesang der Jünglinge (1956) ably demonstrates this point by
introducing acoustic sound, in the form of the human voice, into an electronic
music piece. The work is also notable for Stockhausen’s concern for the spatial
placement, movement and direction of sounds through the use of multiple
loudspeakers deployed throughout the performance environment. The ability for
composers working with electronic means to realise works without the need for a
score, performer or performance profoundly alters the way music can be
composed, realised and received.
Though initially a clear distinction was made between tape based and ‘pure’
electronic music this division was rendered largely irrelevant by the middle of the
1950s as composers such as Stockhausen created works that utilised both concrete
and electronic sound sources (Morgan, 1991). This point is underscored by the
consolidation of both synthesis and sampling technologies by electronic music
composers within the popular music tradition beginning in the 1970s. The use of
electronics to generate, record and modify or ‘treat’ sound is an important aspect
of the experimental music tradition identified as foreshadowing the Clever
Children and is present, in various forms, in the work of Cage, Richard Maxfield,
Christian Woolf, Gordon Mumma, Gavin Bryars and the Minimalist composers.
Of particular note is the manner in which electronic devices were introduced into
performance practice “not by taking into concert halls the equipment from the
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
56
electronic studios . . but by inventing and adapting . . portable electronic
technology” (Nyman, 1999; p. 75).
Both the French musique concrète and the german elektronische musik, represent
a radical subversion of the performance act, as traditionally understood, and the
performers role in the realisation of musical works. Technological advances of the
1960s and 70s meant that technology could move out of the studio and into a live
performance environment. Key here is the advent of the commercial modular
synthesizer, produced by Robert Moog and Donald Buchla, followed in 1974 by
the Synclavier and the world’s first digital sampler / synthesizer, the Fairlight
C(omputer)M(usic)I(nstrument). By the end of the 70s music technology had
become an intrinsic part of the processes of creation, realisation and reception of
musical works in both ‘art’ and ‘popular’ music. Over the ensuing decades
technology will reshape popular music and give rise to Electronica as well as
significant developments in electro-acoustic music within an art-music context
(Holmes, 2002).
The impact of these types of music technology represents another important
precursor to the work Clever Children. In many ways the application of sampling
and synthesis technology perfectly fulfils Cage’s prediction of “electrical
instruments which will make available for musical purposes and all sounds that
can be heard” (1968; pp. 3–4). Manning (2004) argues that such technological
developments represent “the most important feature of Techno”, used here as a
stand-in for a variety of forms of Electronica, and that “later manifestations such
as Minimal Techno and Trance, Listening Techno [IDM], and Hardcore are all
linked by the use of synthesizers, samplers, and signal processors as the primary
means of sound production” (p. 178). Indeed, Wishart (1996) goes so far as to
suggest that it is the impact of music technology, in the form of sound recording,
processing and synthesis that is “the central watershed in changing our view of
what constitutes music” (p. 5). Neill (2002) is in accordance, asserting that the
emergence of the group of composers identified in this dissertation as Clever
Children can be seen as a function of developments in “music technologies that
started in the 1970s and 1980s” (p. 387).
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57
Process and indeterminacy
Around the same time Varèse and Cage were challenging traditional notions of
musical content another important development was playing out that would
redefine the Western conception of the musical work itself. In the period
surrounding the Second World War, composers such as Stockhausen and Boulez
applied the organisational principal of the tone row to all aspects of a musical
work including harmony, rhythm, timbre and dynamics (Morgan, 1991). In
essence these composers were handing over control of the composition of a
musical work to a process independent of their own tastes and desires.
Such process-based composition would prove an influential idea and Nyman
(1999) argues that the focus on composition as an experimental process is a
unifying aspect of experimental music:
Experimental composers . . are more excited by the prospect of outlining a situation in
which sounds may occur, a process of generating action (sounding or otherwise), a
field delineated by certain compositional ‘rules’. (1999; p. 4)
Nyman’s conception of experimental music, formulated with reference to the
work of Cage, Reich and others, is picked up by Cox and Warner (2004) who
suggest that such composers are “fundamentally interested in the issue of process”
(p. 207) and that their influence “can be discovered in fringe pop, rock, punk,
HipHop and electronica” (Ibid; p. 208). This linking of process-based composition
and the work of the Clever Children is made more explicit by Ben Neill (2002)
who suggests that “conceptual and process oriented composition . . can be seen
turning up in clubs and on dance record” (p. 388). Discussing the way in which
this focus on process is affected Holmes (2002) indicates that “the very nature of
electronic music instruments, old and new, encourages a composer to think in
terms of a process” (p. 251). Central to an understanding of these narratives is
Cage’s re-evaluation of the role of the composers and the musical work itself. In
addition to realising an ultimate ‘musical’ application of noise Cage’s 4’33” also
marks a distinct change in direction in the artists own compositional aesthetic.
Morgan notes that,
4’33” . . brought [Cage] to a difficult impasse. Either he could give up composing
entirely, on the grounds that if all sounds can be viewed as music, musical
‘composition’ is hardly necessary–or he could devise methods for preserving the
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
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activity of composition (and performance) as redefined by this conception of radical
intentionless. Cage, of course, chose the latter course, and since the early 1950s he has
devised various strategies permitting disciplined activity while discouraging
‘purpose.’ (1991; p. 363).
Cage was attempting to demonstrate that there was no such thing as silence – only
intentional and non intentional sound – arguing in Experimental Music for a new
music that would open “the doors of music to the sounds that happen to be in the
environment” (1968; p. 8). Cage also redefined the role of composition as
“implement[ing] processes which are . . opportunities for perception (observation
and listening)” (1967; p. 170). Post 4’33” Cage became more interested in the
idea of composition as a process that was not under the control of the composer.
In so doing, Cage wanted to create music “free of individual taste and memory . .
and also of the literature and ‘traditions’ of the art” (1968; p. 59). For Cage “the
highest purpose [was] to have no purpose at all” (Ibid; p. 155) and the composer
made use of the related compositional techniques of chance operations and
indeterminacy to achieve a music of non-intention.
A common conception is that Cage’s striving for ‘intentional unintentionality’ was
influenced by the composers studies of non-Western thought including Indian
philosophy and Zen Buddhism. While Cage’s exposure to these differing worldviews appears to have been a catalyst for “crucial changes in his musical style”
(Bernstein, 2002b; p. 186), Cage is reported to have “appreciat[ed] their
philosophic or aesthetic tenets on a highly selective basis . . recontextualising,
reconfiguring and in some cases transgressing the intentions and ideals of their
original authors” (Patterson, 2002a; p. 48). Cage did not, as might be expected,
modify his compositional practice or aesthetic in line with the systems of thought
he was investigating. Rather, the composer seems to have latched onto ideas or
analogies that were useful in helping him clarify, justify or reinforce his own preexisting (though still developing) aesthetic. Revill points out that Cage “was
adamant that he did not want Zen to be held responsible – blamed – for what he
did after coming into contact with it [and that] his inclinations . . exist before the
terms used to categorize them” (1992; p. 125). Less charitably, Gann suggests that
Cage “seemed to dabble in occult and eastern philosophies for the numbers and
concepts he could cadge from them for his music and writings (2002).
Beginning with Sixteen Dances (1951), Cage made use of chance operations to
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determine various elements of his compositions, generally moving from broad
structural elements to the minutiae of sonic detail. Cage’s chance operations
included the use of the I Ching or Chinese Book of Changes, magic squares, tarot
cards and imperfections on pieces of paper. Through the use of these techniques
Cage hoped to exclude from the compositional process his own prejudices, likes
and dislikes (Cowell, 1971). By the mid 1950s Cage had refined his
understanding of the compositional process to the point where a work “had ceased
being an object and had instead become the process of its occurrence” (Shultis,
1998; p. 32). In his article History of Experimental Music in the United States,
Cage wrote that:
More essential than composing by means of chance operations, it seems to me now, is
composing in such a way that what one does is indeterminate of its performance. In
such a case one can just work directly, for nothing one does gives rise to anything that
is preconceived. (1968; p. 69)
Cage used the term ‘indeterminacy’ to distinguish this new approach from his
previous use of chance operations. The key difference for Cage appears to be the
unrepeatability of an indeterminate composition. Where chance compositions
involve the use of some form of random procedure, indeterminate works are
written in such a way that each performance will be unique. Pritchett notes that
“chance procedures can be used to create a work that is completely fixed from one
performance to another . . [and that just because] a score is indeterminate does not
mean that chance is involved in its composition or performance” (1993; p. 108).
In Cage’s indeterminate works, and in works of the experimental music tradition
more broadly, the role of the composer and performer are radically altered, as is
the relationship between the performer and the score. The changes brought about
by Cage’s application of indeterminate processes in works such as Variations I
(1958) undermines traditional conceptions of the musical work as a permanent
and repeatable artefact. The use of these types of processes led to a radical shift in
the methods and function of notation, with scores no longer conceptualised as
symbols of music notation for the reproduction of a ‘musical thought’ or ‘pattern
of sounds’ but instead facilitating the expression of ideas and concepts with their
interpretation left to the performer. Cage notes that in his indeterminate works
“one cannot determine exactly what effect the notation causes” (1960; p. 135). In
this context the score thus becomes a system of instructions or series of tools
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rather than a representation of sound and the role of the composer as a designer of these systems.
This re-purposing of the score can be seen as an extension of the use of graphic
notation techniques resulting in the dissolution of the relationship between scored
notes and realised sound. Cornelius Cardew observes in his 1971 Treatise
Handbook that:
A composer who hears sounds will try to find a notation for sounds. One who has
ideas will find one that expresses his ideas, leaving their interpretation free, in
confidence that his ideas have been accurately and concisely notated. (p. iii)
Similarly La Monte Young’s Fluxist Compositions 1960 consist solely of written
instructions to the performer such as “build a fire in front of the audience [and]
turn a butterfly (or any number of butterflies loose in the performance area. When
the composition is over, be sure to allow the butterfly to fly away outside” (1960;
pp. 70-71). Other instructions within Compositions 1960 direct the performer to
hold a perfect fifth (B and F#) “for a long time” (cited in Potter, 2000; p. 51).
A consequence of these changes to notational practice is a new conception of the
role of the performer and in some cases the audience to one of active participation
in the creation and reception of an experimental composition. In fact in some of
the more open experimental works, the indeterminate elements of a score
guarantee that no two performances will have any perceptible commonality of
content or, in some cases, form:
A performance of a composition that is indeterminate of its performance is necessarily
unique. It cannot be repeated. When performed for a second time, the outcome is other
than it was. Nothing therefore is accomplished by such a performance, since that
performance cannot be grasped as an object in time. (Cage, cited in Nyman, 1999; p.
10)
Many pieces of indeterminate or process-based music exist in what can be
described as a “state of actualization [in which the work] is not real, does not
exist, until a performance is realized, or played in real time” (Holmes, 2002; p.
12). Where a piece only exists in recorded form, the various elements that make
each performance unique conspire to create a recorded work which, rather than
being a representation or interpretation of a score, becomes the original template
of a piece from which other performances are reproduced. Susan Broadhurst
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suggests that this characteristic of experimental music “unquestionably shatters
the valued distinction between ‘live’ and ‘recorded’ performance, as well as that
between ‘original’ and reproduction’” (1999; pp. 146–147).
The intrinsic unrepeatability of many indeterminate and process based works
undermined the very notion of the autonomous musical work and gave rise to
equally unique performative contexts. This can be seen in the melding of theatre,
dance, the visual arts and music in the art ‘happenings’ begun by Cage in
collaboration with pianist David Tudor, painter Robert Rauschenber and dancer /
choreographer Merce Cunningham at Black Mountain College in 1952 (Salzman,
1988). The performance of the first of these, Theatre Piece No. 1 (1952), saw
Cage and collaborator Charles Olson reading from atop ladders whilst Robert
Rauschenberg exhibited paintings and played scratched phonograph records,
David Tudor performed on a prepared piano and Merce Cunningham danced.
Similar approaches to performance can be seen in the work of the fluxus artists
and art happenings of the 1960s counter-culture including drug fuelled
psychedelic rock and drug-fuelled psychedelic minimalism (discussed below).
Later multimedia works such as Salvatore Martirano’s L’s G.A. (1968) and Cage’s
HPSCHD (1969) are characteristic of a growing theatricality of experimental
music performance practice ranging from “freely evolving, essentially
unstructured musical ‘occurrences’ where virtually anything, musical or
otherwise, could take place” to more structured works “combining music with
light shows or films, or compositions that simply use electronic sounds in
conjunction with live performance” (Morgan, 1991; p. 449).
Stasis and repetition
Concurrent with Cage’s adoption of process based composition and indeterminacy
was the development of a new musical aesthetic involving the application of static
musical form and content. The rejection of tonality and associated adoption of
serialist technique often resulted in is a sense of stasis engendered by the rejection
of harmonic progression. While stasis is present from the early twentieth century
in the works of Debussy and Satie, a number of experimental composers,
beginning with Varèse, have embraced these static qualities in a new context. The
ultimate application of these ideas within the context of the experimental music
tradition is found in the work of the so-called ‘minimalist’ composers, represented
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here through the works of La Monte Young, Terry Riley, Steve Reich and Philip
Glass.
Minimalism is identified as antecedent to a range of Electronica genres. McClary
(1999) posits minimalism’s use of repetition as a structural device as a
fundamental underpinning of various genres within Electronica including Hip
Hop and Techno, positioning them in an historical survey of twentieth century
music that includes Schoenberg, Stravinsky, Cage, Boulez, Stockhausen, Young,
Riley, Oliveros, Glass, sampling technology, Ravi Shankar and the Beatles.
Acknowledging that this represents a “bewildering profusion of musical
practices” (Ibid; p. 296) McClary nevertheless articulates what has become a more
widely held view that the work of the minimalist composers, particularly Steve
Reich, has been somehow absorbed into popular music “like some microbiotic
virus … especially prominent in the various form of electronic dance music–
Techno, house and the ‘post-Techno’ offshoots” (Sherburne, 2004; p. 319). Cox
and Warner (2004) argue that Reich’s work prefigures the “layered, modular
repetition” (p. 288) found in Techno and other forms of Electronica through which
minimalism has “provided new resources for sound artists who are as likely to
present their work in galleries as in clubs” (Ibid; p. 288).
One of the central ideas explored by the Minimalist composers is the use of stasis.
This can be seen in the work of La Monte Young for whom the influence of
serialism coupled with an interest in non-Western musics including Indian
classical music and the Japanese Gagaku (Kostelanetz, 1963) resulted in a
concern for static harmony and the use of drones. Young was primarily interested
in the psycho-acoustic effects of prolonged, sustained notes and their effect on
human consciousness10. Young has stated that he was interested in “the study of a
singular event, in terms of both pitch and other kinds of sensory situations” (1963;
p. 44). Explaining this interest Young wrote
To my knowledge there have been no previous studies of the long term effects on
continuous periodic composite sound waveforms on people. (Long term is defined to
10
Whilst the use of rhythmic repetition – another key minimalist trait – does not
feature heavily in Young’s work, it is present in Arabic Numeral (any integer) [X] for
Henry Flynt which consists of any loud percussive sound repeated any number of
times (Schwarz, 1996). Where the score specifies a piano, the first performance Young
gave of the work consisted of the composer hitting a gong with a drumstick (Potter,
2000) and in another instance hitting a frying pan some 6000 times (Nyman, 1999).
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be longer than a few hours in this case). My past work in music with sounds of long
duration slowly led in this direction until it became possible for me to develop a
situation allowing the study of truly continuous sounds by establishing continuous
frequency environments with electronic instruments. (1969; pp. 6–7)
These concerns resulted in Young experimenting with just intonation through The
Well Tuned Piano (1964) and The Tortoise, His Dreams and Journeys (1964)
realised in the context of Young’s performance group The Theatre of Eternal
Music11. Young’s work is also notable for his use of mixed-media components
such as light shows and installation type performances. Young’s Dream House
(1974), for example, presents The Tortoise (1964) in an installation environment
in which the work could be realised in a hyper-elongated form for prolonged
periods of time. Young said,
I began to think of the silences as including the beginning silence and the ending
silence so that musicians could take it up and if they worked with the same pitches and
the same key, let’s say, then we could think of each performance as a continuation of
the bigger work. To facilitate that approach I somehow came up with this idea of a
permanent location where a work could grow and develop and evolve a life and
tradition of its own. (cited in Toop, 1995; p. 175)
Another important factor influencing Young (and fellow minimalist Terry Riley) is
the use of hallucinogenic substances. For the generation that came of age in the
1960s, experimentation with hallucinogenic substances such as LSD often went
hand in hand with an exploration of non-Western philosophies. Keith Potter
(2000) suggests that “it is unlikely that Young’s . . musical development . . would
have take the form it did” (p. 66) without the use and experience of cannabis,
peyote and LSD. These drugs are notable for affecting the user’s perception of
time and focus, as Terry Riley reveals:
I think I was noticing that things didn’t sound the same when you heard them more
than once. And the more you heard them, the more different they did sound. Even
though something was stating the same, it was changing. I became fascinated with
that. I realized it was stasis – it was what La Monte and I had talked about a lot in
terms of his long-tone pieces – but it was stasis in a different application. In those days
11
The group featured John Cale who would later be instrumental in setting up proto
avant-rock group The Velvet Underground and produced the Happy Monday’s album
Squirrel and G-Man Twenty Four Hour Party People Plastic Face Carnt Smile (White
Out).
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
64
the first psychedelic experiences were starting to happen in America, and that was
changing our concept of how time passes, and what you actually hear in music. (cited
in Schwarz, 1996; p. 35)
Like Young, Riley had experimented with a wide range of psychoactive
substances including Marijuana, Peyote, Psilocybin, Mescalin and LSD and these
appear to have had a significant impact on his music. Potter (2000) argues that “it
is probably impossible to overemphasise the changes [drugs] helped bring about
in Riley’s spiritual as well as musical development in the early 1960s” (p. 105).
Drugs suggested to Riley the ‘sacredness’ of music and along with many in his
generation he believed that psychedelic drugs could act as consciousness raising
agents and catalysts for mystical and spiritual experience as well as opening the
mind to otherwise unattainable concepts (Duckworth, 1995).
Riley’s drug experiences also appear to have drawn him into the 1960s counterculture, resulting in an engagement with popular music not normally associated
with Western Art music. Schwarz (1996) claims that “Riley had plugged into the
spirit of the early days of psychedelica, a time when communal ritual and
perceptual alteration were on everyone’s mind, a time when the flourishing San
Francisco counterculture was nearing its peak” (p. 44). Similarly David Toop
(1995) suggests the impact that Riley’s music had on popular culture was due to
the fact that,
. . a composer was writing pieces which had grooves, improvised around modes . .
that sounded as if psychotropics had been involved at some stage of the
compositional process, and that explored new technology and studio processing [and
that] the albums were packaged by Columbia as rock albums, despite being on the
Masterworks series, so implying that the razor wire dividing so-called classical, rock,
jazz, art and commerce had been cut in a few places. (p. 182)
The bulk of Riley’s compositional output involves the use of small repeated
musical figures or cells, often of different lengths, which are repeated and
superimposed against one another (Mertens, 1983). Riley’s use of repetition was
heavily informed by experimentations with musique concrète and tape loops
(Holmes, 2002). Potter notes “the short fragments of sound made possible by this
technology suggested that repetition itself, rather than Young’s concept of
sustained sounds, could be made the chief means of musical organization;
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repetition seemed, to Riley, endemic to working with tape” (2000; p. 99). Another
impacting factor on Riley’s adoption of repetition as a compositional concern was
the influence of non-Western music and in particular the use of static harmony
and extensive repetition of short motifs in the music of Morocco and North Africa
(Ibid).
In addition to the use of repetition, Riley’s compositional output is significant in
terms of a return to modal tonality. Works such as In C (1964) reacted against
atonal serialism and other Western Art musics of the time and “forcefully
reasserted tonality as a viable force in new music . . by re-embracing the primal
forces of unambiguous tonality, pounding pulse and motoric repetition” (Schwarz,
1996; p. 45). In C comprises 53 scored segments or modules of varying length for
any number of performers and instruments. Performers may start at different
times, play through the modules independently of one another and may choose to
repeat or omit modules as they see fit. As the performers move through the piece
the various juxtapositions of melodic material create shifting rhythmic and
harmonic emphases, which gradually change and develop over the course of a
performance, which can last from 45 minutes to an hour and a half.
The elongated static forms and use of repetition found in the works of Riley and
Young laid the groundwork for possibly the most widely known and influential
minimalist composer Steve Reich. Of the minimalist composers discussed here
Reich is the most often cited in relation to and engaged with Electronica and the
Clever Children. Reich is hailed as the father of DJ culture (Gordon, 1998) and
actively buys into such narratives suggesting that producers of Electronica don’t
“just like what I do, they appropriate it!” (cited in Abbot, 2002; p. 68). Reich then
is a central figure in terms of the supposed influence of the experimental music
tradition, and minimalism more particularly, on the work of the Clever Children
and thus requires a slightly more detailed discussion of his work and ideas.
Similarly to Riley, Reich’s early compositional approach was informed by
experimentation with magnetic tape. Reich was specifically interested in the phase
shifting that occurred when two identical tape loops were played slightly out of
synchronisation with each other. Due to the fact that the phasing sound waves add
algebraically, elements of the recording are cancelled our or made more prominent
as the recordings move in and out of phase with each other. Reich experimented
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with this technique in a number of pieces including It’s Gonna Rain (1965) and
Come Out (1966) which consist of two identical tape loops which are repeated
over and over again and allowed to move in and out of phase with each (Nyman,
1999). Reich indicates that the idea of using constant repetition came from his
interactions with Terry Riley and that as he listened to the phase shifting process
in action he “began to realize that it was an extraordinary form of musical
structure . . It was a seamless, uninterrupted musical process” (2002; p. 20).
A second, possibly more important, outcome of Reich’s tape pieces is what the
composer would later refer to as ‘resulting patterns; the “psycho-acoustic byproducts of the repetition and phase-shifting” (Ibid; p. 26) resulting from the
“incomprehensible overlapping of text and phonetic elements” (Mertens, 1983; p.
49). Finding tape a limiting medium but not content that he had fully explored the
possibilities of phasing, Reich subsequently applied the technique to instrumental
music through works such as Reed Phase (1965), Piano Phase (1967) and Violin
Phase (1967). In Violin Phase, Reich reintroduces the concept of ‘resulting
patterns’:
As one listens to the repetition of the several violins, one may hear first the lower
tones forming one or several patterns, then the higher notes are noticed forming
another, then the notes in the middle may attach themselves to the lower tones to form
still another. All these patterns are not really there; they are created by the interlocking
of two, three, or four violins all playing the same repeating pattern out of phase with
each other. Since It is the attention of the listener that will largely determine which
particular resulting pattern he or she will hear at any one moment, these patterns can
be understood as psychoacoustic by-products of repetition and phase-shifting. (2002;
p. 26)
Similar to Riley’s use of repeated musical modules in In C, Reich’s phase pieces
are built from small repeated patterns from which new patterns emerge as the
repeated patterns are phased against themselves in a canon. The phase pieces
represented a shift in Reich’s work towards process based composition. Reich has
said,
I began to see [the phase pieces] as processes as opposed to compositions. I saw that
my methods did not involve moving from one note to the next, in terms of each note
in the piece representing the composer’s taste working itself out bit by bit. My music
was more impersonal. (2002; p. 33)
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Reich wanted to use processes to create a depersonalisation of the piece under
construction, ceding control over the piece to the process itself. The ultimate
expression of this can be seen in Pendulum Music (1968) in which the performer’s
only role is to set in motion several microphones suspended above loudspeakers
and allow the ensuing feedback to take its course. Reich acknowledges a
similarity to John Cage in this regard with reference to his use of ‘indeterminacy’.
However Reich differentiates between himself and Cage stating that; “the
processes [Cage] used were compositional ones that could not be heard when the
piece was performed” (1968; p. 10), whereas what Reich was interested in was a
process that could be used as the subject rather than the source of the music.
In his essay Music As A Gradual Process, Reich expounds further on this idea
stating, “what I’m interested in is a compositional process and a sounding music
that are one and the same thing” (1968, p. 10). For Reich, the act of creating a
piece of music was the music itself. This approach was partly inspired by his
experimentation with electronic equipment, and in the same essay he stated “it is
quite natural to think about musical processes if one is frequently working with
electro-mechanical sound equipment” (Ibid; p. 10). To this end Reich would later
utilise an electronic device – the phase shifting pulse gate – to manage the process
of phase shifting electronically generated tones automatically. Reich composed
two pieces for the pulse gate Pulse Music (1969), a completely electronic piece,
and Four Log Drums (1969), in which performers simply reproduced the pulses
from the gate. However he was dissatisfied by the what he felt were stiff and
unmusical results of both the gate itself and the performance element, which
involved simply twisting knobs onstage (Potter, 2000). The phase shifting pulse
gate was probably a device ahead of its time as an interesting parallel can be
drawn to the current crop of electronic musicians whose stage act is nothing but
tweaking knobs or interacting with computers.
Like La Monte Young and Terry Riley before him, non-Western music had a
profound impact on Reich. Drumming (1971), and Clapping Music (1972) for
example, were heavily influenced by a trip Reich made to Ghana in 1970 to study
West African drumming with a master drummer of the Ewe tribe. The
polyrhythmic structure of West African music had strong similarities to Reich's
own including an emphasis of rhythm over melody and harmony and the use of
repetition as a structural device. In particular Reich said the trip “confirmed my
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
68
intuition that acoustic instruments could be used to produce music that was
genuinely richer in sound that that produced with electronic instruments, as well
as confirming my natural inclination towards percussion” (2002; p. 67). Reich’s
compositional output was also influenced by his studies of the Javanese Gamelan.
Reich states that Gamelan and African drumming are primarily ensemble musics
with fixed or through-composed interlocking patterns (Ibid). Rather than simply
emulating the musics of another culture Reich sought to apply the structural,
rather than sonic principles of these Non-Western musics to his own work
suggesting that “in that way [he] might continue to use the pitches and timbres
that are in his ear since birth but with the added resource of a new compositional
technique” (Ibid; p. 107).
Another important departure in these pieces and one that would heavily shape
Reich’s subsequent output is the use of his own hand picked ensemble, Steve
Reich and Musicians, which expanded significantly, beginning with Drumming, to
accommodate Reich’s growing choices of instrumentation and the composers
particular requirements for performance techniques adjunct to the classical music
tradition. Reich’s pieces were often unsuited to the talents of classically trained
musicians and subsequently the ensemble was made up of ‘trained’ musicians
who had gravitated towards non-Western musics, free improvisation and jazz
(Ibid).
The new compositional technique referred to by Reich can be seen in his first
‘maximalist’ composition Music for 18 Musicians (1976). The work represents a
significant turning point in Reich’s creative output and is described by Potter as
‘the culmination of Reich’s achievements [and] a summation of a decade’s
efforts” (Potter, 2000; p. 231). 18 Musicians moves beyond Reich’s stated
objectives of audible processes and impersonality. In conversation with Michael
Nyman, Reich said of the piece “I’m not as concerned that one hears how the
music is made . . I think Music for 18 Musicians was consciously composed with
a feeling of liberating myself from strict structures” (Reich, 2002; p. 94). Building
on the techniques used in Drumming and Music for Mallet Instruments,
particularly the use of the human voice as instrument and the combining of
different timbres, Reich significantly expands his use of tonal material stating
famously that “there is more harmonic movement in the first five minutes of
Music for 18 Musicians than in any other complete work of mine to this date”
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
69
(Ibid; p. 87). Rhythmically, 18 Musicians utilises two different kinds of time, a
constant, regular rhythmic pulse played by piano and mallet instruments and the
rhythm of the human breathe in the vocal and wind instruments. Repetition is still
an important element of the piece, but rather than straight juxtaposition, as in
Reich’s phase pieces, or rhythmic construction, as in Drumming, 18 Musicians
utilises the interplay of changing harmonic rhythms against constant melodic
repetition. Unlike previous works, the piece is advanced by musical cues played
on the metallophone in a similar role to the drummer in Balinese Gamelan and
master drummer in West African music (Ibid). It is testament to the importance of
the work that the pieces that immediately followed Music for a Large Ensemble
(1978), Octet (1979) and Variations for Winds, Strings and Keyboards (1979) all
see Reich further exploring the possibilities of expanded harmonic material and
orchestration suggested in 18 Musicians.
At the same time as Reich was exploring the effects of phasing one of his
ensemble members and onetime collaborator, Phillip Glass was taking
minimalism in an entirely different direction. Glass uses the term ‘additive
process’ to describe his own compositional technique, whereby rhythmic and
melodic material is generated through repetition of an arithmetic process of
expansion and contraction applied to a basic rhythmic or melodic motif. As a
motif is repeated, notes are added or subtracted and the resultant pattern is then
repeated with further addition or subtraction. For example, if starting with group
of four pitches (1234), one repetition might add an extra pitch (5) resulting in
(12345) while the next repetition might remove pitch 3 leaving (1245). Glass’ use
of additive process is paired with cyclic repetition in which small motifs are used
to build larger repeating cycles which are in turn combined with other repeating
cycles to create the structure of the piece, “everything going at the same time and
always changing” (Potter & Smith, 1976; p. 28). Glass labels these processes ‘self
revealing’ in that, similar to Reich’s use of audible processes, they make the
structure of the piece clearly audible causing the compositional process and
sounding music to become indistinguishable (Mertens, 1983). Furthermore
Nyman (1999) notes that Glass’s music creates psycho-acoustic affects similar to
Reich’s ‘resultant patterns’.
Glass’ additive processes appear to have found their genesis in the composer’s
collaboration with Steve Reich and his brief encounter with Indian sitarist Ravi
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
70
Shankar. During 1965, Glass worked as the music director for the movie
Chappaqua an LSD inspired “sixties hippie film” (Rockwell, 1997; p. 111) replete
with psychedelic drugs and involving Allan Ginsberg and William Boroughs. As
part of his duties, Glass was required to transcribe into Western notation music
which sitarist Ravi Shankar had contributed to the film. In order to understand
Shankar’s music, Glass spent several months with the sitarist and his tabla player
learning the complexities of Indian classical music. Whilst it is questionable that
Glass can have fully understood, in these brief meetings, an art form that takes
most adherents a lifetime to learn, Indian music and culture would have a
significant impact on Glass’ future output. The techniques of additive process and
cyclic repetition were both fundamental elements of Glass’s minimalist output.
These techniques were inspired by his contact with Shankar and lessons taken
with tabla player Alla Rakha, though as Potter notes,
. . the kind of additive processes which Glass made the basis for his own music are
not . . to be found in Indian practice; even the rigorous application of these is not a
direct borrowing but an extrapolation of the composer’s own from the Indian
approach to rhythm. (2000; p. 273)
In 1969 Glass composed four works building on his discovery, Two Pages; Music
in Fifths; Music in Contrary Motion and; Music in Similar Motion. These works
are based on Glass’s additive process, comprising (generally) modal material,
which is advanced in a regular quaver rhythm. Instrumentation, register and
dynamics are not specified and the scores lack any interpretive instructions other
than ‘fast’ and ‘steady’. Performances were generally at high volume and
intensity, with Glass’s performance group expanding in number and making use of
amplified electric keyboards, wind instruments and female voices (Potter, 2000).
Schwarz notes that “none of these pieces have any changes in instrumentation,
rhythm, tempo or dynamics; all reject the goal-oriented, development model of
Western music; all favour a non-directional steady-state that suspends the passage
of time” (1996; p. 123).
This points clearly to the direction Glass’s work would take post-1970 where the
use of harmony as a structural principle becomes increasingly important at the
expense of rhythmic structure (Mertens, 1983). Reflecting on Music in Twelve
Parts (1974), Glass observes
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
71
. . the music is placed outside the usual time-scale substituting a non-narrative and
extended time-sense, in its place . . the gradual accretion of musical material can and
does serve as the basis of the listener’s attention, then he can perhaps discover another
mode of listening – one in which neither memory nor anticipation (the usual
psychological devices of programmatic music whether Baroque, Classical, Romantic
or Modernistic) have a place in sustaining the texture, quality or reality of the musical
experience. (cited in Mertens, 1983; p. 79)
The overt use of harmony as structural principle and the emphasis on the
singularity of sound, reminiscent in some ways of Young’s minimalist works,
coupled with Glass’ interest in theatre all combine as the basis for Glass’ best
known work, Einstein on the Beach (1976). Created in collaboration with mixedmedia theatre director Robert Wilson, Einstein on the Beach is ostensibly an opera
stripped of dialogue, character development and linear narrative, and is the tipping
point for Glass’ rejection of minimalism and move into ‘musical theatre’. Despite
assertions from Glass that “for me minimalism was over by 1974” (cited in
Schwarz, 1996; p. 128), Einstein utilises many of the minimalist techniques used
in Music in Twelve Parts and, as Edward Strickland (2005) notes, the fact that
Glass was able to condense the music for the (4 LP) recording of the work “may
suggest the somewhat arbitrary nature of a musical exfoliation dictated more by
process than by theme” (online). Building on the use of expanded use of harmony
in Music in Twelve Parts, and a largely unknown work Another Look at
Harmony12, Einstein on the Beach replaces the uses of rhythmic structure with
harmonic structure “or, more accurately, structural harmony . . where the
evolution of material can become the basis of an overall formal structure intrinsic
to the music itself” (Glass, 1978; LP liner notes). Glass’ use of structural harmony
in Einstein is far removed from Western programmatic music and “chords are
used in a way that takes them outside the tonal functionalism of the classical
system . . causing the tonal relationship to disappear” (Mertens, 1983; p. 79).
Summary of key musical and conceptual traits
The preceding discussion has surveyed the experimental music tradition emerging
from the historical narratives outlining the influence of composers such as Cage,
Stockhausen and Reich on Electronica and the work of the Clever Children. In
12
Which was later subsumed into the first two acts of Einstein on the Beach (Potter,
2000; p. 327).
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
72
doing so my aim has been to identify key musical and conceptual traits that are
claimed to evidence such influence. While the validity of these claims will be
assessed later in this dissertation for now these key traits will assist in developing
an analytical framework to enable comparison between the experimental music
tradition and Electronica in order to identify areas of congruence, confluence and
influence with the Clever Children. With reference to the proceeding discussion
then, a number of important musical and conceptual traits have emerged.
The application of non-musical sound by experimental composers begins with a
rejection of functional harmony as an organising principle. The emancipation of
dissonance has led to the privileging of rhythm and texture over melody and
harmony as key compositional determinates. This resulted in musical and nonmusical sounds achieving parity in the works of Varèse and Cage prefigured by
the musical application of noise through new music technologies employed by the
Futurist composers. This led both to the musical inclusion of ambient sound with
Cage’s 4’33” and the use of electronics that allowed composers to work directly
with sound through recording and synthesis technologies.
The abandonment of the autonomous musical work in favour of musical processes
allowed experimental composers such as Cage to subsume their own personal
tastes and preferences by abandoning direct control over the composition and
realisation of musical works. This fundamentally challenged the traditional
conception of the musical work as a permanent and repeatable artefact and led to a
re-purposing of the score as a series of instructions or tools rather than a
representation of sound. Within this context, the role of performer (and at times
the audience) became one of active participation in a co-operative process defined
by, but out of the direct control of the composer. The unique performative nature
of many process-based compositions resulted in the rise of equally unrepeatable
performance events including art happenings and multi-media performances.
The adoption of stasis and repetition as structural devices by the minimalist
composers led to extended musical forms built on a variety of compositional
methodologies including the use of drones, loops and polyrhythmic material.
While not corresponding directly with Cage’s use of indeterminacy, the
minimalist composers did make use of a range of audible processes leading to
what Reich (1968) identifies as a compositional process and ‘sounding music’ that
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
73
are one and the same thing. Key to these developments was the influence of
serialism, non-Western music and psychoactive substances as well as a notable
engagement with popular culture. Minimalism also represents a return to
modality, though not necessarily functional harmony, resulting in Reich’s
maximalist period and Glass’ use of dramatically expanded use of structural
harmony in his music theatre works.
With reference to these strands of the experimental music tradition, it is now
possible to derive the following list of traits which will inform the analytical
framework applied in this investigation. While necessarily selective and not
always universally applicable, these traits do represent generally observable trends
throughout the experimental music tradition as a whole.
Application of non-musical sound:
•
Rejection of tonal structures
•
Rejection of past traditions
•
Predominance of timbre and rhythm over melody and harmony
•
Rhythm used as a structural device and organising principle
•
Use of non-musical sound and noise
•
Use of Electronically generated, recorded and treated sound
Abandonment of the autonomous musical work in favour of musical
processes:
•
Emphasis on process based composition
•
Use of chance operations and indeterminacy
•
Use of non-traditional notation techniques
•
Re-evaluation of and challenge to traditional conceptions of the
roles of composer, performer and audience.
•
Re-evaluation of and challenge to traditional conceptions of the
creation, realisation and reception of musical works.
•
Creation of multi / mixed media works
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
74
Adoption of the stasis and repetition:
•
Use repetition as a structural device
•
Use of static harmony
•
Use of drones
•
Use of deliberate and unintentional psycho-acoustic phenomena
•
Influence of non-Western thought and musical traditions
•
Influence of psychotropic substances
•
Use of static / minimal instrumentation
•
Minimal harmonic and melodic content
•
Use of audible processes
•
Additive and subtractive compositional processes
•
Presence of a steady beat or pulse
•
Extended musical forms
•
Use of polyrhythmic material
These traits and the discussion of the brief discussion of historical narratives
above, represent a reference point for identifying and evaluating the influence of
the experimental music tradition within the following Collective Case Study of
the Clever Children (Part III of this dissertation). However, to be of most use,
these histories and emerging traits now need to be compared and contrasted with a
similar set of observations pertaining to the field of Electronica.
Meet The Parents – The Experimental Music Tradition
75
Elder Siblings – A Brief History of Electronica
Introduction
The purpose of this section is to briefly outline the historical development of
Electronica in order to identify key musical and conceptual traits that will add to
the analytical framework for comparison between the experimental music
tradition and the works of the Clever Children. In addition, this section outlines an
‘alternate’ historical narrative within which the work of the Clever Children may
be placed to that presented in the previous section. This section will examine the
historical, musical and cultural contexts within which Electronica and its myriad
genres exist. This section also seeks to provide a broad overview of the
development and current practice of Electronica. Documenting this landscape is
important because it demonstrates the complex nature of musical parentage and
the ways in which certain musical elements have come to prominence in popular
music over the past 30 years, including possible points of contact with the
experimental music tradition. Several authors have suggested that Electronica has
borrowed elements from the experimental music tradition. Ben Neill, for example,
believes that
Pop electronic music is . . rapidly incorporating many elements of art music:
experimental live performance techniques . . conceptual and process oriented
composition . . collage . . performance art and theatrical spectacle . . and the extensive
use of experimental software and hardware [that] can be seen turning up in clubs and
on dance records around the world. (2002; p. 388)
Furthermore, there is sometimes claimed to be a discernable line of influence
from the work of the experimentalist composers to these contemporary forms,
albeit through several intermediary steps. Philip Sherburne elucidates one such
narrative, contending that:
The origins of most contemporary electronic dance music – found in Kraftwerks’ 1974
opus ‘Autobahn’ and updated in the late 80s and early 90s with the streamlined
electronic funk of Detroit Techno pioneers like Derrick May and Juan Atkins –
emphasized a pared-down palette that cut away all the excesses of a bloating rock and
pop tradition . . foreground[ing] the strategies pioneered in the work of so-called
minimalist composers like Steve Reich and Phillip Glass. (2004; p. 320)
Problematically, intermediaries such as Derrick May and Juan Atkins do not
acknowledge a link to the experimental music tradition, often citing influences
only one step up the chain. This poses the question whether these ideas are passed
on via the multiple intermediary influences who may have reinterpreted them in
their own way or are the result of a similar cultural / musical environment to that
of the experimental composers. What appears to be a clear link between the
experimental music tradition and Electronica may potentially be revealed by
others to be simply a congruent idea inferred from an entirely different and / or
unacknowledged sources. The history of Electronica sprawls through obscure,
sometimes un-credited music-making, realised in clubs such as Frankie Knuckles
legendary ‘The Paradise Garage’ in Chicago, The Detroit Musical Institute and
large-scale outdoor Raves on the M25 motorway encircling London. Rather than a
discrete coupling of musical genus’, the history of Electronica represents an intergenerational free-for-all, resulting in a complex array of musical variance. Sicko
describes the problem most eloquently:
The fragmented landscape of today’s electronic music takes great patience to
understand . . As much as techno is a sum of musical influences, it has also divided
into an infinite number of substrata, which are nearly impossible trace. The easiest
way to start is by looking at the ‘stronger’ genres that have emerged – those that have
developed into full-fledged musical movements of their own and are not only distinct,
but are rapidly causing changes worldwide. (1999; p. 189)
This enquiry will follow Sicko’s suggestion and focus only on the main strata of
Electronica seeking to outline how and in what context major developments
occurred and how particular ideas have been transmitted. In order to provide a
concise and comprehensible musical history while still furnishing an appropriate
level of information, it is necessary to focus on certain styles to the exclusion of
others that may be classifiable as sub-genres or which are less relevant to the
present research. Subsequently this section should not be viewed as a complete
history of electronic music, but rather a familial context within which a discussion
of specific representatives of Electronica can take place. Though convoluted and
at times difficult to navigate, this history provides a context in which it is possible
to discern congruence and confluence from influence with regard to the
experimental music tradition.
Dub
During the 1960s and 70s, the Jamaican Sound-System scene spawned a new and
innovative style of music known as Dub Reggae or Dub. Developed by pioneer
sound engineers and producers such as Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry, King Tubby and
Augustus Pablo, Dub has been a significant influence on a range of Electronica,
particularly Hip-Hop, Jungle and post-Rave experimental musics.
In an interesting parallel to subsequent DJ music / culture, the popularity of
imported American R&B in Jamaica in the late 1950s and early 60s gave rise to
the Sound-System, a mobile set of speakers and a record player that could be set
up at a venue to provide music for large communal dances held in enclosed
flattened areas known as dance halls (Clarke, 1980). In order to attract clientele
the Sound-System operators, proto-DJs in the electronic dance music sense,
would attempt to source exclusive recordings leading to fierce competition over
obscure R&B records that gave rise to “the common practice of scratching out
titles, names and even matrix numbers from the disc” (Barrow & Dalton, 2001; p.
17). Of primary importance to Electronica however, is the development of the
Dub version – a remix of popular songs, specifically for dancing, recorded onto an
acetate ‘Dub plate’ from which the genre takes its name.
In order to fulfil the desire of dancehall patrons for new material, Sound-System
operators started recording their own R&B music. Towards the end of 1965, a
number of Jamaican records were produced that included ‘riddim’ solos, a break
in the music in which only the rhythm section or backing instruments play. These
records became increasingly popular among dancehall patrons and records
including a B-side instrumental version of Jamaican songs that would often be
used as a background track for DJs or MCs to ‘toast’ (speak) over (Clarke, 1980).
During the 1970s, Jamaican record producers had access to multi-track recording
studios which enabled different elements of an ensemble (for example, rhythm
section, vocals, horns and guitars) to be recorded onto separate tracks. This
allowed producers such as King Tubby and Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry to remix popular
Reggae singles to create several unique Dubs or versions. Dubs were created by
fading instruments in and out of the mix, introducing musique concrète elements
such as breaking glass, crying babies and gunshots and utilising effects such as
delay and reverb to create shimmery echoes and unusual rhythmic accents. In this
regard, Dub anticipated the remix culture of Hip-Hop, Disco and contemporary
electronic dance music, reshaping a recording “as if music was modelling clay
rather than copyright” (Toop, 1995; p. 118). Brewster and Broughton note that, in
Jamaica the “record stopped being a finished thing . . it was no longer a complete
piece of music but had become a tool of composition for a grander performance”
(1999; p. 109). Furthermore, in Dub it is possible to observe several key tropes of
popular electronic music culture. Dub foreshadows the rise of the DJ as key figure
in dance music and predicates the 12” vinyl economy employed in New York,
Chicago, Detroit and throughout the UK, Europe and the rest of the world.
Kraftwerk
One of the more credible links between the music of the experimental composers
and Electronica, German group Kraftwerk melded a minimalist approach to
music-making with an obsession for electronic experimentation. Key
collaborators Ralf Hütter and Florian Schneider-Esleben met whilst studying jazz
at the Düsseldorf conservatory and were directly influenced by the American
minimalist composers and Stockhausen (Toop, 1995) as well as the proto-punk of
the MC5, the Stooges and the Velvet Underground13 (Reynolds, 1998). Through
works such as Autobahn (1974) and Trans-Europe Express (1977), musical
expressions of the repetitive nature of long-distance car and train travel
respectively, Kraftwerk-templated key elements of electronic dance music such as
the use of the synthesizer, “a limited set of sounds [and a reliance on] loops,
recurring sequences, and accumulation-through-repetition” (Sherburne, 2004; p.
319).
13
Themselves heavily indebted to the involvement of La Monte Young’s associate
John Cale (Reynolds, 1998).
Kraftwerk’s music displays what Mertens (1983) suggests is an identifiable
influence from minimalism, an observation upheld by a number of other observers
and critics such as Simon Reynolds (2000) and Philip Sherburne (2004), who
argues that Kraftwerk’s “pared down palette . . foregrounds the strategies
pioneered in the work of so-called minimalist composers like Steve Reich and
Phillip Glass [and explores] the very nature of repetition itself, carrying on the
mantle of classical minimalism as a movement” (pp. 319–320).
One of the more influential bands of the 1970s, Kraftwerk have passed this
minimalist mantle to a number of willing followers. Gilbert and Pearson suggest
that “Kraftwerk have been highly influential, perhaps most obviously in their
inspiration of various dance musics from Electro to Techno” (1999; p. 120).
Detroit Techno figurehead Derrick May has been quoted as describing his music
as “like George Clinton and Kraftwerk stuck in an elevator” (cited in Sicko, 1999;
p. 26) and David Buckley suggests that Trans-Europe Express “codified what
would later develop into techno” (Buckley, 2005b; online).
Afrika Bambaata famously sampled Kraftwerk’s Trans-Europe Express and
Numbers for his 1982 record Planet Rock that spawned the electro movement
(Reynolds, 1998). Kraftwerk’s 1981 record Home Computer has been cited as an
influence on early Chicago House music (Sicko, 1999) and David Buckley
suggests that Die Mensch Machine (1978) – The Man Machine – had “a huge
influence on the burgeoning British synth-pop groups such as New Order . . The
Human League and Depeche Mode” (2005b, online). Tellingly, Kraftwerk’s
Autobahn is also present on the cover of the Warp labels first Artificial
Intelligence album, hinting at an affinity with a range of post-Rave Electronica
artists (Reynolds, 1998). Consequently Kraftwerk may be understood as one
important link between the experimental music tradition and Electronica.
Hip-Hop
The exact point at which Hip-Hop emerged as an identifiable musical style is
difficult to pin down. Part of the difficulty is, as Potter notes, “that Hip-Hop, like
previous black musical forms, was not fundamentally new” (2001; p. 150).
Instead, Hip-Hop appears to have developed out of the legacy of Funk, Soul, Jazz
and R&B musics coupled with an approach to pre-recorded material inherited
from the Jamaican Sound-Systems. What was different about Hip-Hop was its
approach to the role of the DJ, the use of repetition and the creation of new music
from pre-recorded sound.
Central to the development of Hip-Hop was Jamaican born DJ Kool Herc who
immigrated to New York’s Bronx neighbourhood in 1967. Herc set up his own
Sound-System, replete with MCs to ‘toast’ his skills, and began playing for ‘block
parties’ sometime in the early-to-mid 70s. Shapiro notes that “when his reggae
records failed to move the crowd he turned to funk, but the only part of the
records he would play was the short section where all the instrumentalists dropped
out except for the percussionists” (2000c; p. 152). Herc realised that these
percussion ‘breaks’, “usually played on the kick, snare and hi-hat, and lasting for
one or two bars . . [and] distinguished by an emphasis on syncopation on the
snare” (Furniess, 2005; online), could be looped by dextrously aligning two
copies of the same record on separate turntables. Describing this process in more
detail, Katz explains that:
Using two copies of the same disc, [early DJs such as Herc, Grandmaster Flash and
Afrika Bambaata] would switch from turntable to turntable letting the passage play on
one record and then the other, ‘backspinning’ the silent record to the right point just in
time to create a seamless repetition of the passage. This process, called ‘looping,’
could be sustained indefinitely, given the skill of the DJ. (2005; p. 116)
The use of the breakbeat in conjunction with ‘toasting’14 came to define early HipHop due to the “novel sound and an intense, danceable beat” (Potter, 2001; p.
150). More importantly, the breakbeat ushered in the use of sustained repetition as
a structural element in electronic dance music. Building on this observation,
David Toop argues that,
. . the break took it to the bridge, to paraphrase James Brown, and held that bridge in a
looping mechanical stasis, thereby aligning Hip-Hop with other musical developments
of the seventies including disco, minimalism, heavy metal, James Brown’s funk, Fela
Anikulapo-Kuti’s Afrobeat, Jamaican Dub, and miles Davis’s electric music – all of
14
Which would later develop into Rap (Potter, 2001).
them exploring entrancing elaborations and variations on repetition. (2000; p. 92)
Ignoring the rather broad associations made here between minimalism, heavy
metal and other forms of popular music, the use of the breakbeat in Hip-Hop does
bear strong congruence with elements of the minimalist tradition, which also
utilised looped playback devices as a mechanism for creating repetition, albeit for
slightly different purposes. Making this link explicit, Katz explains that:
A decade after Steve Reich was experimenting with tape loops in San Francisco, HipHop DJs in the Bronx found that a fragment of music could be repeated indefinitely by
switching back and forth between two copies of the same LP, each on its own
turntable . . these repeated musical fragments were also called loops, and became the
basic structural unit in the instrumental accompaniment in rap [and in fact almost all
contemporary electronic dance music]. (2005; pp. 30–31)
Though it would be difficult to prove that Kool Herc was referencing Reich and
the minimalist composers in his use of breakbeats, a clear line of influence can be
drawn from minimalism to Hip-Hop via Kraftwerk. Afrika Bambaataa’s seminal
record Planet Rock (1982) sampled Kraftwerk’s melody from Trans Europe
Express and the rhythm from Numbers (Savage, 1993). In the process Bambaataa
helped create the Electro or electro-funk sound which combines the electronic
instrumentation and stark minimalism of Kraftwerk with American funk music.
The use of breakbeats would significantly impact the development of several
genres of Electronica such as Hardcore (discussed further later in this
dissertation). Aside from this ‘musical’ impact, the techniques pioneered by Kool
Herc, Grandmaster Flash and Afrika Bambaataa gave birth to the use of the
turntable-as-instrument and subsequently the DJ-as-musician. These two elements
find their most complete expression in the virtuosic performances of
contemporary ‘turntablism’.
‘Turntablism’ is a term coined by DJ Babu, a member of the Invisibl Skratch
Piklz, and can be defined as “a musical practice in which pre-recorded
phonograph discs are manipulated in live performance” (Katz, 2005; p. 115). At
its most basic turntablism combines the skills of beat-juggling, that is, creating
looped sections of audio from concurrently spinning records (such as in Kool
Herc’s use of breaks mentioned above) with scratching; moving a vinyl record
backwards and forwards while it is playing to create a burst of noise or scratch
(Reighley, 2000). Utilising variations of these two basic techniques so-called
‘turntablists’ use the record player as an instrument for the creation of new music
from pre-recorded material. Katz notes that “using turntables, mixers, and
lightning-fast hands, DJs reorganize and recontextualize fragments of recorded
sound and, in a kind of musical husbandry, breed rich new meaning from their
juxtaposition” (2005; p. 136).
Of course Hip-Hop did not solely pioneer the use of the record player as an
instrument. Pierre Schaeffer’s Études de bruits (1947) was composed entirely with
turntable technology, while John Cage identified the turntable along with
oscillators, generators and other devices as being key instruments in the future of
experimental music (Cage, 1958). Acknowledging this in a 2001 interview, David
Toop suggested that proto-turntablist Grandmaster Flash exists within a lineage of
experimentation that can be traced to “composers like John Cage” (cited in
Brewster, 2001; online). Furthermore, that Flash’s groundbreaking recording
Adventures on the Wheels Of Steel, a workbook of early turntablist technique,
“plugged into . . the experimental avant-garde area of music history” (Ibid).
Whilst Toop does not adequately substantiate these claims, it is interesting to note
that similar assertions are made by authors such as Thom Holmes. He cites Paul
Miller (who creates under the alias DJ Spooky That Subliminal Kid), along with
other turntablists Christian Marclay, DJ Olive and Philip Jeck in a musical
lineage traced directly to Cage and Schaeffer (Holmes, 2002). As with the use of
breakbeats, a clear congruence appears to exist and is acknowledged between
turntablism and the experimental music tradition.
While early turntablist technique was developed in the context of live
performance for dance parties, it was not until the late 70s and early 80s that these
techniques were carried over to commercial recordings (Potter, 2001). In a move
bearing remarkable similarities to the development of Dub reggae, early Hip-Hop
artists such as Grandmaster Flash, Afrika Bambaataa and Grand Wizard Theodore
utilised studio technology to create new recorded music from recycled sources. As
time progressed developments in music technology led to Hip-Hop becoming an
increasingly studio-based art form due in part to the use of programmable drum
machines15 and the release of the comparatively affordable E-MU Emulator
sampling keyboard in 1981. Drum machines and samplers made it much easier for
Hip-Hop artists to utilise breakbeats without the need for beat juggling, as a break
could be recorded and then looped via the sampler. Samplers have also been used
to cut up and rearrange breaks, as well as other elements of a recording such as
bass lines, horn riffs and keyboard stabs. For this reason, the use of the sampler
has replaced the turntable in much contemporary Hip-Hop production. Simon
Reynolds (1998) suggests that “sampling was the logical extension of the HipHop DJ’s cut ‘n’ mix vinyl bricolage [and that] the sampler represents an easy-aspie update of musique concrète’s tricky and time-consuming tape-splicing
techniques” (p. 365).
Whilst most contemporary Hip-Hop can be seen as “a series of mutations” (Toop,
2000; p. 93) on Hip-Hop’s origins, Dan Sicko notes that “other genres have either
reinvented or re-established Hip-Hop’s forgotten archetypes” (1999; p. 192). The
use of the breakbeat, turntable-as-instruments, drum machine and sampler have
been key to Hip-Hop’s development. It is these elements which have found the
most fertile ground outside of the genre and can be identified in UK Hardcore’s
and Jungle / Drum ‘n Bass’s use of breakbeats and the sampler and Detroit
Techno’s take on Electro-Funk.
Disco
During the late 1960s, New York developed as an epicentre for dance music
culture. Dance clubs began opening in deserted warehouses and industrial spaces
playing predominantly African-American and Hispanic funk and soul musics
whose “long instrumental breaks and increasing emphasis on percussion and
bass” provided the perfect catalyst for high energy dancing (Straw, 2001; p. 165).
Emerging from this new dance culture were a number of flamboyant gay clubs
such as Salvation, Sanctuary and Haven that opened in the aftermath of the 1969
Stonewall riots, a major turning point in the homosexual rights movement.
15
First used by Grandmaster Flash to create a constant pulse for his turntable
experimentations.
Prendergast notes that these clubs “were havens for black and Hispanic gays who
wished to take drugs and listen to long improvised DJ sets which mixed music of
a myriad of styles together” (2000; p. 376). While tight restrictions had previously
been enforced on public displays of homosexuality, these new clubs flaunted their
patrons’ newly won social freedoms. Collin writes that the club Salvation “was
constructed as a temple to decadence and limitless hedonism . . with a huge
painted Devil flanked by a host of angels, genitals exposed and locked in sexual
communion” (1998; p. 11).
The DJs in these clubs rapidly achieved a level of celebrity for their “ability to
create and sustain a mood over several hours” (Straw, 2001; p. 166). DJs such as
Salvation’s Francis Grasso pioneered the technique of beat-matching, creating a
seamless segue from one record to another by varying the speed at which a
records were played back in order to match their tempo. Grasso “would layer the
orgasmic moans from Led Zeppelin’s Whole Lotta Love over a heavy percussion
break, cutting the bass and treble frequencies in and out to heighten the energy
level, segueing from soul to rock and then on into hypnotic African drums and
change” (Collin, 1998; p. 11). Beat-matching of this type has been used by DJs in
almost all subsequent forms of Electronica, and is foundational to the identity of
the DJ as defined by Grove Music Online as “a performer in dance clubs who
creates continuous music for dancing through the manipulation by mixing and
joining of pre-recorded tracks” (Peel, 2005a; online).
It was into this environment that the first Disco records were released in 1973,
including Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes The Love I Lost and Barry Whites’
I’m Gonna Love You Just a Little More Baby. Early Disco combined simplified
Funk rhythms and the use of traditionally ‘classical’ instruments such as strings,
woodwinds and brass with soul style vocals (Brackett, 2005). As Disco developed
the music diverged into a style more closely related to funk and soul and the
‘Euro-Disco’ sound epitomised by a strong quarter-note pulse and the use of
electronic instruments. Shapiro notes that while “the roots of disco lay in the
rhythmic regimentation of mid-seventies soul records . . the arrival of the drum
machine and cheap synthesizers later in the decade inexorably changed the groove
from funky to martial” (2000b; p. 41).
One of the most significant artists of this period was Donna Summer whose work
with producer Giorgio Moroder on the seventeen-minute odyssey Love to Love
You Baby (1975) and I Feel Love (1977) redefined the sound of dance music.
Like Kraftwerk before him, Moroder abandoned the use of real instruments and
performers in lieu of synthesizers, drum machines and computers (Collin, 1998),
creating I Feel Love entirely from synthetic instrumentation. Prendergast suggests
that “with its emphasis on Minimalism, repetition, ersatz drama and synthetic
rhythms . . the music of Donna Summer and Giorgio Moroder is perceived as a
cornerstone of House and Techno” (2000; p. 374).
As Disco gained popularity, record companies began to understand the role a DJ
could play in creating ‘crossover’ hits between the dance and pop music markets.
Responding to this perceived marketing niche, RCA records distributed the
world’s first extended 12” single, Calhoun’s Dance Dance Dance (1975) as a
promotional item to club DJs. The extended single had a massive impact on the
development of dance music as the one song per side 12” format “allowed for
wider grooves, so that bass and percussion sounds were deeper and overall tones
were richer” (Straw, 2001; p. 167). The 12” also made it possible for the length of
songs to be extended, making for longer instrumental breaks at the beginning and
end of a single that could be used to more easily blend one record into another.
Collin (1998) records that “the 12-inch single . . . was revolutionary not only
because it sounded so physically devastating over huge speakers, but it gave
dance music a new dynamic: both length and depth” (p. 13).
In order to exploit this new dynamic, record companies hired DJs specifically to
create club mixes of popular songs that would take advantage of the 12” format.
In an interesting case of synchronicity, Dub techniques such as instrumental
dropouts, echo and the use of concrète sounds made their way into dance remixes
via Jamaican immigrants who had come to New York during the early seventies
(Shapiro, 2000b). Along with the celebrity status of club DJs, the 12” single and
remix led to the DJ becoming a central figure in dance music, and DJs “who
began as remixers often realised they might almost as easily produced their own
tracks” (Straw, 2001; p. 168). Interestingly, as the 12” has gained prominence the
language used to describe new music has moved away from ‘records’ towards
‘tracks’, signalling the heightened importance of individual compositions over
albums.
At the epicentre of the development of Hip-Hop and Disco, New York figures
prominently in the historical narrative of popular electronic music as the
birthplace of the DJ mixer and the 12” single. The influence of Disco would be
felt far beyond New York's boroughs, birthing a new style of electronic dance
music that would impact throughout the world.
House & Garage – Disco’s twins
As disco was taking off in New York, aspiring DJ Frankie Knuckles was offered a
job at Chicago’s Warehouse, a dance club styled after those in New York. As in
New York, the Warehouse had a predominantly homosexual African-American
patronage that had developed a penchant for the use of psychedelic drugs in
conjunction with all-night dancing. Rietveld (1997) suggests that, “for a group of
mainly urban African-American youths, who wanted to transcend the oppressing
boundaries of a racist, homophobic and sexist world, these parties and clubs were
a haven” (p. 129).
Taking up the role of resident DJ at the Warehouse from 1977 to 1983, Knuckles
introduced the sound of Euro-Disco to thousands of enthusiastic revellers
(Prendergast, 2000). In an attempt to recreate the ‘electronic’ feel of tracks like
Donna Summers’ Love to Love You, Knuckles spliced segments of Disco records
together on reel-to-reel tape along with a four-to-the-floor beat played on an
electronic drum machine, and incorporated the results into his DJ mixes.
According to Rietveld (1997), Knuckles would use his drum machines and reelto-reel tape to “totally re-edit a song” (p. 126) creating remixes, strongly
reminiscent of Dubs, that were unique to the Warehouse. This combination of
sounds was foundational to the development of style of electronic dance music
known as House; purportedly earning its moniker “after people kept asking record
stores for ‘the record they played at the Warehouse’” (Eshun, 2000a; p. 75).
In 1983, Knuckles left the Warehouse and opened his own club the Power Plant,
placing him in direct competition with his previous employers. At around the
same time the Warehouse was renamed the Music Box and Knuckles residency
was taken over by Californian DJ Ron Hardy who, following Knuckles lead
“whipped his audiences up to levels of frenzy with deck mixes tied to Roland
rhythm boxes” (Prendergast, 2000; p. 379). A strong rivalry developed between
the two DJs for audience members that developed into each DJ trying to outdo the
other. In yet another strong echo of the Jamaican Sound-System scene, this led
Knuckles and Hardy to introduce sound effects and mixing trickery into their
performances as well as locally produced ‘tracks’, “so named because they were
little more than a drum track” (Eshun, 2000a; p. 75). Rietveld notes that these
‘tracks’ were little more than,
. . tools for DJ’s [and that] there was hardly any song structure to them . . a rhythm
track generated on a drum-machine, a simple yet powerful bass line, some keyboards
based on Latin American rhythms (mainly salsa) and, when released commercially
perhaps the addition of a sparse gospel-based vocal. (1997; p. 30)
These ‘tracks’ would be brought to the DJs on cassette or reel-to-reel tape due to
the exorbitant cost of vinyl pressing. This trade in unreleased music has led to
some confusion as to what constitutes the first House track. However, it appears
that the first commercially available record was Jesse Saunders’ On and On
(1983) released on Trax Records (Rietveld, 1997), although Knuckles is said to
have played unreleased tracks by Jamie Principal that were purportedly played
from tape prior to Saunders’ release. In either case Chicago soon saw a boom in
locally-produced House tracks released on “roughly pressed, crackling 12-inches
on Chicago’s two main independent labels, Trax and DJ International” (Collin,
1998; p. 20).
Initially titled ‘jack-tracks’ in reference to the jerky, twitchy dance move that
accompanied the music (Eshun, 2000a), the sound of early Chicago House records
was minimal and stark. In effect, House is a pared-down sped-up version of the
Euro-Disco from which the genre had developed16. Though retaining the wailing
Disco vocals, House dispensed with human musicianship almost altogether.
Subsequently the producer rather than the band or singer became the focus of
16
A typical Chicago House track runs at 122-126 bpm (Fulford Jones, 2005d).
House’s fan base. Reynolds (1998) suggests that House is “the culmination of an
unwritten (because unwriteable) history of black dance pop . . determined not by
sacred cow auteurs but by producers, session musicians and engineers” (p. 21).
While running against the grain of prevailing trends in popular music where the
performer and performance are more important, the heightened importance of the
producer and focus on individual tracks instead of albums became the norm for
Electronica. Intriguingly this parallels the role of composers and compositions in
the Western Art music tradition in which the composer or work is often revered
equally or greater than the performer. This is a side concern however, and the
comparison becomes unviable as the producer recedes into the shadow of the DJ
and track.
House took the four-to-the-floor drumbeat present in Disco and used it as a
rhythmic foundation over which “a seemingly unlimited number of other musical
and non-musical elements could be laid” (Straw, 2001; p. 171). Describing the
music, Fulford-Jones notes that early tracks
. . featured little more than a repetitive 4/4 rhythm track from a drum machine, built
around a relentless bass drum on the beat and a hi-hat cymbal on the off-beats. House
also used a similarly simplistic synthesized and often monochordal bass line, and
frequently included a vocal line along with primitive, synthesized orchestration that
echoed the string arrangements found on disco records. (2005c; online)
Many House tracks are inherently modular and the process of composition is
audible in the addition and subtraction of various elements. Sherburne (2005)
suggests this style of composition mirrors ‘classic’ minimalism in that “it grew to
emphasize not a minimum of material but a minimum of form, often on a
horizontal level . . which did not so much progress . . as a mass” (p. 324). Though
bearing some similarities to Reich’s notion of music as a gradual process in which
the process of composition is audible (1968), there is nothing to suggest that this
is the result of direct or indirect influence by Reich on early House producers.
Moreover, there exists an equally plausible historical precedent for this style of
composition in the Dub tradition, particularly as Dub techniques were already
present in some Disco remixes. Another possibility is that this mode of
composition resulted from the limited functionality of the electronic devices
House producers used. Drum machines such as Roland’s TR-909, sequencers,
samplers, DAW software and the turntable itself, all encouraged users to work
with 16-step programmes and loops that could be turned on and off at the push of
a button or drop of a record needle.
Sherburne (2005) argues that these technologies “facilitate the production of
minimalistic constructions as opposed to more song-bases structures [and that in
this respect, Electronica is almost literally] hard wired for minimalism” (p. 322).
Speaking more broadly, Holmes (2002) indicates that “the very nature of
electronic music instruments, old and new, encourages a composer to think in
terms of a process” (p. 251). This suggests an important caveat in that musical
practices, which at face value support claims of an experimentalist influence on
Electronica, may in fact be pointing simply to a congruent musical methodology.
As Goodwin warns,
Scholars accustomed to listening to Laurie Anderson, Philip Glass and even Talking
Heads run the danger of greatly overestimating their impact in pop culture, and - most
importantly - the crucial elements of cultural capital that attach to them. (1998; p.
407)
A flow-on effect from House’s use of a constant four-to-the-floor pulse was to
allow DJs to create “long stretches of unbroken music, often lasting several
hours” (Straw, 2001, p. 172) with little to no variation in the underpinning
rhythmic structure. Partygoers at clubs like the Music Box could literally dance all
night to the same beat. Reynolds (1998) identifies the creation of these megamixes, as well as the use of purely electronic instrumentation and the recurring
four-to-the-floor disco pulse as key to the Chicago House sound. Illicit drug use
was an intrinsic part of this culture of all-night dancing. Patrons of clubs like the
Warehouse and Music Box regularly “smoked pot, sniffed poppers . . and snorted
cocaine” (Ibid; p. 17) as well as using the hallucinogens LSD and PCP to enhance
their club experience.
Chicago was not the sole bastion of House music however and as the epicentre of
Disco, New York was a logical receptor for new electronic dance music. Where
the mechanistic ‘jack track’ was central to the Chicago movement, in New York a
more sonorous and sensuous form of House developed around 1981 known
variously as Deep House or Garage (Eshun, 2000a). Just as the Warehouse was
central to Chicago House, New York’s Paradise Garage became the epicentre of
Garage’s development, even lending its name to the music (Prendergast, 2000).
Garage owes its origins as much to the R&B and Soul/Gospel traditions as Disco,
“combining Philly’s silky symphonic strings and mellifluous vocals with gospel’s
imagery of salvation and succour” (Reynolds, 1998; p. 22). As with Chicago
House, Garage utilises Disco’s quarter note pulse and relies on primarily
electronic instrumentation. Early Garage, such as D-Train’s You’re the One for
Me (1981) and Peech Boy’s Don’t Make Me Wait (1982), is distinct however in
that it is slower than Chicago House, generally 115–120 bpm, contains a strong
melodic and harmonic component not found in the rhythmic Chicago tracks and is
often built around a female soul vocal (Fulford-Jones, 2005d). In this regard,
Garage records often follow a more traditional song structure than Chicago tracks
but add an extra layer of rhythmic interest through the use of off-beat chordal
stabs used to create “a push-pull notion [and] intricate crosshatching of beats”
(Eshun, 2000a; p. 84).
Aiming for an international audience, Chicago labels Trax and DJ International
began releasing the output of Chicago artists in Europe and UK in 1986. Though
taking close to a year, House achieved its first international hit with Farley
‘Jackmaster Funk’ Williams’ Love Can’t Turn Around (1986). A cover version of
an Isaac Hayes tune, Love Can’t Turn Around reached number 10 on the UK
charts when it also was released, spending months as a club favourite before
achieving a number one chart position in January 1987 (Cheeseman, 2003).
Throughout 1988-89 House music achieved genuine popularity throughout
Europe, becoming an institution in the mainly ‘white’ heterosexual club world in
Europe, especially in England, Holland, Germany, Belgium and Italy (Rietveld,
1997).
At around the same time that House was reaching an international audience in
Europe and the UK, Chicago House producers Larry Sherman and Luke Jefferson,
under the moniker Phuture, began using the Roland TB-303 bass line generator in
their tracks, beginning with Acid Tracks (1987). Named because the 303’s “weird
squirting and plopping sci-fi noises” (Prendergast, 2000, p. 380) reminded
Jefferson of 60s psychedelic music or acid-rock, Acid Tracks “created such
mayhem when it was first played at the Music Box that everyone thought the
club’s water supply had been spiked with LSD” (Eshun, 2000a; p. 76). Difficult to
describe but instantly recognisable, the squelching resonant bass lines created by
the 303 became the defining component of a sub-genre of House music known as
Acid House. Initially referring to Chicago House tracks which utilised the 303 to
generate bass lines, the term Acid House is now commonly used to describe tracks
that “derive their central motif from the 303, the only device capable of making
‘authentic’ acid sounds” (Shapiro, 2000a; p. 216).
Acid House was responsible for an explosion in popularity of electronic dance
music in the UK from 1987–88 and a key catalyst in 90s Rave music and culture.
Due perhaps to a misunderstanding of the Acid tag or the ‘druggy’ sound of the
TB-303, Acid House was seen as “a perfect complement for the increasingly
popular [though still developing] Rave movement” (Sicko, 1999; p. 105)
notorious for its association with the drug Ecstasy (MDMA). Prendergast (2000)
suggests that the “instrumental, repetitive and lengthy nature [of House] was the
best musical prescription for a mind high on Ecstasy” (p. 380).
Exposed to significant creative requisition on behalf of UK and European
producers, House and Garage generated several new sub-genres throughout the
1980s, including Trance, Ambient House and Deep Garage. Each has its own
particular musical distinctives, club culture and distribution networks enabled by
“the growth and fragmentation of dance music culture’ (Straw, 2001; p. 172). 17 In
1989, a series of House records were released that made prominent use of the
types of breakbeats previously found in Hip-Hop. These records had a massive
impact on the UK dance scene, so much so that UK producers began breakbeats,
rather than the traditional Disco pulse as the rhythmic foundation for their own
brand of House. Collin (1998) notes that “Britons were now remixing the very
essence of [H]ouse” (p. 246), and in so doing co-opted the genre and transformed
17
It is beyond the scope of this dissertation to refer to these in any depth however
and so where a fuller understanding of these forms is required, discussion will be
restricted to the ways in which these sub-genres significantly differ from House and
Garage’s basic forms.
it into a uniquely UK sound dubbed Hardcore.
Detroit Techno
As Chicago is to House so Detroit is to Techno. America’s motor city served as an
incubator for a parallel, though distinct, development in electronic dance music.
As a musical form, Techno developed out of the work of a trio of producers, Juan
Atkins, Derrick May and Kevin Saunderson, known as the Belleville Three.
Though the history of Techno is not limited to the work these three artists, they
were the initiators and leading proponents of the style and provide a useful focal
point for this discussion.
As with many House producers, Atkins and May along with a friend Eddie
Fowlkes began their musical careers in the early 1980s, DJ-ing under the name
Deep Space Soundworks. The trio labelled themselves as ‘progressive’ and, in a
similar approach to concurrent Chicago DJs, played predominantly Euro Disco
tied to programmed drum machines and synthesizers (Garrat, 1998). Where House
developed within an existing (Disco) club culture however, the Detroit dance
music scene was cultivated through an extensive circuit of (largely African
American) private dance parties and local radio DJs. Sicko (1999) notes “as in a
lot of other cities, the radio served as a great equalizer – bringing music that was
formerly the province of select crowds . . to wider acceptance” (p. 87). Reynolds,
(1998) along with most other commentators makes particular reference to the
Chicago radio DJ Charles Johnson – The Electrifying Mojo, who would play an
eclectic mix of Euro-Disco, Funk, Electro, synth-pop and New Wave music
encompassing Kraftwerk, Donna Summers, Parliament-Funkadelic, Prince, Afrika
Bambaataa and the B-52s.
Drawing inspiration from the music played on Detroit radio and his experience
DJ-ing for parties Juan Atkins formed Cybotron with Vietnam veteran Richard
Davies and began releasing original electronic music starting with Alleys of Your
Mind (1981). Citing science fiction author Alvin Toffler as an influence, Atkins
and Davies developed a new lexicon to describe the music they were creating
called the Grid. It was out of the Grid that the term Techno, itself borrowed
directly from Toffler, emerged as a title for a Cybotron track Techno City (1984)
(Rubin, 2000). Utilising drum machines and sequencers alongside guitars,
Cybotron’s music was inherently experimental in its use of music technology and
a desire to create something new. Describing his music, Atkins said that “you
gotta look at it like, techno is technological. It's an attitude to making music that
sounds futuristic: something that hasn't been done before” (cited in Savage, 1993;
online).
After Cybotron disbanded in 1985, Atkins began releasing music under the
moniker Model 500 on his own label Metroplex. No UFOs (1985), Atkins first
release utilised completely electronic instrumentation and was faster and sparser,
mirroring similar developments in Chicago. Atkins has suggested that the release
of No UFO’s actually predates Jesse Saunder’s On and On by a couple of weeks
(cited in Reynolds, 1998). This is unlikely however given that, as note previously, On and
On was first released independently in 1983. Following Atkins lead, Eddie
Fowlkes, Derrick May and Kevin Saunderson pooled equipment with Atkins and
recorded tracks of their own – Goodbye Kiss, Let’s Go and Triangle of Love – for
release on Metroplex. Shortly afterwards, May and Saunderson split with
Metroplex and began releasing material on their own labels, Transmat (May) and
KMS (Saunderson) (Ibid).
Between 1986 and 1992, May, Atkins and Saunderson released a string of
successful and highly influential recordings under a baffling array of pseudonyms
including Model 500 (Atkins), Rhythim Is Rhythim, Mayday, X-Ray, R-Tyme
(May), Reese, Kreem, and Inner City (Saunderson). These multiple monikers
appear to have been used in order to make it seem like the Detroit scene was
larger than it really was. Combined with the Detroit producer’s use of blank
packaging for their releases however, these aliases helped engender an “aesthetic
of anonymity” (Rubin, 2000; p. 116) that has become a mainstay of Electronica.
Reynolds (1998) notes that, unlike rock music where individual artists and albums
have tended to act as musical currency, in much Electronica “the 12-inch single is
what counts, there’s little brand loyalty to artist, and DJs are more of a focal point
for fans than the faceless, anonymous producers” (p. xv). This aesthetic of
anonymity worked so well that Atkins, May and Saunderson, all African
American, were commonly perceived as white. May laments the fact that this has
meant that Techno, in America at least has become a music for generally white
audiences stating that “nobody has a black audience except for the r n' b and rap
crowd. I long for a black audience to hear my music. It hurts me to believe that
black people are not down. Because I'm black” (cited in Marcus, 1997a; online).
The sound of the ‘first-wave’ Detroit records owes an obvious debt to the
concurrent development of Chicago House. Each of the Belleville Three spent
time in Chicago, first as punters and then as producers aiming to get their own
music played in Chicago clubs. Kevin Saunders has stated that the Chicago scene
was “an inspiration for us. Especially once we started making records” (cited in
Reynolds, 1998, p. 14), and similarly, Derrick May recalls:
Before I really started making music I got baptised by Ron Hardy. The way he played
music and the way people responded to him . . when I had the chance, man, I
followed that vision of those people and that club and of the things I've seen in other
clubs, Ken's club, Frankie's club. (cited in Marcus, 1997a; online)
Chicago also exerted an economic pull over the Detroit producers, partly due to
the 1986 collapse of the Detroit party scene, but also to the opportunities afforded
by an expanding market among radio and club DJs. Juan Atkins notes that “since
there were no new records coming through [Chicago DJs] were looking to fill the
gap with whatever they could find” (cited in Reynolds, 1998; p. 13).
The close ties between Techno and House meant that when British audiences
became interested in the music coming out of Chicago, the work of Atkins, May
and Saunderson was also picked up for distribution. In order to distinguish the
material coming out of Detroit in the UK market, Neil Rushton branded the music
Techno. The term came into popular usage after Kevin Saunderson scored a UK
with Big Fun, released in 1988 on the British compilation Techno!: The New
Dance Sound of Detroit (Savage, 1993). Despite this. it would be a
misunderstanding to view Techno as simply a genre or even progeny of the House
sound. Rather than an update on Euro-Disco, Techno’s pedigree is often described
as an amalgamation of funk and the music of Kraftwerk, somewhat owing to
Derrick May’s often cited explanation of Techno as “like George Clinton [front
man of Parliament / Funkadelic] and Kraftwerk stuck in an elevator with only a
sequencer to keep them occupied” (cited in Reynolds, 1998; p. 3). David Buckley
(2005b) has suggested that 1977’s Trans-Europe Express “codified what would
later develop into techno” (online). Sicko (1999) argues however that “while . .
Kraftwerk had a far-reaching effect on electronic music as a whole, this
simplification ignores Techno’s complex range of influences” (pp. 26–27),
including funk, Hip-Hop and New Wave musics.
Rubin (2000) suggests that the influence of funk music is of particular importance
in differentiating Techno from House, stating that “where Chicago’s sound was
heavily reliant on disco, the Motor City remained steeped in funk, albeit
accelerated to heretofore unexplored beats per minute” (p. 116). Similarly HipHop and Electro have both left their mark, “one signature trick used in Detroit
techno is simply editing a reversed segment or ‘bar’ of music, mimicking [HipHop] DJ backspins and ‘rewinds’” (Sicko, 1999; p. 85). Finally, Gilbert and
Pearson (1999) suggest that the use of string and piano samples, a key component
of Derrick May’s sound, is drawn from European New Wave, Synth Pop and
“their attendant neo-classical musical traditions” (p. 75).
As with House music, Techno’s composition process appears to be modular and is
achieved through the addition and subtraction of various mix elements.
Describing his own work, Derrick May has said that “80% of all my songs have
always started with strings . . I start and from there I just build” (cited in Marcus,
1997a, online). Interestingly, where the rhythm track was the focus of House in
Techno (or at least in Derrick May’s music) the drums are subservient to other
elements of the piece. May has said “the last thing I do is add the drums. Too
many people use drums as a pièce de résistance to their music. That's dumb.
Drums are an accent. That's it. You should be able to make a track and not even
use drums” (Ibid).
Though retaining the quarter-note pulse and approximate tempo of House music,
Techno tracks made use of more syncopated drum programming, inherited from
funk drumming and Hip-Hop’s use of breakbeats, and tended towards
instrumental, rather than vocal tracks, although Saunderson’s Inner City releases
did feature strong vocal hooks and more traditional song-based forms (Fulford-
Jones, 2005e; online). Bass lines were often simplified, de-emphasised or absent,
as in Derrick May’s most famous piece Strings of Life (1987). Fulford-Jones
describes the style as:
Relatively simple in structure and tempo . . it was in 4/4, with a pounding bass-drum
effect often driving through the music. It was more relentlessly percussive and
artificial than the contemporary house [sic] music . . Beyond the rhythm track and
bass line, instrumentation was basic and invariably electronic, a minimalist approach
that owed as much to Kraftwerk as to other concurrent dance music. (Ibid; online)
Fulford-Jones’ use of the term ‘minimalist’ is interesting, particularly given the
focus of this research, because it is theoretically possible to draw a line of
influence from the minimalist composers to Detroit via Kraftwerk. However there
is no available evidence suggesting that Atkins, May or Saunderson were in any
way conscious of the minimalist composers, and the use of the term to describe
electronic dance music generally refers to sonic depiction rather than historical
affiliation. As Sherburne (2004) notes, in relation to Techno and other electronic
dance musics, “the very idea of minimalism has lost much of its specificity as
variations on reductionist themes . . have evolved into a staggering array of
styles” (p. 324).
After chart success in the UK and tours to Europe, Detroit Techno coalesced into a
club scene proper when the Music Institute opened in 1988, providing a place for
local material to be played and local DJs to develop their skills. When the club
closed a year and a half later the Detroit scene imploded as its key proponents
where lured away by lucrative international DJ slots (Rubin, 2000). Finding
fertile ground in the UK and Europe, the Detroit sound was quickly co-opted by a
drug-fuelled club scene and helped influence producers in the UK and Europe to
create “hard-edged instrumental dance” (Garrat, 1998; p. 264). Gilbert and
Pearson note that
Techno joined house in inspiring and invigorating the popular musics of Europe in a
way that was unheard over the past twenty-five years. It proved massively popular in
the UK and Europe, . . . as such producers as Joey Beltram [whose tracks Energy
Flash and Mentasm were hugely influential] and Jeff Mills toughened its timbres and
drove tempos even faster. (1999; p. 75)
These new forms of Techno, released on labels such as Berlin’s Teutonic Beats
and Belgium’s R&S (infamous for releasing Joey Beltram’s Mentasm in 1991)
became increasingly popular than the Detroit originals and the music was sold
back to America in 1991 (Peel, 2005b). That year Across America Rave events
were held amid developing electronic dance music scenes in New York, Dallas,
Los Angeles and San Francisco, beginning “techno’s ironic existence as an import
in the country that had supplied the music in the first place” (Sicko, 1999; p. 117).
While May, Atkins and Saunderson each achieved a level of celebrity as DJs and
producers, the music being produced internationally moved further away from the
Detroit sound. Derrick May was particularly ambivalent towards the druggy
hedonism and sped up tempos that techno became associated with, stating that
Unfortunately most of these kids will never understand what the music was all about
or what it could be about. And unfortunately the DJs - not all of them - who play the
music should be ashamed of . . [People] dance at their parties but could they actually
take one of those records they're playing now and play it in five years time and
somebody actually remember what it sounded like? . . the kids take a pill to feel the
funk and the DJ takes a pill to feel the funk. I don't take a pill to feel the funk. (cited in
Marcus, 1997b; online)
A “semiformal progression” ( Sicko, 1999; p. 85) had emerged for Detroit DJs to
be promoted to full fledged artists and producers through editing and transferring
tape to vinyl and remixing and drum programming for more established acts. This
laid the groundwork for the ‘second-wave’ of Detroit Techno. This new generation
of producers, such as Carl Craig, Richie Hawtin, Plus 8 and the militaristic
Underground Resistance took the music in new directions. These second-wave
artists approach to Techno was filtered through the lens of the UK and European
scenes resulting in “a harsh Detroit hardcore that paralleled the brutalism of Rave
music in Britain, Belgium, Holland and Germany [displacing] the string-swept
romanticism of [Derrick May’s] Rythim Is Rythim . . in favour of riffs, industrial
textures and a dystopian bleakness” (Reynolds, 1998; p. 204).
Post second-wave, Detroit producers branched out into a number of different
directions including combinations of Techno and jazz, which have led to
collaborations with ‘live’ musicians and a retreat towards more classic song
forms. Sicko (1999) notes some interesting parallels between the two musics in
that “both originated with African American artists, both faced early resistance
from U.S. audiences and travelled to Europe for greater acceptance, and both
became popularised (some might say watered down) by white artists” (p. 198). At
the same time the development of a style described as ‘minimal techno’, “took the
repetitive tropes of machine funk . . and cut away everything but the grinding
rhythms” (Sherburne, 2004; p. 321). Stripped back to a jack-track-esque rhythmic
skeleton, ‘minimal’ techno “has survived by shedding characteristics rather than
collecting them” (Sicko, 1999; p. 199). It is unlikely that ‘minimal’ techno
references the minimalist composers in anything but name as it is more likely a
reaction to the excesses of UK and European dance music forms. Minimal Techno
“offered an alternate, and even polemical, position for aesthetes in search of a
more refined brand of ‘intelligent dance music 18’” (Sherburne, 2004; p. 322). The
“popularity of techno and its iconography of the machine” (Gilbert & Pearson,
1999; p. 76) were deeply influential and, though often unacknowledged, Detroit
Techno looms large in the family tree of Electronica’s experimental fringe.
Raving, I’m raving!! – The UK sound
Electronic dance music in the UK progressed in a very different fashion from in
America. Unlike Chicago, Detroit and New York, there was no ‘indigenous’
electronic dance music scene in the UK. Clubs relied, initially at least, on
imported and re-released records. As House, Techno and Garage were assimilated
into UK club culture in the early 1990s, two important developments occurred –
the massive all-night dance parties known as Raves and a new dance music style
called Hardcore. It is important at this point to distinguish between the use of the
term Rave as a musical description and musical event. ‘Rave’ does not describe,
as the Grove Music Online suggests, “a sub-genre of dance music in the UK from
the early 1990s, derived from acid house. It consists of simplistic, anthem-like
electronic melodies over very high tempo, electronic techno backing” (Peel,
2005c; online). Rather, a Rave can be best described as a large, often illegal,
18
In normal usage, the phrase ‘intelligent dance music’ (IDM) refers to a particular
form of electronic dance music made, paradoxically, for contemplative listening. It is
argued later that, IDM displays strong congruencies with the experimental music
tradition.
dance party held in one-off venues such as warehouses or open fields. Raves often
take place all-night or in some cases across several days, and revellers, in many
cases chemically affected, dance to a continuous flow of music provided by a
series of DJs (Cox & Warner, 2005). The music played at a Rave would typically
include House, Techno, Garage and other forms of Electronica. Consequently, the
use of the term Rave as a musical description is not a genre-specific tag but refers
to music that is played at Raves. Despite this, a number of sub-genres of
Electronica have developed out of the Rave scene including Hardcore, Drum ‘n
Bass / Jungle, Trance, Trip-Hop and IDM. The specific form alluded to in the
Grove Music Online appears to be Hardcore, an indigenous UK form of electronic
dance music. This assumption is due to references to “Altern 8, Praga Khan and
the Prodigy” (Peel, 2005c, online), all identified by Simon Reynolds (1998) as
belonging to the Hardcore genre.
House and Techno arrived in the UK club scene in 1986-87 via the releases on the
Trax and DJ International labels. Instrumental in the reception of these records
were the new so-called ‘Balearic’ clubs such as Shoom, The Project, Spectrum
and Future opening in London in 1987 / 88 (Reynolds, 1998). These clubs styled
themselves after the dance culture on the popular tourist island of Ibiza, where the
arrival of imported House records from Chicago in 1986 coincided with the
widespread use of the drug MDMA, also known as Ecstasy (Sicko, 1999).
The effects of Ecstasy vary from person to person, but generally include an
increased level of alertness, feelings of euphoria and a mild hallucinogenic effect
due to an increase in dopamine and serotonin in the brain. Users often also
experience a sense of empathy with others and an increased awareness of touch,
light and sound (Saunders, 1994b). Within the context of a Rave, Ecstasy serves
to create an artificial sense of intimacy among participants and a heightened the
experience of music. Describing his own experiences with Ecstasy, Reynolds
(1998) notes “all music sounds better on E – crisper and more distinct, but also
engulfing in its immediacy” (p. xxv).
The use of Ecstasy as a recreational drug dates back to 1984 where, then a legal
substance, it was used widely among students in the US and was even available at
bars in some areas of Texas. Ecstasy in the US was banned in 1985 and ultimately
classified as a Schedule 1 drug in the same class as Heroin (Saunders, 1994a;
online). In Ibiza, Ecstasy was combined with House and Techno music which
Champion (1997) suggests provided “the ideal soundtrack” (p. 113) to an Ecstasy
trip. The emphasis on texture and timbre and repetitive nature of House and
Techno help to bring on ecstatic ‘rushes’ in listeners, and these effects, though
“unintended by their original creators [have] gradually evolved into a selfconscious science of intensifying MDMA’s sensations” (Reynolds, 1998; p. xxvi).
The Balearic clubs fostered an environment of drug use and all-night dancing
coupled with electronic music and the use of lighting special effects that proved
immensely popular. So much so that, as Gilbert and Pearson note, “‘Dance
culture’ and ‘Ecstasy culture’ have become virtually synonymous terms in the
United Kingdom today” (1999; p. 138). Clubs such as Shoom traded on the
euphoric and empathic emotional effects of Ecstasy promoting an environment of
“love-and-peace-and-unity [that] was supposed to be the death-knell of clubland’s
snobbish exclusivity” (Reynolds, 1998; p. 40). Combined with a resurgence of the
New Age movement and a prevalent association of Rave culture with 60s
psychedelia, this led to the summer of 1988 being dubbed the ‘Second Summer of
Love’ (Prendergast, 2000).
Along with the explosion of Acid House in the UK in 1987/88 and a burgeoning
network of pirate radio stations (Cheeseman, 2003), the Balearic clubs helped
solidify a dance music culture based around fashion (baggy in order to alleviate
sweat from dancing), electronic dance music and the use of Ecstasy. Savage
(1993) notes that “this drug-derived subculture has become the single largest
fashion in England and across the continent” (online). As the popularity of Acid
House and Ecstasy increased, dance parties began expanding outside of the
London area clubs into farms, fields and other large open spaces. Largely illegal
events, these ‘Raves’ tended to be around the M25 Orbital motorway that
encircles London, with the exact location often revealed only at the last moment
to avoid being shut down by the police. The first of these, ‘Midsummer Nights
Dream’, was held on the 24th of June 1989 and attracted a record 11,000 partygoers to an Aircraft Hanger (Reynolds, 1998), a record that was smashed three
years later by the six day Castlemorton Rave which drew between 25 and 40
thousand people (Wright, 1994). As Raves increased in size, the movement
reached a critical mass and in 1990 the British government passed into legislation
a private members bill followed by the Criminal Justice Act of 1994 which “in
effect prohibited the Ravers’ mass gatherings” (Sicko, 1999; p. 120).
The Rave scene achieved more long-lasting success and development throughout
Europe and became a truly worldwide phenomenon throughout the mid-to-late
1990s. Raves radically challenged traditional notions of the roles of the performer
and audience. Neill argues that,
in this type of event, the artists are not the center of attention; instead it is the role of
the artist to channel the energy of the crowd and create the proper backdrop for their
social interaction. The audience truly becomes the performance. (2002; p. 389)
This view appears to be supported in accounts by Rave participants. Garrat, for
example, documents a warehouse party at which, in the changeover period
between DJs “the crowd bashed bottles and cans on the walls and floors, clapped,
stamped and chanted to keep the beat going and carried on dancing to the music
they were making themselves” (1998; p. 123). Similarly Reynolds (1998) states,
“where ‘serious’ dance mags like Mixmag and Muzik frame the DJs as auteurs and
cult figures, and barely mention the crowd in their live reviews, the Rave-mags
treat the audience as the star” (p. 167).
Without wanting to downplay the importance of the Balearic clubs in the history
of Raves, a common misconception, as voiced by Nicholas Saunders in his book
E is for Ecstasy (1994a), is that “the Rave scene started on the hippy holiday
island of Ibiza in 1987, where Ecstasy joined LSD and hashish at all-night dance
parties [which later] took the form of large outdoor and warehouse parties [in
England]” (p. 79). In fact, the Rave movement in the UK drew on two important
existing dance cultures: Northern Soul’s all-night drug fuelled parties and fetishist
obsession with imported American music, particularly from Detroit; and local
Sound-System operators and promoters who organised massive illegal dance
parties in abandoned warehouses throughout the early 1970s and 1980s.
In an almost direct parallel to the Rave movement in the UK, the Northern Soul
movement was built around a culture of all-night or all-day club events at which
white ‘Mod’ audiences would dance to Soul and R&B records released by labels
such as Detroit’s Motown and Chicago’s Chess Records. Northern Soul dances
were held throughout the 70s in Manchester, Blackpool and London’s West End
but were made up of a mainly white audience. Noting the similarities between
electronic dance music and Northern Soul, Reynolds writes that “Northern Soul
was all about up-tempo Black American music and popping pills so you could
dance till dawn; it revolved around name DJs, obscure tracks, and long-distance
journeys to clubs that were worshipped as temples” (1998; p. 55). The city of
Detroit figured significantly in the Northern Soul movement and record collectors
sought after everything released by Motown and other ‘rare-groove’ records
bordering on a fetishist zeal, paying vast sums of money for rare and original
records (Milestone, 1997).19 The impact of the Northern Soul scene can be traced
through the move from import records to locally produced ‘blue eyed soul’ and
‘mod’ bands such as the Who, the Jam and the Small Faces to UK New Wave and
indie-rock music of bands like the Smiths and New Order. Some Northern Soul
DJs even wound up at clubs such as Manchester’s Hacienda (partly owned by
New Order), where New Wave audiences were turned onto “a more experimental
and innovative edge to dance music” (Milestone, 1997; p. 163).
In the 1980s, the city of Manchester saw a unique fusion between the new Rave
dance music and UK indie-rock “where bands like the Happy Mondays, the Stone
Roses, and the Onsprial Carpets took on some of the textures and / or lifestyle of
acid house, dubbing their movement and the city ‘Madchester’” (Sicko, 1999; p.
110–111). The Madchester scene was integral in the rise of bands such as the
Happy Mondays and Stone Roses who applied the repetitive beats of acid house
to a New Wave rock aesthetic. La Monte Young’s associate John Cale produced
the Happy Monday’s album Squirrel and G-Man Twenty Four Hour Party People
Plastic Face Carnt Smile (White Out) (1987), further cementing the link between
the minimalist tradition and popular culture. Manchester was also home to one of
the first UK based dance acts proper, 808 State, whose 1988 House / Techno track
19
As a side note, Neil Rushton, the music entrepreneur who introduced Detroit
Techno to the UK, was heavily involved in the Northern Soul scene and became
interested in Techno records initially because of their place of origin (Reynolds, 1998).
‘Voodoo Ray’ was remixed by Frankie Knuckles (Prendergast, 2000).
Where Northern Soul parties where attended by a predominantly, and at times
exclusionary, white audience, a parallel dance culture was developing among
black British youth. By the turn of the 1980s, Jamaican style Sound-System crews
such as Shock and Soul II Soul began holding parties in abandoned warehouses,
driven by the “rising costs of real estate and a backlash against the elitism of bigcity nightclubs” (Straw, 2001; p. 172). As well as Reggae, these sound systems
played Soul, Funk and Hip-Hop records and Garrat notes “when house music
came along in 1986, it was seen as just another music to be added to the mix”
(1998; p. 79). As happened with the Balearic clubs the introduction of House
came hand in hand with Ecstasy, and the music and chemical were quickly
assimilated into the warehouse parties. This resulted in a number of ‘free-parties’
such as 1988’s Hedonism, inspired by New York’s Paradise Garage, which
explicitly brought together all-night dancing to house music in a warehouse
setting in which Ecstasy was freely imbibed (Garrat, 1998). Hedonism, and other
events, such as Dirtbox and the Warehouse, suggests that when clubs like Shoom,
Spectrum and The Trip began taking over open spaces such as farms and
warehouses in the late 80s, they were simply plugging in to an existing culture
which had roots in Jamaica as early as the 1960s.
Following the pattern templated in Jamaica, New York and Chicago, the
emergence of an indigenous UK electronic dance music was born out of a desire
for unique material among DJs to distinguish themselves from their competitors.
Though still primarily an import culture, by 1987 the wider availability of import
records and compilations of rare tracks meant “if DJs wanted something exclusive
to play then they’d have to make it themselves” (Garrat, 1998; p. 83). Taking cues
from Dub, Hip-Hop, Techno and House, UK producers utilised samplers, drum
machines and turntables to create pastiche reproductions of the sounds emanating
from America. Early attempts tended towards either imitation of the popular Acid
House records coming from Chicago at the time 20 or Hip-Hop style cut-up
20
A sound that would later re-emerge as ‘Trance’ circa 1992, comprised of “at least
three 303 bass-pulses . . Moroder-style Doppler effects, sequencer-riffs, and tier upon
tier of percussion” (Reynolds, 1998; p. 184).
(re)mixes which combined samples lifted directly from popular records. Collin
notes that
The turntable scratch mixes of Hip-Hop DJs and the drum-machine formula of the
first Chicago house records pointed the way to a cheap low-tech methodology which
nonetheless sounded revolutionary. The way music could new be composed on a fourtrack recorder, assembled from samples and beatboxes [drum machines], then cut to a
white label 12-inch single and sold through independent dance record stores, was a
democratisations of the creative process. (1998; p. 59)
Just as in Detroit, the ease with which these records where created and the
availability of an independent distribution system resulted in the establishment of
a DIY dance music production industry. A DJ could press a 12” single and sell it
through independent dance record stores. UKs Sheffield became the first hub of
this type of industry. Beginning with Unique 3’s 1989 record The Theme,
Sheffield became the epicentre for a new style known as Bleep and Bass, so called
because of the use of spare musique concrète style percussive elements and
multiple layered bass lines resulting in bass-heavy, vocal-less, “sparse and
industrial sounding [mixes]” (Garrat, 1998, p. 264). Though labelled ‘Northern
House’ the style owes more to the Kraftwerk-influenced minimal beats of Electro
and the bass-heavy sound of Reggae than either House or Techno genres. Cofounder of Sheffield’s Warp label Steve Beckett suggests Bleep and Bass
developed in the context of Northern England Sound-Systems where “they’d play
reggae, then Hip-Hop, then these bleep-and-bass tunes . . and they’d be toasting
on top of it” (cited in Reynolds, 1998; p. 99).
The confluence of Reggae and Hip-Hop produced an unexpected Rave anthem in
the form of East End duo Shut Up and Dance’s 5678 (1989). A UK Hip-Hop act
who performed regularly at east London sound system parties, Shut Up and Dance
created 5678 by speeding up the breakbeats found on American Hip-Hop records
creating “a more edgy, aggressive feel that embodied east London’s panorama of
struggle and deprivation” (Collin, 1998; p. 246). Although a number of US dance
records, such as Frankie Bones Bonesbreaks (1988) had previously experimented
with the use of breakbeats in House music, the sound never really took off and
breakbeats remained the domain of Hip-Hop. From late 1989 however, UK
producers began replacing the programmed Disco pulse of House and Techno
with breakbeats sampled from Hip-Hop, jazz and rare-groove records popularised
by Northern Soul “driven by an urge to make the drums more percussive and the
bass more physical than they had ever been before” (Sharp, 2000; p. 135).
The popularity of this music appears to be due to an anyone-can-do-it approach
that required only a sampler, turntable and sequencer to release a record “with no
need for drum machines or synthesizers” (Reynolds, 1998; p. 105). This notion is
supported by Garrat who maintains that many early tracks were crude affairs
“made on cheap synths and home computers by sampling original techno and
house over breakbeats and [by] adding Dub-style breakdowns and nutty
oscillating riffs” (1998; p. 266). Shapiro suggests that the misappropriation of
musical material was par-for-the-course noting that “Shut Up and Dance stole
beats from Suzanne Vega and Def Jam records, while 4 Hero’s ‘Mr. Kirk’s
Nightmare’ took a snippet from the Isley Brother’s b-boy classic ‘Get Into
Something’” (2000c; p. 153). This approach to sampled material extended to
‘borrowing’ ideas from concurrent producers and that,
. . when anyone came up with a new idea, it was instantly ripped off a hundred times.
Inspired errors and random rucking about produced new riffs and noises, ‘mutations’
that entered the dance floor eco-system and were then inscribed in the music’s DNAcode. (Reynolds, 1998; p. 127)
Labelled Hardcore, the combination of Techno and House with breakbeats became
the dominant form of dance music at Raves between 1990 and 1992 and
impacted heavily on the UK dance charts. Collin notes that
. . the biggest hits were The Prodigy’s Charly, which featured a sample of a mewling
cat from a 1970s public information broadcast over crushing polyrhythms, Sesame’s
Treet by Smart Es, a novelty record that set the theme from the American children’s
show to a hardcore beat, and Altern-8’s Activ-8, its comical, druggy refrain recited by
a three-year-old. (1998; p. 251)
Throughout the rest of Europe, a parallel Techno sound had developed which
incorporated heavy metal-influenced synth riffs and distorted noise. 1991’s
Mentasm is perfect exemplar of this style driven by the now infamous ‘Mentasm’
sound derived from the Alpha Juno synthesizer. This hard-edged sound would
intensify as the 90s went on and tempos of European tracks became increasingly
aggressive, fast (greater than 150 bpm) and Dionysian, reflecting a penchant by
club goers for amphetamine cut Ecstasy and a general dystopic vibe among the
scene. As European Techno and the Second Wave Detroit producers began making
an impact on Hardcore, their ideas were simply appropriated and added to the
mix, pushing tempos faster and deploying “riff-like ‘stabs’ and bursts of blaring
noise” (Reynolds, 1998; p. 97).
The resulting Gabba (and later derivatives Happy-Core, Bouncy-Techno and
Happy-Hardcore) was most popular in Scotland and Northern Europe and
surfaced in 1994–95 with tracks such as Euromaster’s Amsterdam Waar Lecht Dat
Dan? (translated as Amsterdam, Where the Fuck Are You? for the international
release), Annihilators I’ll Show You My Gun and Sperminators No Woman
Allowed. Key to the Gabba sound was the abandonment of the breakbeat and
reappropriated four-to-the-floor disco pulse; heavily distorted and accelerated to
“such a punishing rate of velocity [180–300 BPM and beyond] . . it becomes a
drilling noise that kind of pummels your head and drills through your cortex”
(Eshun, 2000b; p. 155). Gilbert and Pearson note that the music “rarely possesses
anything discernible in the way of melody or rhythmic variation [and that the]
angry, adrenaline-testosterone textures are pressed into the service of pure
linearity, speed without content, direction without aim” (1999; p. 95). Reynolds
(1998) suggests that the emergence of the militaristic, overtly masculine and
aggressive Gabba sound has to do with the effect of excessive long term Ecstasy
use. As the body becomes accustomed to Ecstasy the psychological effect of the
drug becomes more like amphetamine. Reynolds argues that “as Ecstasy’s
androgynizing powers began to fade, so there was a gradual remasculation of
Rave culture, and a militarisation of the music and imagery . . the tempo rose
dramatically to match the overdriven metabolisms of a new generation of
speedfreaks (Ibid; p. 258).
Jungle / Drum ’n Bass
By the time Hardcore had became established in the UK, the distinct sounds of
Techno and House had become enmeshed and any clear line of influence becomes
lost in a maelstrom of music and ideas. This eventually resulted in a schism within
UK dance music that saw Hardcore cross over into pop mainstream, spawning
superstar groups like The Prodigy at the same time as it escalated into the visceral
audio assault of Gabba. Collin notes that:
It wasn’t long before the scene cleaved in two, leaving the predominantly white
Ravers with their pills, their white gloves, face masks and lightsticks, and a music full
of cheery piano riffs, preposterous samples and vocal shrills – named, almost in [261]
defiance, happy hardcore – which bathed in nostalgia for the euphoria of 1991 and
shamelessly celebrated the pure state of Ecstasy; weekender hedonism taken to the
borders of oblivion. (1998; pp. 261–262)
Hardcore’s acceleration into Gabba also birthed a sibling musical form that,
equally repelled by the sounds of pop-dance hits, developed in a completely
different direction. Between 1992 and 1993 a slew of Hardcore 12” singles were
released featuring video game samples, “horror movie samples, evil noises,
queasy sound effects and metallic breakbeats” (Ibid; pp. 255–256) introduced this
new direction Dubbed Dark-Side or Dark-Core.
Crucial to the Dark-Core sound was the inexpensive Akai S-1000 sampler,
released in 1989. Drawing strong parallels with musique concrète-style tape
manipulation, the S1000 enabled Dark-Core producers to easily pitch shift, time
stretch, and reverse selected samples drastically altering their timbre. Playing on
this, Dark-Core tracks would often layer several treated and sped up breakbeats on
top of each other to create dense polyrhythmic percussion that served equally as
rhythm and texture (Reynolds, 1998). Moving beyond Hardcore’s relatively
simple approach to looping breakbeats Dark-Core producers, led by Rob Haigh
(Omni Trio), discovered that the S-1000 could be used to construct new
breakbeats from discrete samples (Sharp, 2000). This development made possible
the creation of increasingly intricate rhythms limited only by the skill of the
producer. Any existing beat or group of samples could be cut up and rearranged,
combined with other sounds and then further manipulated to create an almost
endless range of completely new sounds and rhythms. Neill suggests that
Just as composers in earlier historical periods often worked within a given set of largescale formal parameters . . innovative pop electronic composers use steady pulse,
loop-based structures and 4/4 time as a vehicle for a wide range of compositional
ideas and innovations. Shifts of tempo, subdivision, sonic manipulation and complex
quantization structures are making beat science the new jazz of the 21st century.
(2002; p. 388)
Despite Neill’s over-enthusiastic endorsement this so-called beat science radically
skewed the Dark-Core sound until it became unrecognisable, shifting the
emphasis away form Hardcore’s collage-like production approach towards the
textural qualities produced by the combination of particular samples. Reynolds
argues that in this regard the music,
. . parallels the preoccupations of avant-classical composers like John Cage and Steve
Reich, who drew inspiration from the treasure-trove of chiming timbres generated by
Indonesian gamelan percussion orchestras. Jungle fulfils the prophesy in Cage’s
‘Goal: New Music, New Dance’ of a future form of electronic music made by and for
dancers. ‘What we can’t do ourselves will be done by machines and electrical
instruments which we will invent,’ wrote Cage, seemingly predicting the sampler and
sequencer. (1998; p. 242)
While these observations appear valid, there is no available evidence to suggest
that producers such as Omni Trio or Dead Dred were conscious of any imitation
or homage to the experimental music tradition. The similarities Reynolds observes
are more likely due to the influence of the S-1000 sampler rather than any
familiarity with the music of Cage, Varèse and others within the experimental
music tradition. Furthermore, Reynolds observations appear to stray awfully close
to what Gilbert and Pearson critique as a Eurocentric modernist musical discourse
that “turn[s] a dance form into an ‘art’ music” by incorrectly re-reading it “as an
exercise in modernist avant-gardism” (1999; p. 80). Though it is important to note
however that these comments are made with the disclaimer:
This is not to say that producers themselves were not instrumental in this process,
negotiating their newly-acquired status as artists and the cachet it afforded them – nor
does it suggest that its audiences have not been aware of the music’s implied avantgardism. (Ibid; p. 80)
Another important element of this new sound was the role of bass in solidifying
the move away from Hardcore. Given the complexity and speed of the breaks
being created with the help of the S-1000, bass lines tended to run at half the
tempo of the rest of the track and played a strong melodic role (Sicko, 1999). The
sound of these bass lines was similar to the ‘sub-bass’ of Bleep and Bass records
that is felt as much as heard and has a ‘liquid’ timbre. Both the feel and sound of
these bass lines also owed heavily to the influence of Dub Reggae and Ragga (or
Ragamuffin), a contemporary form of Reggae produced with digital
instrumentation (Barrow & Dalton, 2001). Though a similar sound can also be
found in the Kevin Saunderson track Just Want Another Chance (1986), the use of
samples from Jamaican records and other Dub style effects such as gunshots
suggest a stronger Jamaican influence. As Collin (1998) notes that common
practices such as the use of exclusive ‘Dub plates’ (acetate 12” records), MC
toasting and the creation of multiple versions or remixes from the same source
“were adapted directly from Reggae sound system traditions” (p. 263). Within this
context, the following comments from Wikipedia serve to further illuminate affect
of Jamaican sounds on the emerging style:
As the influences of Reggae and Dub became more prominent . . [the music] began to
take on an urban sound that was heavily influenced by ragga and dancehall music as
well as Hip-Hop, often incorporating the distinctive vocals and MC chants of these
styles of music. (2006, online)
The foregrounding of complex sped up programmed breaks and half speed subbass cemented a highly distinctive sonic identity termed Jungle and / or Drum ‘n
Bass reflecting “both the cumulative history of electronic dance music and its
unexplored possibilities” (Sicko, 1999; p. 190).
There appears to be significant confusion regarding the differences between these
two terms and in particular whether they refer to separate or identical musical
forms. Gilbert and Pearson for example suggest that “the name ‘jungle’ – whose
connotations had never been popular with some of its practitioners – [was] . . .
dropped in favour of the neutral formalism of the tag ‘drum ‘n’ bass’” (1999; p.
79). Conversely, Fullford-Jones argues that Drum ‘n Bass developed out of Jungle
and that
. . the predominant rhythms of the original ‘hard jungle’ music were, in turn, the
driving influence behind drum ’n’ bass, which on the surface sounds extremely
similar . . drum ’n’ bass is in fact a slightly less frenetic music still using complicated
syncopated rhythms, but with a greater reliance on melody and an increased use of
non-diatonic chordal washes similar to those found in some ambient techno music.
(2005b; online)
Despite these musical distinctives, there is still significant debate as to appropriate
lexical terminology. However it would appear that such distinctions that do exist
between the two ‘genres’ are not significant enough to bear closer examination for
the purposes of this research. Both forms are built around the use of sped-up
breakbeats, and half time bass lines and share so many similarities that it is
difficult to draw genre markings or stylistic distinctions in any meaningful way to
the uninitiated listener. Any attempt to do so is further complicated by the
perverse sense of sub-classification present in electronic dance music and a
certain train-spotter mentality mixed with neo-tribalist appropriation of music.
Sicko (1999) explains that there are almost as many Drum’n’Bass subcategories
as there are Drum’n’Bass records, “raising ire among many of its original
producers . . as if a superfluous lexicon is choking the very life of Britain’s most
interesting musical export” (Sicko, 1999; p. 180). Actual usage of the terms would
appear to concur with the Wikipedia article on Drum ‘n Bass which suggests that
Probably the widest held viewpoint is that the terms are simply synonymous and
interchangeable: drum and bass is jungle, and jungle is drum and bass – although
many drum and bass or jungle fans will debate this belief. (2006; online)
Subsequently, for the purposes of the identification of key traits to be employed in
this dissertation, Jungle and Drum ‘n Bass will be treated as closely related if not
interchangeable, terms while acknowledging that musical distinctions probably do
exist.
The culture surrounding Jungle / Drum ‘n Bass was significantly different to that
of the Balearic and Rave scenes. As Jungle became more popular it “plugged back
into the Hip-Hop attitude that had inspired hardcore in the first place” (Sharp,
2000; p. 146). Clubs nights like Rage, with in house celebrity DJs Fabio and
Grooverider, attracted an audience largely alienated by the Balearic clubs and
Rave events. While acknowledging that the producers and audiences for Jungle
were multi-cultural, Collin argues that “jungle spoke to a black British identity.
Jungle Raves began to attract a black inner-city crowd who might have been
interested in Hip-Hop or ragga, but would never have considered going to a house
club” (1998; p. 258). Reynolds goes so far as to suggest Jungle articulated a
distinct (black) urban culture that was “Britain’s very own equivalent to (as
opposed to imitation of) US Hip-Hop” (1998; p. 245). In contrast Ferrigno (2008)
suggests that Jungle / Drum and Bass audiences represented a disenfranchised
inner-city populous unified by factors that were “political and economic rather
than racial” (p. 4). Regardless of its raison d’être the segregation of Jungle from
concurrent forms of Electronica engendered a kind of persecution mentality and a
fiercely independent attitude towards the production and dissemination of new
music. Perhaps the most prominent example of this is the plethora (perhaps
armada) of pirate radio stations broadcasting the latest Jungle tracks illegally from
London’s tower-blocks in the early 1990s. Successful Pirate DJ’s were constantly
one step ahead of their competition and two steps ahead of the law replicating the
dub-plate economy of 1970s Jamaica and updating the Sound-System with a
decentralised form of sonic-reproduction. The drugs associated with Jungle /
Drum ‘n Bass were also different and the substance of choice was not Ecstasy but
Marijuana and / or Cocaine which Prendergast suggests was the perfect
accompaniment to Jungles fragmented beats and Dub bass lines (2000).
In 1998 Goldie’s Timeless and Reprazent’s New Forms introduced Jungle / Drum
‘n Bass to a mainstream audience through massive commercial success and
critical acclaim (Fulford-Jones, 2005b). The intrinsically recombinant nature of
Jungle / Drum ‘n Bass induced a series of hybridisations resulting in an
increasingly diverse list of subgenres. Tech-Step, for example, coupled Jungle
with the industrial ‘Hoover’ sound of Belgian Hardcore, while Speed Garage
reverted to a four-to-the-floor rhythmic simplicity while retaining Jungle’s Dubstyle bass lines and level of textural complexity (Sharp, 2000). This period also
bore witness to the phenomenon of ‘intelligent’ Drum ‘n Bass which paid lip
service to ‘traditional’ notions of musicianship. To this end, many producers
utilised the ‘authentic’ sounds of analogue synthesizers, jazz samples and ‘real’
instruments and singers (Reynolds, 1998). While the genre proved unsuccessful
among club audiences, it appealed strongly to certain music critics and a ‘homelistening’ audience (Rubin, 2000). Far from an isolated quirk of the Jungle scene,
the notion of ‘intelligence’ in dance music was becoming an increasingly popular
one that served “to delineate a firm border between the discerning few and the
undiscriminating mass” (Reynolds, 1998; p. 157).
IDM, ambience and experimentalism
In 1992, Sheffield’s Bleep and Bass label Warp released a compilation album
titled Artificial Intelligence that introduced the notion of Electronic Listening
Music or IDM (Intelligent Dance Music) to a dance party / Rave audience.
Containing tracks by artists such as The Orb and the Dice Man, the first Artificial
Intelligence release is notable for the cover, featuring a marijuana-smoking robot,
implying an association with ‘concept’ albums such as Kraftwerk’s Autobahn and
Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of The Moon (Savage, 1993). The album reflects a
developing schism between an increasingly populist dance music scene and a
growing body of disenfranchised ‘purists’ for whom the ritual of clubbing, illicitdrugs and come-downs was, apparently, of secondary concern to ‘the music’.
Commenting on the Artificial Intelligence album, Gilbert and Pearson observe
that,
The discourses around the movement which ensued appeared to remove techno from
the dancefloor and back into the mainstream of the metaphysical tradition; musics to
listen to, musics to sit still to, electronic avant-garde music by and for (although not
exclusively) white middle-class men. Such unfortunately titled labels as ‘intelligent
techno’ signalled the removal of these musics form the zone of the body towards those
of the intellect and ‘art’. (1999; p. 76)
The very notion of ‘intelligence’ as a defining feature of electronic music has been
much maligned due to the implication that other forms of electronic music were
somehow inferior and ‘unintelligent’. Reynolds sees the distinction as social as
well as musical, informed by a “perennial class-based divide in British pop
culture” (Reynolds, 1998; p. 175), noting that a very different crowd would turn
up to a hardcore Rave and chill out party. In contrast to the sample-heavy
Hardcore sound, IDM involved a nostalgic return to the sounds of early Detroit
Techno and Chicago House, practitioners favouring the use of analogue
synthesizers such as the Roland TR-909 drum machine and TB-303 ‘acid’ bass
generator due to a perceived ‘warmth, musicality and ‘authenticity’ engendered by
such machines. Where sampling was used it “was governed by an ethos of
masking and warping sources, in explicit opposition to the recognizable quotes
and lifts that characterized ‘ardkore’s cut-up approach” (Reynolds, 1998; p. 157).
Splitting with most previous electronic dance music forms IDM promoted the
creation and reception of album based works, rather than 12” singles, which were
intended to create a sustained immersive sonic environment. Though driven in
part by the financial benefits of album sales (as opposed to singles), in this regard,
IDM,
. . involved a full-scale retreat from the most radically posthuman and hedonistically
functional aspects of Rave music towards more traditional ideas about creativity,
namely the auteur theory of the solitary genius who humanizes technology rather than
subordinates himself to the drug-tech interface. (Reynolds, 1998; p. 157)
A central narrative running throughout IDM is that of Ambient Music, a term first
coined by producer/composer Brian Eno in the 1970s to describe environmental
music (distinct from Muzak) that is designed to enhance acoustic spaces by
creating a particular mood and/or atmosphere. Within the context of contemporary
electronic dance music, Eno’s ideal of Ambient music inducing calm and creating
space to think, appears to have found a perfect venue. Eno himself stating that, “I
was always very confident this is one of the ways [Ambient] music would go”
(cited in McCormick, 1995; online). However he also saw limitations with this
chill out music stating:
A lot of music now doesn't really have an independent existence separate from the
places it's played in. For instance, a lot of rave music and Ambient and trance and so
on has very much to do with clubs and lots of people being together and so on. It's
very context-linked. (cited in Kelly, 1995; online)
Since 1992, Ambient music has seen a resurgence in popularity thanks to
Electronic Listening Music / IDM, and has become a part of contemporary Rave /
dance party culture through use in ‘chill out’ rooms and as a soundtrack to the
post-party comedown. IDM was seen as an antidote to the increasing speed and
intensity of electronic dance music and was designed to be played at low volume,
fulfilling the functional role of ‘chill out’ music which could be played at the end
of a night of dancing and drug taking or in special chill out rooms or zones
adjacent to the dance floors of large clubs. In documenting this phenomenon
Gilbert and Pearson observe:
In these spaces, set aside for clubbers physically and mentally exhausted by dancing
and drug-consumption to rest, smoke, talk and calm down, DJs like Alex Patterson
and Mixmaster Morris wove soothing soundscapes, bathing the listener in a wash of
sounds, electronic and ethnic, old and new . . its primary function being to soothe and
calm listeners under the influence of MDMA and LSD, enhancing and accentuating
their more regressive effects. (1999; p. 94)
Early IDM records consisted of mainly diatonic harmony, minimal (sparse) beats,
snatches of repeated melodic material, textural washes of textural ‘atmospheres’
and long sustained drones and cluster chords, sonically similar in this regard to
the minimalism of LaMonte Young. One common technique involved “the
‘cellular’ construction of complex tapestries of sound by the repetition and
interweaving of simple melodic [or sonic] units” (Reynolds, 1998; p. 181), in a
fashion remarkably similar to that of minimalist systems-music. As the genre
developed, it took on the trappings of ‘audio art’ incorporating
. . many elements of art music: experimental live performance techniques . .
conceptual and process oriented composition . . collage . . performance art and
theatrical spectacle . . and the extensive use of experimental software and hardware
[that] can be seen turning up in clubs and on dance records around the world. (Neill,
2002; p. 388)
Supporting this observation, David Toop notes that producers such as Robin
Rimbaud (Scanner) or DJ Spooky, citing experimental composers such as John
Cage, have achieved recognition for creating works that explore “issues of spatial
and environmental articulation or the physics of sound using media that included
sound sculptures, performance and site-specific installations” (Toop, 2005;
online). Cascone describes the emergence of these composers (the Clever
Children of this dissertation) as follows:
At some point in the early 1990s, Techno music settled into a predictable, formulaic
genre serving a more or less aesthetically homogenous market of DJs and dance music
aficionados. Concomitant with this development was the rise of a periphery of DJs
and producers eager to expand the music’s tendrils into new areas . . Always trying to
outdo one another, it was only a matter of time until DJs unearthed the history of
electronic music . . Once the door was opened to exploring the history of electronic
music, invoking its more notable composers came into vogue. A handful of DJs and
composers of Electronica were suddenly familiar with the work of Karlheinz
Stockhausen, Morton Subotnick, and John Cage (2000; p. 395).
Summary of key musical and conceptual traits
Broadly then, this is the musical and historical context in which the Clever
Children exist. The history of Electronica encompasses a large number of styles
across more than two decades throughout which it is possible to identify a number
of recurring musical and conceptual traits. These traits represent necessarily broad
strokes, painting many artists and genres with the same brush. This is unavoidable
due to the sheer size of the subject area, the limitations of this dissertation and the
lack of definitive scholarship in the field. Traits identified herein may not be
present in every work of Electronica or consistently in the work of a particular
artist, but should be understood as broad trends within a continually evolving
musical tradition.
Beginning with Dub, Disco and Hip-Hop, the development of Electronica is tied
intimately to the adoption and use of electronic sound sources and treatments. In
each instance this is accompanied by the use of repetition as a structural device
and extended musical form, driven by market forces influenced by a demand for
dance music. As genres such as House, Garage and Techno emerged, the use of
repetition was accompanied by a pairing down of musical content resulting in the
predominance of rhythm and timbre and a dramatically reduced, often static,
harmonic palette. These central concerns of Electronica are congruent with similar
concerns as identified in the experimental music tradition. In fact, most of the key
traits identified as relating to Electronica are analogous with traits present in the
experimental music tradition. It is, of course, important to note that these
similarities do not suggest that Electronica has been directly influenced by the
experimental music tradition and may equally point to a fascinating confluence of
musical ideas resulting from distinct parallel developments (this will be discussed
in more detail below).
Due to the influence of recording technology such as samplers, synthesisers,
sequencers and DAWs, composers of this music are now capable of complete
manipulation of sonic material. Composers are now able to manipulate all values
associated with a sound such as pitch, timbre, envelope, loudness and duration,
and this is one of the most fundamental characteristics of contemporary
experimental music. The ability to treat sound as a completely malleable
substance has led some composers of Electronca to move away from ‘tonality’ in
compositions towards the use of ‘noise’, non-pitched and non-rhythmic sounds
(Holmes, 2002).
Electronica can thus be seen as fulfilling John Cage’s prophesy of “a music
produced through the aid of electrical instruments which will make available for
musical purposes any and all sounds that can be heard” (1958; pp. 3–4). Similarly,
Holmes suggests that the emphasis on compositional process present in the
experimental music tradition can also be seen in much Electronica, arguing that
the very nature of electronic instruments is such that they actively encourage
composers to think in terms of a process (Holmes, 2001). As was the case with the
experimental music tradition, Electronica brings into question assumptions of the
acts of composition, performance and realisation as well as the roles of the
composer, performer and audience.
Works of Electronica are often realised without the need for a performer resulting
in the elevated importance of the producer and, ultimately, leading to the assertion
of the producer as auteur in IDM and other forms of post-Rave Electronica.
Electronica’s re-evaluation of these roles can also be seen in the aesthetic of
anonymity surrounding many genres and the resulting enshrinement of the DJ
and, in some instances the audience, as the focal point of dance culture. Also
relevant is the manner in which the turntable has become an instrument in its own
right allowing DJs to perform with the works of other composers. Finally, the
widespread use of recreational drugs, such as MDMA, and the re-imagining of the
dance party as a massive multi-media event within Rave culture is congruent with
the use of psychotropics, mutli-media performance and art happenings within the
experimental music tradition.
With reference to the historical and musical developments of Electronica
discussed above it is now possible to derive the following list of traits that will,
along with the corresponding list relating to the experimental music tradition,
inform the analytical framework applied to the Collective Case Study:
•
Predominance of timbre and rhythm over melody and harmony
•
Re-evaluation of and challenge to traditional conceptions of the
roles of composer, performer and audience
•
Re-evaluation of and challenge to traditional notions of the
creation, realisation and reception of musical works
•
Emphasis on process based composition
•
Use of non-musical sound and noise
•
Use of Electronically generated, recorded and treated sound
•
Creation of multi-media works / events
•
Use of repetition as a structural device
•
Use of static harmony
•
Use of static / minimal instrumentation
•
Minimal harmonic and melodic content
•
Additive and subtractive compositional processes
•
Presence of a steady beat or pulse
•
Extended musical forms
•
Influence of psychotropic substances
•
Increased importance of the single, rather than album and
accompanying aesthetic of anonymity
•
Producer as auteur
•
Influence of particular music technologies and devices, such as the
TB-303
Influence of market forces and functionality related to dance music
•
culture
Elder siblings to the Clever Children, the artists and genres discussed here
represent an important background to the works of the artists represented in the
Collective Case Study and provide a valuable reference point for evaluating the
claims of influence regarding experimental music tradition made by and on their
behalf.
Comparison of Key Musical and Conceptual Traits
In exploring the historical narratives surrounding the relationship of the Clever
Children to the experimental music tradition and Electronica the purpose has been
to develop a set of key traits from existing literature that will act as a reference
against which the work of the Clever Children may be examined. A secondary
objective has been to address the loss of history identified by Holmes (2002) and
others by providing a survey of the historical narratives that exist in relation to the
emergence of and influences on the Clever Children. The preceding discussion
thus responds to the first sub-question identified in the Introduction: What are the
key historical developments and key musical and conceptual traits of the
experimental music tradition and Electronica identified in existing literature as
precursive to or having influence on the Clever Children?
The various traits identified in the discussion of the experimental music tradition
and Electronica, along with the accompanying historical narratives, provides a
context in which to place the Collective Case Study, informing the analytical
framework discussed in the Methodology. The key traits derived from the
preceding discussion will now be examined to determine what similarities exist
between the experimental music tradition and Electronica and whether these are
the result of congruence, confluence and influence. Figure 2 (next page) plots the
key traits present in the experimental music tradition, represented by the left
yellow circle, and Electronica, the right red circle, along with overlapping traits
between both traditions, represented by the central orange segment.
When the list of traits identified in the experimental music tradition is compared
with those relating to Electronica, there is shown to be significant overlap
between the two traditions. This suggests that some level of influence or
confluence exists that is significantly pervasive and can be identified across
chronological periods and genre boundaries. Given that works of the experimental
tradition precede much Electronica by at least a decade it is unlikely that the
similarities noted have resulted from some form of cross-pollination between the
two traditions and so would appear to suggest some form of influence has taken
place.
Figure 2: Comparison of musical and conceptual traits in Experimental and Electronica
This would appear to corroborate the claims relating to the influence of the
experimental music tradition in the literature pertaining to the Clever Children 21.
The significance congruence between one of Reich’s minimalist pieces and an
electronic dance track reasonably suggests that some musical relationship existed
between the two, particularly as Reich (and others) makes exactly this association
when he claims that composers of Electronica have appropriated his music
(Abbot, 2002). However, there is an inherent danger in ascribing traits held in
common between the two traditions to the influence of experimental composers.
Historical precedence does not on its own however provide sufficient basis for
identifying a line of influence between the experimental tradition and Electronica.
When examined in more detail the commonalities that exist between the two
traditions can be best described as congruencies resulting from parallel but
distinct developments.
In most instances Electronica simply coincides with the experimental tradition in
a manner that owes more to external factors rather than the result of direct or
indirect influence. For example, many of the traits identified with minimalism that
are also found in Electronica can be shown to relate more to market forces or
financial incentives rather than the influence of the experimental music tradition.
The manufacturer and design of the first widely available sequencers and drum
machines together with the demand for high-output, low-production-cost dance
music has been a feature of almost all Electronica. This has contributed to the
outgrowth of ‘minimalist’ traits such as repetition as a structural device, static
harmony and additive processes in much Electronica, beginning with the early
proponents of Dub, Disco and Hip Hop. The use of repetition as a structural
device and extended musical forms in Electronica resulted from a need to create
extended mixes for dancing at outdoor parties and clubs. At one extreme this led
to stark jack tracks, which, though bearing strong superficial similarities to
‘classic’ minimalism, were created to fill a functional need amongst DJs for
simple mixing tools to enable stitching more complex tracks together in a mix.
The presence of a steady beat or pulse, itself a hallmark of minimalism, can here
be traced to Disco and the need for a constant pulse for dancing. Furthermore it is
21
Cascone, 2000; Cox and Warner, 2004; Holmes, 2002; Martin, 2002; McClary, 2004;
Neill, 2002; Prendergast, 1995; Toop, 1995 and others.
likely that both minimalism and Disco could ultimately be traced back to some
common forerunner in American popular music or, further still, to the music of
Africa.22 It would appear unlikely then that Electronica has been directly
influenced by minimalism23 but that the strong similarities relate to a confluence
of musical ideas driven strongly in the case of Electronica by utility and market
forces.
Market forces can also be seen to have influenced the recycling of musical
material in Dub Reggae and Hip-Hop and the use of electronic instrumentation in
House, Garage and Techno. There was a high demand among club patrons for new
music and it was significantly cheaper and less labour-intensive to produce new
music with sampled or pre-recorded material and electronic sources than with
‘real’ musicians. The comparative affordability of devices such as samplers, drum
machines and synthesizers led to their widespread adoption and this has had an
undeniable impact on the way much Electronica is created. Such instruments are
geared towards additive and audible processes and the compositional
methodology suggested, or perhaps imposed, by these devices suggests that, as
Sherburne writes, their design was “hard wired for minimalism” (2005; p. 322).
While the use of the turntable in Electronica does not strictly conform to
Sherburne’s observations, it is worth noting that its adoption was initially to
facilitate the repetition of breakbeats at Hip-Hop block parties and would only
later develop as an instrument in its own right in the hands of innovative
Turntablists.
Despite the undeniable impact that such technology has had on Electronica and
the experimental music tradition, the application of electronic sound sources and
other forms of music technology in both traditions is properly understood as an
influence held in common that does not evidence a causal relationship. Instead the
use of electronic instrumentation in both traditions is related to the search for new
sounds and vehicles of expression. In the context of Electronica this had
significantly more to do with the widespread affordability of devices such as
samplers, turntables and drum machines than the influence of Western Art music.
22
23
Although such speculations are unfortunately outside the scope of this research.
At least not in the manner inferred by Cox and Warner (2004), Gordon (1998),
McClary (1999) or Sherburne (2004).
The similarities that exist between the creative application of recording
technology by Cage, Stockhausen and the pioneers of Dub – as suggested by Veal
(2007) for example – cannot be reasonably seen as an attempt by Lee ‘Scratch’
Perry, King Tubby or Augustus Pablo to 'emulate' their forebears but is instead a
function, in both instances, of advances in and adoption of music and recording
technology. While this does not mean that the application of music technology is
irrelevant to the study of the Clever Children (in fact the opposite is true) it is
unlikely to be the result of direct influence by the experimental music tradition 24.
Consequently, though clear similarities exist and the application of music
technology is an undeniably important element of almost all forms of Electronica
I will not focus on the application of such technology as a way in which the
Clever Children may have been influenced by the experimental music tradition,
Electronica, and particularly the Rave movement also precipitated a distinct reevaluation of the roles of the composer, performer and audience: elevating the act
of DJ-ing to one of performance; engendering an aesthetic of anonymity on the
part of the composer / producer; and fostering performance environments in
which the audience rather than the performer was the focal point. Though works
within the experimental music tradition propose a similar series of re-evaluations
key differences emerge in the reasons for such re-evaluations between the two
traditions such that the outcomes are difficult to reconcile. Where the
experimental tradition was driven by innovation on behalf of the composer,
Electronica seems more influenced by the role of the audience. For example,
while Cage sought to remove his ego from the creative process and become a
participant observer with the audience, the anonymity of composers within
Electronica was due to economic considerations, the use of white-label packaging
and the increased importance of 12” singles over albums. Similarly the elevation
of the importance of the audience in Electronica was influenced by its functional
nature coupled with a prevalent drug culture in which Ecstasy and other
psychoactive substance usage lead to feelings of closeness and connectedness
between audience members. Interestingly these changes in Electronica appear
once again influenced more by market forces and consumption trends rather than
24
While a case may be made for indirect influence by way of equipment design or
function but this is outside the scope of the current enquiry.
by the experimental music tradition.
There are a number of other possible links that might help to explain the
congruence between Electronica and the experimental music tradition. German
electronic group Kraftwerk could be seen as one key link between the
experimental music tradition and popular Electronica – in that they proved an
important vehicle for the often-imperceptible influence on House, Techno, HipHop, Electro, IDM and other popular electronic forms with ideas drawn from
experimental music. Alternatively it may be that the popular music forms from
which the experimental music tradition drew influence are also evidenced in the
development of Electronica – Western Art music and popular music were not
necessarily seen as diametrically opposed by their practitioners. The New York
avant-garde scene of which composers such as La Monte Young were a part, also
included popular musicians and artists. John Cale produced the Velvet
Underground’s first album and many composers within the art music tradition
have made in-roads with popular musicians, particularly those creating in the field
of Electronica.
Despite this, those common elements that cannot be explained by market forces
can largely be ascribed to other external or common influences in popular culture.
Where the experimental composers were notable for their engagement with
popular music, Electronica is popular music and so engagement with the idiom is
hardly surprising. More interestingly, the influence of transcendental experience
and, to a lesser extent the importance of rhythm and timbre in Electronica, is
directly related to the effects of psychoactive substances. In this regard there
exists an obvious parallel between Electronica, particularly the Balearic clubs and
Rave scene and the psychedelic rock of the 1960s and 70s, and this parallel is
further reinforced by the presence use of mixed media content in the performance
of both psychedelic rock and Electronica. Given that some composers 25 within the
experimental tradition were themselves influenced by elements of psychedelic
rock and 60s drug culture, the confluence between the two traditions here can be
traced to the common influence of 60s counter culture and drug use.
Despite a lack of evidence for the broader influence of the experimental tradition
25
Notably minimalist composers Terry Riley and La Monte Young.
upon Electronica, there have been occasional engagements and collaborations
between musicians and composers from both traditions 26. However such meetings
appear more collaborative in nature, predicated on shared artistic interests rather
than a vehicle for passing on any particular techniques or influences. Perhaps the
experimental composers are in fact more akin to a proud uncle or family friend
wishing to engage the talents of a prodigious child. This does not relegate the
possibility of influence on specific musicians or composers but does preclude a
broad influence on Electronica by the experimental music tradition.
The significant overlap between the two traditions is problematic in some ways,
as a clearly delineated set of musical and aesthetic traits would have provided a
better set evaluative of tools. However this overlap is also intriguing because it
suggests that there is some form of pre-existing congruence between the two
musical traditions. Subsequently it is reasonable to suggest that works within
Electronica will demonstrate traits congruent with the experimental music
tradition. The challenge will then be to sift through the overlapping areas of
influence to discern the Clever Children’s musical heritage.
The following Collective Case Study will attempt to do just this by examining the
musical and conceptual traits present in the work of three composers of
Electronica who have been identified as having been influenced by the
experimental music tradition. Each Case Study will therefore follow a similar
outline, firstly identifying how the composer views their own work in relationship
to the experimental music tradition. This will be followed by analysis of a
particular work to identify areas of congruence with the experimental and
contemporary electronic traditions. Each Case Study will then evaluate each
composer’s relationship to the experimental music tradition and Electronica with
reference to their stated aesthetic goals and the analysis of their musical works.
26
The Reich Remixed project is one such example and is examined in Case Study
One.
PART III:
COLLECTIVE CASE STUDY
Case Study One:
Reich Remixed – Minimalism and DJ Culture
In 1999 Nonesuch records commissioned and released a CD containing selected
works of ‘minimalist’ composer Steve Reich, remixed by prominent DJs. Reich
Remixed was billed as an homage to the father of DJ / remix culture and the liner
notes cite Reich as “the original re-mixer” and stating boldly “mass culture has
finally caught up to and embraced the fringe ideas that Reich was exploring in the
1960s” (Gordon, 1998; p. 2). This is an association with which Reich is not
uncomfortable, commenting on the DJ-as-remixer that “here's a generation that
doesn't just like what I do, they appropriate it!” (cited in Abbot, 2002; p. 68).
The notion that minimalism in general, and Reich in particular, is responsible for
influencing the development of Electronica is hardly a revolutionary one. As a
movement, minimalism is notable for its engagement with American popular
music, influenced by “the harmonic simplicity, steady pulse and rhythmic drive of
jazz and rock-and-roll” (Schwarz, 1996; p. 10). Grove Music Online, itself only
peripherally aware of Electronica, suggests that the minimalist composers “have
had an important effect on a wide range of concert musics, rock and the panoply
of post-modernist, hybrid forms which became a major feature of late 20thcentury music” (Potter, 2005; online). What is being described by the panoply of
post-modernist, hybrid forms is never clearly articulated. However, to even the
most casual observer minimalist tendencies, in the form of repetition, static
harmony and additive processes can be divined in a range of contemporary
popular musics from New Wave and Krautrock to Hip-Hop and Techno.
Journalist, critic and DJ Philip Sherburne notes that:
The origins of most contemporary electronic dance music . . . emphasized a pareddown palette that cut away all the excesses of a bloating rock and pop tradition. Since
then, much dance-floor fare has restrained itself to a limited set of sounds and
accumulation-through-repetition. (2005; p. 319)
How and in what capacity these musical confluences trace their origins to
minimalism is more difficult to address. Are we to accept the assertion that
“[Reich’s] music has filtered into the consciousness of our society, so much so
that it has been copied and distilled into music now heard everywhere, much the
Reich Remixed – Minimalism and DJ Culture
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same way the patterns on your bathroom wall have been lifted from a Van Gogh”
(Gordon, 1998; p. 2), or is it possible to identify a more direct line of influence
from the “father of DJ culture” (Ibid; p. 2) to his children? This Case Study will
seek to address this question by examining the remix of Eight Lines by Howie B
in order to identify areas of comparison, contrast and influence between the work
of Steve Reich and Howie B. The study will explore the Eight Lines remix as one
example of the similarities, contrasts, confluences and lines of influence between
the musical and aesthetic concerns of minimalism and Electronica. Responding to
the specifics of the work under discussion this Case Study utilises elements of
traditional musical analysis, a discussion of the use of samples and the application
of sonic effects to the remix in conjunction with my own interview data
supplemented by information gleaned from a literature survey of articles, reviews
and interviews with and about Bernstein.
Eight Lines (Audio Example 1, Appendix E) was chosen as a focal point for this
Case Study due to Howie B’s high profile as an artist. This means that unlike
some of the lesser known artists who contributed to the album, there is a level of
pre-existing literature about Howie B thus making a basic literature survey
possible. DJ Spooky is a notable exception here, but his work is discussed
elsewhere in this dissertation (at Case Study Three). It was also possible to make
contact and secure an interview with Howie B through his agent, making him a
more attractive subject for this research. Aside from these pragmatic concerns,
Reich identifies the first four tracks on the Remixed album, Music for 18
Musicians by Coldcut, Eight Lines by Howie B, The Four Sections by Andrea
Parker and Megamix by Tranquillity Bass, as his favourite remixes from the
album (Abbot, 2002). While each of these tracks is interesting for their own
reasons and would provide much fodder for an in-depth study, Reich singles out
Eight Lines as being of particular interest, stating that “I think Howie B's Eight
Lines is a very sophisticated job” (cited in Weidenbaum, 1999; online). Reich’s
perception is that Howie B has engaged at a musical level with the source material
in a way not present in the other remixes (Reich makes no similar comments
about any of the other tracks) and by extension, that Howie B has in some way
‘understood’ his original piece suggests that if there is a case to be made for clear
and direct musical influence it is to be found here.
Reich Remixed – Minimalism and DJ Culture
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Howie B
Howard Bernstein (Howie B) has worked as an audio engineer, producer and
composer most notably within the context of the UK electronic dance music scene
of the late 1990s. Having no formal musical training, Bernstein began his career
as a tea-boy in a studio (Reynolds, 1996) and has gone on to become a worldtouring DJ, remixer and producer working with U2, Sly and Robbie, Massive
Attack and Björk. Bernstein’s early output, some of which is collected on the Best
Foot Forward (1995) compilation, includes elements of Dub, Jazz, Trip-Hop,
Ambient House all of which heavily inform on the artists debut album Music for
Babies (1996) and, to a lesser degree, follow-up Turn The Dark Off (1997).
While not atypical of Berstein’s output, Eight Lines Remix is best understood as
an exceptional encounter with the work of Steve Reich precipitated by Bernstein’s
engagement with the Reich Remixed album. Prior to this album there appears to be
no implied musical relationship between Howie B and Steve Reich. Post-project
however, there are several allusions to a Reichian / minimalist influence on
Bernstein’s work and in particular his third, somewhat more abstract, studio
album Snatch (1999) released in the same year. In a 1999 interview Howie B
suggests that Reich “might have had some influence on my music but I wouldn’t
say directly . . I listened to it and said ‘Wow I could have done that’ . . that must
have had some influence” (cited in Prasad, 1999; online). When interviewed by
telephone, Bernstein was more enthusiastic in embracing Reich’s influence:
HBa24: I think he’s a big influence, Steve in terms of . . I couldn’t put a finger on what
it is. Definitely the guy has, I don’t know has had some influence on me and a
lot of people I work with as well . . In terms of what he’s actually done and how
it’s influenced me I don’t know but yes I listen to his music quite a lot and it’s
added colour to my life which is great.
Bernstein does seem to have been influenced by Reich’s use of repetition and the
composer’s notion of “a compositional process and a sounding music that are one
and the same thing” (1968; pp. 9–10). At the very least Bernstein seems able to
observe the cycling canons within Reich’s piece and apply them to his remix.
HBa22: When you actually listen to [Reich’s piece], there’s nothing complex at all about
it. It’s just lots of things going round and round in cycles.
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It is interesting to observe however that Bernstein is unable to articulate exactly
how this influence has affected his music. More interesting is the fact that
Bernstein does not clearly articulate any tangible similarities or differences
between Reich’s work and his own.
HBa4: No, I don’t, not very much; I don’t see any similarity. I think maybe there’s an
attitude to space but . . nothing else.
HBa25: I’d say the main difference would be [our] attitude to recording. But then again
I don’t know, I really don’t know what the main differences are.
To confuse things further, when asked whether he had attempted to emulate
elements of Reich’s original piece Bernstein stated:
HBa6: Yes, I wouldn’t say emulate I would say, yes because emulate is an interesting
word. I would say handshake . .
Bernstein seems to be presenting a paradoxical state of affairs whereby he is
influenced by Reich in a ‘big’ way but he is not able or interested in identifying
similarities or significant differences between Reich’s work and his own. This is
unfortunate for the purposes of this research but understandable and probably has
to do with Bernstein’s hesitance or genuine inability to spell out the specifics of
how and by whom he has been influenced. After all, Bernstein’s remix does work
directly with the material of Reich’s original piece and this would suggest that
some very clear similarities do in fact exist. Furthermore, Electronica and
minimalism hold several conceptual and musical traits in common and it would be
reasonable to expect a similar sort of overlap in Bernstein’s own work.
Upon examining Bernstein’s material within the broader context of the
experimental tradition there are, in fact, several identifiable similarities. As with
the experimental composers, Bernstein sees the process of creation as more
important than the outcome. Bernstein articulates a position strikingly similar to
that of both Reich and Cage, stating that:
HBa10: It’s the content, not the end product, not the end thing that’s the most important
thing. I mean; I guess it’s absolute process. And that’s what great about [this]
music and puts it apart from anything else.
However, as with his acknowledgement of Reich as an influence, he appears to
Reich Remixed – Minimalism and DJ Culture
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find it difficult to articulate exactly what this means. When pressed it becomes
apparent that Bernstein is not actually talking about musical processes at all, but
about creating a ”good environment in the studio [created by] good food, great tea
[probably a reference to marijuana] . . humour [and] good friends” (HBa9).
Bernstein’s use of sampling technology is also strongly congruent with Cage’s
theories predicting “a music produced through the aid of electrical instruments
which will make available for musical purposes and all sounds that can be heard”
(Cage, 1968; pp. 3–4). Central to Bernstein’s sampling aesthetic is the physical
deconstruction and recontextualisation of sounds. Using the sampler, Bernstein
will often alter his source material beyond recognition before placing it in an
“environment, which it didn’t come from” (HBa17). Bernstein notes that
HBa16: I treat everything very heavily and I do that simply to make it my own . . it’s
like building your a musical instrument, you dismantle something and then
construct it again.
His comments appear to place him in some form of relationship to the
experimental tradition. However it is important to note that, while not standard
practice, this sort of use of sampling technology has precedence in the broader
context of Electronica. That Bernstein does not reference these statements to Cage
or any other experimental composer suggests that Bernstein’s influences lie
elsewhere. Perhaps because of this, Bernstein does not view his music as
experimental and, using language very similar to Edgard Varèse, explains that:
HBa12: I experiment all the time in the studio but it’s the result of the experiments
people hear but they don’t hear the experimentation.
Making sense of the contrary nature of these comments is problematic. It may be
that Bernstein may not have been called on to critically reflect on his own work
before, or that he is simply not aware of Reich’s music or ideas to a degree that he
can cogently reflect on them. Alternatively, as an untrained musician who speaks
frequently about music as a ‘vibe’, Bernstein may simply be disinclined to
expound on a composition process that is, for him, highly intuitive (Prasad, 1999).
Most likely, however, is that Bernstein resists verbalising his exact motivations
and ways of working. While not outwardly antagonistic or unhelpful, his answers
to the research questions were at times terse and vague. Bernstein is more
forthcoming in relation to the recording process and specifics of the remix.
Reich Remixed – Minimalism and DJ Culture
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Subsequently, while there is some useful information to be gleaned from the
composer’s responses, I will rely more heavily on the analysis of Bernstein’s
Eight Lines Remix to discuss his relationship to Reich and the experimental music
Eight Lines Remix
The analysis of Bernstein’s remix will involve discussion of the ‘traditional’
elements of structure, rhythm, melody and harmony alongside the role of timbre,
the use of samples and the application of sonic effects to the remix. Rather than a
general exegesis of the remix, the purpose of this analysis is specifically to
identify and highlight areas of similarity and difference between Reich and
Bernstein’s work. Subsequently this analysis will focus on features of the remix
where such discussion is relevant. Transcriptions and diagrammatic
representations have been used where appropriate to illustrate and highlight
various aspects of the remix. It is important to bear in mind that as Bernstein is
not a trained musician it is unlikely he would have been thinking about bars,
beats, key signatures or scores. Bernstein would not have necessarily been
thinking or working within the typography of Western Art Music. Where possible
the diagrams attempt to demonstrate features of the piece in the manner in which
Bernstein is likely to have engaged with them, as loops and sequences rather than
bars and beats. Some diagrams, such as the form chart, have been modelled after
the ‘arrange’ style windows found in most contemporary DAW and sequencer
software.
Structure
Bernstein’s remix is organised into six sections, differentiated by the use of
particular groups of samples and sonic treatments. Figure 3 (next page)
demonstrates the overall structure of the piece and details the instrumentation
present in each section. The form of the piece is best described as A, B, C, A1, B1,
A2 with significant similarities existing between sections A, A1, and A2 as well as
B and B1.
Reich Remixed – Minimalism and DJ Culture
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Figure 3: Plot of instrumentation against time of Eight Lines Remix
Reich Remixed – Minimalism and DJ Culture
134
By contrast Reich structured his piece in five sections describing them as follows:
The first and third resemble each other in their fast moving piano, cello, viola and
bass clarinet figures, while the second and fourth sections resemble each other in
their longer held tones in the cello. The fifth and final section combines these
materials. (1989; p. i)
Revealingly, Bernstein claims to have not referenced his remix to Reich’s piece,
instead relying on his own intuitive grasp of form and musical development,
stating that:
HBa7: [the structure of the remix] was referenced to the lord above, not to Reich. It was
mainly what sounded good to my ears.
Despite this assertion it is notable that Bernstein draws on source material
primarily from sections 1, 3 and 4 of Reich’s score. Table 1 below identifies the
samples from Eight Lines Bernstein used with the sections of Reich’s score they
were taken from and the sections of the remix they were used in.
Remix A
Eight
Lines
Section 1
Remix B
Remix C
Remix A1
Remix B1
Remix A2
Piano Loop 1
Piano Loop 1
Piano Loop 1
Piano Loop 2
Piano Loop 2
Piano Loop 2
String Loop 1
String Loop 1
String Loop 1
Clarinet Loop
Clarinet Loop
Clarinet Loop
Eight
Lines
Section 2
Eight
Lines
Section3
Piano Loop 3
Piano Loop 3
Piano Loop 4
Piano Loop 4
String Loop 2
String Loop 3
String Loop 2
String Loop 3
Piccolo Loop
Eight
Lines
Section 4
Piccolo Loop
Piano Loop 5
String Loop 4
Flute
Clarinet Solo
Fragment 1
Eight
Lines
Section 5
Clarinet Solo
fragment 2
Table 1: Samples and their location in the remix
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Samples taken from within a single section generally occur concurrently and are
referenced to the first occurrence in the case of looped material. It would be
reasonable to assert that Bernstein has in fact taken significant cues from Reich
composition when constructing his remix. The juxtaposition of the sampled piano
and string parts in section A of the remix, for example, is immediately
recognisable from the opening bars Reich’s piece. Though the structure of the
remix does not directly reflect Reich’s score, the content and context of the
samples used adhere quite closely to their original construction. Obviously this is
not entirely unexpected however as Bernstein did undertake to remix Reich’s
piece and a residual similarity to the original would be unavoidable.
The sections of the remix bear no clear durational relationship to one another. This
is in contrast to Reich’s own careful, even meticulous, structuring of his own
piece based on the careful juxtaposition of repeating melodic and rhythmic
motives and gradual harmonic and rhythmic modulation. Instead Bernstein
appears to rely on intuitive structures resulting in a piece that is evenly weighted
either side of section C. This section is, on the surface, the most dramatically
unlike Reich’s original. It contains the least amount of Reich’s source material,
draws on two sections of Reich’s score for its samples (though only two notes are
sampled from Section 5 of the original) and does not make use of strict repetition
in the same was as the other sections of the remix. Though featuring recurring
melodic material, the Clarinet ‘solo’, discussed below, does not repeat in the strict
manner found in the remix’s other sections. Similarly, neither the Flute nor
Tambourine feature the repetition of small motifs found elsewhere in the remix.
Additionally, Section C downplays the role of the piano, the “rhythmic backbone”
(Schwarz, 1981; p. 252) of Reich’s piece, which is used prominently in the
remix’s other sections. Given its privileged position in the centre of the piece, it is
plausible to suggest that Section C is the focal point of the remix and where
Bernstein most clearly asserts his creative voice over Reich’s.
Though it could be argued the piece follows a modified rondo form (ABCABA
rather than ABACABA) this would be a mistake, as the remix does not follow
traditional notions of exposition, development and recapitulation. Bernstein
revealed that when composing the piece he worked on each section independently
of the others, building up layers of sounds.
Reich Remixed – Minimalism and DJ Culture
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HBa2: What I did was, I chose different sections, and I gave each section a different
name, and then I just went about filling up; making each section, for me,
listenable to in a new way.
Where Reich utilises overlapping voices and melodic lines to obscure some
section changes within his composition, the transition between sections of the
remix are sonically distinct. Bernstein achieves this through the use of different
groups of samples, different tonal centres and different timbres produced by
electronic treatments of the sound sources. That said, the individual sections of the
remix are largely static due to Bernstein’s limited use of harmonic and melodic
material as well as his use of looped sections of audio. This does not mean that the
piece does not ‘develop’ over time, but that the developments that do occur
primarily constitute additions and subtractions of parts, changes in timbre and
rhythm, and the interplay of the different audio loops used in the piece.
This is directly in keeping with the minimalist tradition’s approaches to form and
musical development, and in fact with Reich’s compositional approach. The use
of repetition, static harmony and vertical movement through the addition and
subtraction of instruments inducing overall timbral shifts, are all compositional
techniques found in Reich’s Eight Lines. Further, the construction of the piece
through the addition and subtraction of looped materials serves to engender a
sense of the sounding-processes referred to by Reich (1968) in Music as a
Gradual Process. Though not equivalent to the gradual audible changes present in
Reich’s original, the simple additive and subtractive processes by which
Bernstien’s remix of Eight Lines progresses should be clearly audible to all but the
most casual listener. Conversely, these similarities could also be attributed to
stylistic traits within electronic dance music and the application of music
technology at large. As discussed previously, the use of sampling and sequencing
technologies encourages a composition process where a series of audio loops are
layered on top of one another and changes are brought about by the addition and
subtraction of new material.
Instrumentation and the use of samples
Reich’s original work was scored for two pianos, a string quartet, clarinets, bass
clarinets, flutes and piccolo orchestrated in such a way that no more than eight
instruments where performing concurrently (hence the title Eight Lines). Of these
Reich Remixed – Minimalism and DJ Culture
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Bernstein retains only the pianos, clarinets, flute piccolo and violins. The piano is
an obvious inclusion as it functions as the leading voice in Reich’s score but there
seems to be no systematic approach to Bernstein’s choice of instrumentation.
“I just chose what I liked” Bernstein states, “it was just pure taste . . there was no
objectivity at all” (HBa3). Alternatively, the small repertoire of samples may have
to do with difficulties in obtaining the sort of metronomic pulse present in much
minimalist and electronic music:
HBa2: As what happens with classical music – there was no strict timing . . the tempo
was I would say was not rock solid, so that . . made [the remix] more difficult.
In addition to the instrumentation taken from Reich’s piece, Bernstein adds
several percussion parts and a series of samples taken from an unnamed
Broadway musical chosen for their ‘kitsch’ value. The programmed percussion
comprises Bernstein’s primary additions of new musical material to the remix
provide a sense of cohesion between the different sections of the remix.
According to Bernstein, the percussion instruments are derived from electronic
sources, either drum machines or synthesisers, and the remix was sequenced
utilising a (somewhat antiquated) Atari 1040, most likely using the now defunct
Intuitive Midi System software sequencer (HBa19).
It is notable that, while sampling quite creatively, Bernstein doesn’t contribute any
significant melodic or harmonic material to the remix. Similar treatment of
Reich’s works is fairly consistent across the Reich Remixed album where
additions of sonic material not found in Reich’s originals are generally percussive
or non-instrumental samples. This runs against the grain of many DJ remixes
where a vocal or other recognisable element is taken and placed against a reorchestrated backing track. It is unclear whether this attitude is a result of some
undisclosed reverence for Reich, or has more to do with methods of composition
common to the albums contributing artists that congruent with Reich’s own. I
believe the latter to be more likely – Reich’s use of repetition as a structural
device parallels the reliance on looped materials in electronic dance music and
provides ready made ‘loops’ for the remixers. As with much electronic dance
music, and unlike many popular songs used for remixes, there is often no
‘leading’ melodic voice in Reich’s compositions and this appears to have
influenced an approach to the material in line with the norms of Electronica.
Reich Remixed – Minimalism and DJ Culture
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Harmony / melody
Bernstein’s remix of Eight Lines presents a significant reduction of Reich’s use of
harmony and melody. For the Eight Lines Remix, Bernstein has sampled twentyseven bars of Reich’s 87 page score. From this source material, Bernstein has
created a number of short loops of audio that form the basis for his remix. Reich’s
score is constructed upon short repeating motifs and subsequently some of these
are sampled ‘as written’. Piano Loop 1 (see Figure 4, below) is clearly identifiable
from the opening bars of Reich’s score. Though the loop actually begins on beat
four of the bar, the down-beat is asserted strongly and is reinforced by the entry of
the hi-hat on beat one at 0:13 and again at 0:16. This gives the strong impression
of a two beat anacrusis followed by the looped piano motif as it appears in the
score.
Figure 4: Piano Loop 1 as scored for Piano 1 in Eight Lines Bar 1. p. 1
Similarly the Piccolo Loop used in sections B and B1 (see Figure 5) can be
identified on page 47 of Reich’s score (see Figure 6), though in this instance the
loop is offset forwards by one beat so that it starts on the second beat of the bar.
This displacement of loops is common throughout the remix and the majority of
sampled loops are offset backwards or forwards by a number of beats in relation
to their position in Reich’s score.
Figure 5: Piccolo Loop as present in Eight Lines Remix
Figure 6: Piccolo Loop as scored for Piccolo in Eight Lines p. 47 beginning Bar 373
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In addition to borrowing directly from Reich’s score, Bernstein also samples
fragments from larger repeating phrases. Working with samplers and a sequencer
allows Bernstein to sample and arrange these fragments quite easily as any underfull measures are simply perceived as containing extra rests. For example, the
Clarinet Loop utilised in sections A, A1 and A2 is derived from a larger scored
element (see Figure 7 and Figure 8) and ‘lengthened’ in order to create a
continuous loop in 5/4 time.
Figure 7: Clarinet Loop as present in Howie B’s Eight Lines Remix
Figure 8: Clarinet Loop as scored for Clarinet 1 in Eight Lines p. 6 beginning Bar 41
The Clarinet ‘Solo’ in section C displays a more creative application of this same
approach whereby Bernstein rearranges sampled fragments to create a new part.
The transcription of the Clarinet ‘Solo’ (Figure 9, next page) is comprised of
various permutations of three short samples taken from Reich’s original. The
Clarinet ‘Solo’ is the most dramatic example of Bernstein remaking an element of
Reich’s piece for the remix. Bernstein does not only strip these samples of their
original context but also manipulates the relationships between individual notes
within a melodic phrase. The melodic phrases used by Bernstein for the solo do
not appear in Reich’s score, though it’s possible they are derived from Figure 10
and Figure 11 (next page) albeit with slight manipulation of pitch.
Furthermore, while each sample recurs in roughly the same order throughout the
section there is not the same use of regimented repetition found elsewhere in the
remix. The process of joining together small fragments to build longer melodies is
also observable in Reich’s own work and this suggests at least a significant
congruence between Reich and Bernstein’s compositional techniques at the point
at which Bernstein is most assertively ‘original’.
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Figure 9: Clarinet ‘Solo’ as present in Howie B’s Eight Lines Remix beginning at 3:34
Figure 10: Element of Clarinet ‘Solo’ as scored for Clarinet 1 in Eight Lines p. 77
beginning Bar 609
Figure 11: Element of Clarinet ‘Solo’ as scored for Clarinet 2 in Eight Lines p. 57
beginning Bar 461
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At a structural level, Reich’s piece moves through a circle of fifths from B major
in Section 1 to F# major in Section 2 and Db major in Sections 3, 4, and 5 (see
Figure 3 p. 134). In contrast, Bernstein’s remix alternates between B major in
sections A, A1 and A2 and Db major in sections B, B1 and C (Table 1 p. 135),
further delineating sections of the remix. Bernstein has also simplified Reich’s use
of melody and harmony within sections of the score. In particular, the expanding
‘cadential’ progressions in the strings, canonic interlocking piano parts and the
resulting melodic lines found in the wind instruments (Schwarz, 1981) are either
not present or are dramatically simplified in Bernstein’s remix.
In each case this can be attributed to Bernstein’s comparatively small repertoire of
samples that reflect the sections of Reich’s score they were taken from. As
Bernstein samples no material from Section 2 of Reich’s score, it is
understandable that the remix does not make use of F# major as a tonal centre.
Similarly, the sampled melodic lines and string parts do not evolve in the same
manner as in Eight Lines simply because Bernstein samples no more than two
bars for each loop. He has sampled selectively in terms of instrumentation, length
and location within the score. It is unsurprising, therefore, to find a related
reduction in harmonic and melodic complexity.
The only addition of harmonic material Bernstein makes to the remix is in the
Bongo part, which is tuned to a C# / Db. Though serving a primarily rhythmic
function, the Bongo helps to anticipate the shift from B major to Db major by
highlighting the C# / Db in a manner similar to a pedal point or drone. The use of
drones is a minimalist trait though it would be difficult to conclusively state that
Bernstein’s use of the Bongo in this way is as a result of direct influence from the
minimalist tradition. Rather it is likely that the drone results from Bernstein’s
choice of sample, particularly as the sample is taken from a tuned percussion
instrument. That the intonation incorporates effectively with Reich’s material is
more evidence of Bernstein’s skill as a remixer rather than any deliberate
emulation. Nevertheless, this is further evidence that Bernstein’s remix exhibits
strong parallels with the minimalist tradition.
Rhythm
Reich has praised Bernstein for maintaining the metre of the original composition
suggesting, rightly or wrongly, that it is “rare to find DJs or anyone else in the pop
Reich Remixed – Minimalism and DJ Culture
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world who works in a meter like 5” (cited in Weidenbaum, 1999; online). As
noted above, Bernstein demonstrates a rudimentary understanding of the canonic
rhythmic relationships present in Reich’s score. He indicated that though familiar
with the time signature, he had not worked in 5/4 prior to the remix (HBa2). In
fact the retention of the meter of Reich’s piece may be due to Bernstein’s choice
of samples, because for the most part, the metric pulse of the piece is determined
by Piano Loops 1, 2, 3 and 4. A key rhythmic device used throughout the remix is
the juxtaposition of repeating loops of varying lengths with autonomous
downbeats (Figure 12, next page). In this instance, the interaction between the
looped rhythms has the effect of inducing the perception of metric dissonance and
in some cases of metric shift. For example the positioning of String Loop 1
(Figure 13, next page) against Piano Loops 1 and 2 in Section A causes the part to
be heard as syncopated in deviation from Reich’s Score (at Figure 14).
Piano Loop 1
Piano Loop 1
Piano Loop 1
Piano Loop 2
Piano Loop 1
Piano Loop 2
String Loop 1
String Loop 1
Clarinet Loop
Clarinet Loop
Phone
Phone
Loop
Loop
Bongo Loop
Hi Hats
Bongo Loop
Hi Hats
Hi Hats
Hi Hats
Etc.
Hi Hats
Drums
1
2
3
4
5
Hi Hats
Etc. . .
Drums
1
2
3
4
5
1
2
3
4
5
1
2
3
4
5
Figure 12: Juxtaposition of loops in Section A1 of Eight Lines Remix
Figure 13: String Loop 1 as present in Howie B’s Eight Lines Remix beginning 0:59
Figure 14: String Loop 1 as scored for Violins 1 & 2 in Eight Lines p. 1 beginning Bar 1
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Rhythmic dissonance is also introduced to the remix through the addition of
several programmed percussion parts. Most obviously the Hi-Hat pattern (Figure
15) induces a perception of polymeter by setting a 3/4 rhythmic grouping against
the prevailing 5/4 structure.
Figure 15: Hi Hat Pattern
Similarly the Drum Loop in Section C (Figure 16) deviates from the conventions
of asymmetrical meter as Bernstein arranges the snare into unusual beat groupings
of 2 + 1 + 2. This creates a feeling of tension when set against the more
conventional 2 + 3 and 3 + 2 beat grouping of String Loop 4 (Figure 17),
particularly as the Drum Loop functions as the primary metric pulse in Section C.
Figure 16: Kick and Snare Drum Loop beginning 3:34
Figure 17: String Loop 4 taken from Eight Lines score Bar 443. P. 56
The juxtaposition of looped fragments appears to emulate Bernstein’s
understanding of the canonic structure of Eight Lines, in as much as the remix is
comprised of several elements “going round and round in cycles” (HBa22). This
interplay of incommensurable loops is not dissimilar to the polyrhythmic structure
employed by Reich in pieces such as Drumming. It should be noted, however, that
this method of composition is also prominent in electronic dance music where
works are often structured upon layers of repeating loops and cycles. Unlike
Reich, Bernstein does not use these techniques to achieve phase modulation and
his placement of rhythmically dissonant loops is static. Once a loop is introduced
it does not vary with regard either placement or phrase and any sense of metric
shift (discussed above) is abrupt, unlike Reich’s own gradual processes. As with
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the structure of his remix, Bernstein’s use of incommensurate loops appears
related to an intuitive approach to composition and what sounds ‘right’ rather than
the deliberate use of polyrhythms found in Reich’s pieces.
Timbre, effects and sonic treatments
Throughout the remix, Bernstein employs a number of techniques to bring about
the modification of timbre via electronic treatments. Timbral changes are effected
through the application of filtering, distortion, compression and the manipulation
of the attack, decay, sustain and release of sounds via envelope (ADSR) filtering.
One example of these techniques is clearly audible in Piano Loop 3 (Figure 18
and Figure 19) and Piano Loop 4 (Figure 20 and Figure 21, next page), which are
heavily compressed in order to restrict dynamic range, filtered to remove low
frequencies and distorted to create a grainy texture. By treating the samples in this
manner certain notes become more prominent resulting in the perception of a
particular rhythmic emphasis.
Figure 18: Piano Loop 3 as present in Eight Lines Remix beginning 1:49
Figure 19: Piano Loop 3 as scored for Piano 1 in Eight Lines p. 35 beginning Bar 286
Figure 20: Piano Loop 4 as present in Eight Lines Remix beginning 1:49
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Figure 21: Piano Loop 4 taken from Piano 2 Eight Lines score p. 43 beginning bar 335
Because the sonic treatments obscure the precise pitches being sounded, the
resulting rhythmic pattern (Figure 22) is fore-grounded whilst the melodic and
harmonic content of the piano recedes into the background of the mix. As a
general principle, where timbral changes are applied to otherwise static elements
of the remix, the effect is to move elements from the foreground to the
background of the mix or vice-versa. Thus, timbral changes are used to create a
sense of movement in the remix in a manner congruent with Reich’s own use of
timbral shifts for similar purposes. The presence of the resultant pattern is
reinforced by Bernstein’s use of a Cow Bell (Figure 23) to further accentuate
beats two and three of the first bar of Piano Loops 3 & 4. This is directly in
keeping with the minimalist’s use of deliberate psycho-acoustic phenomena, in
particular the emergence of resulting patterns.
Figure 22: Resulting rhythm pattern from Piano Loops 3 & 4
Figure 23: Cow Bell Loop as present in Eight Lines Remix beginning 1:50
Bernstein’s remix also affects timbral changes through mechanical means. The
vocal samples used in the remix are subject to changes in frequency, amplitude
and duration brought about through the manipulation of a record turntable. Three
techniques are used by Bernstein: spinning down the record by turning off the
drive shaft of the turntable while the needle is still engaged; changing the
playback speed of the record and subsequently the pitch and duration of the
recording; and manually spinning the record to achieve unusual variations in
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playback speed. While these techniques are congruent with the use of turntables
as instruments by John Cage, more advanced techniques are also present in genres
of Electronica, particularly Hip-Hop. Given Bernstein’s position within
Electronica, his work as a DJ and remixer, and an absence of references to Cage in
his interviews and writings, I believe the latter to be the case in this instance. In
addition to these techniques, Bernstein treats elements of the remix using reverb,
delays and ring modulation. Of these, the most prominent are the grainy echoes
and delays applied to the snare drum and vocal samples. Utilising a typical Dub
technique, a stereo delay is used and the input level is varied creating ‘washes’
across the stereo field. Bernstein notes that a Dub aesthetic was present in the
final construction of the remix, as elements such as the delays were ‘performed’
on top of the sequenced tracks in order to achieve “more movement” in the remix
(HBa20). Table 2 (next page) identifies the application of sonic treatments and
effects to elements of the Eight Lines Remix.
A
Filtering
Dynamics
Kick Drum
slightly
distorted
Envelope
Filtering
Effects
Delay / Echo
wash on
Snare and
vocal
samples
B
C
A1
Filtering and
compression
applied to
Piano Loops
3 + 4, Kick
Snare
Resonant
Filter
applied to
Bongo
Filtering
applied to HiHat and Snare
Filter sweep
applied to HiHats
Kick Drum
distorted
Compression
applied to
Piano Loops
3+4
Kick Drum
slightly
distorted
Snare
decay /
sustain /
release times
cut
Snare and Hi
Hat decay /
sustain /
release time
cut
Snare
decay /
sustain /
release
time cut
Snare
decay /
sustain /
release time
cut
Snare
decay /
sustain /
release
time cut
Delay / Echo
wash on
Snare and
vocal
samples
Ring
Modulation on
Tambourine
Reverb on
Flute
Delay / Echo
wash on Snare
Delay /
Echo wash
on vocals
Delay / Echo
wash on
Snare
Delay /
Echo wash
on Snare
Filtering
applied to
snare
B1
A2
Filtering
applied to
Kick
Resonant
Filter
applied to
Bongo
Filter sweep
applied to
Hi- Hats
Filter
sweep
applied to
Hi- Hats
Snare
Distorted
Table 2: Timbral changes present in Eight Lines Remix by section
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Discussion
Bernstein’s remix of Eight Lines demonstrates significant similarities with Reich’s
original work. Though Bernstein is evasive in acknowledging Reich’s influence
on his work, the liner notes to Reich Remixed make no such reservations and
position Reich as the “father of DJ culture” (Gordon, 1998; p. 2) arguing that
minimalism is somewhat of a cornerstone of Electronica. Bernstein does identify
Reich as an influence on his work but cites no specific examples of how this
influence is incorporated. Bernstein’s reflections on his own compositional
practice are at times contradictory and vague, most probably due to Bernstein’s
highly intuitive approach. By contrast, the analysis of Bernstein’s remix provides
a more useful basis for comparison, bearing out strong congruencies between
Reich and Bernstein's compositional aesthetics and techniques. As an exemplar of
contemporary dance music production Bernstein’s remix exhibits many of the
traits held in common between Electronica and the experimental music tradition.
Several similarities exist between Reich’s composition, Bernstein’s remix, and
more importantly, broader aesthetic concerns present within minimalism.
Figure 24 (next page) visually maps the musical and conceptual traits present in
Bernstein’s remix against elements of the experimental music tradition and
Electronica. Those areas encompassed by solid lines represent influences
acknowledged or claimed in relation to Bernstein’s remix whereas dotted lines
represent influences, such as Hip Hop, that are inferred by Bernstein’s artistic
practice. As will be discussed further below the Figure aims to represent
Bernstein’s remix and broader artistic practice exhibits several traits held in
common between Reich’s work, minimalism and Electronica more broadly as
well as, somewhat surprisingly, traits related to the experimental music tradition
not evident in the broader context of Electronica.
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Figure 24: Musical and conceptual traits found in ‘Eight Lines Remix’
Broadly speaking, while acknowledging Reich as an influence, Bernstein does not
clearly articulate how this influence may have impacted his music. While he does
identify the use of repetition and process based composition as being congruent
with his own practice, he does not clarify exactly how this is borne out in his
composition. Bernstein's preference for process-over-product in his own music are
congruent with similar emphases in the work of Reich and other composers within
the experimental music tradition discussed in this dissertation. However in
relation to the Eight Lines Remix Bernstein’s notion of ‘process’ does not describe
either musical or aesthetic processes in a manner recognisably similar to those
used by Reich. Consequently it would be difficult to ascribe the largely intuitive
process of music creation described by Bernstein to the influence of Reich’s own
conception of “a compositional process and a sounding music that are one and the
same thing” (1968, p. 10).
While not directly referencing the structure of Reich's piece, Bernstein's choice of
samples engender a strong association between sections of Reich's composition
and Bernstein's remix. Despite this Bernstein rejects the notion that the structure
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his remix was referenced to Reich’s original and any similarities must be
understood as a function of Bernstein’s choice of samples rather than any real
influence by Reich. Bernstein’s remix of Eight Lines makes use of limited
material from Reich’s original composition. In line with this reduction in material,
the remix displays a related reduction of harmonic and melodic complexity. The
use of a drone-like percussive element in the remix may indicate emulation of the
works of Terry Riley or La Monte Young though this is unlikely given the lack of
evidence in support of such a hypothesis.
Similar to many of Reich’s works, Bernstein’s remix makes use of repetition as a
structural device. Bernstein retains the meter of Reich's piece and appears to
emulate the canonic structure of Eight Lines through the juxtaposition of layered
repeating motifs. Rhythmic dissonances including the presence of metric shift and
polymeter in the remix is caused by the juxtaposition of looped materials and
Bernstein's unusual treatment of asymmetrical meter. These rhythmic dissonances
contribute to a perception of a polyrhythmic structure not dissimilar to that used
by Reich in pieces such as Drumming. In addition, Bernstein's use of timbral
changes and resulting rhythmic patterns are strongly reminiscent of similar
techniques employed by Reich and the simple audible additive and subtractive
processes by which the remix is structured are evocative of Reich’s notion of
sounding-processes.
Many of the similarities between Bernstein’s remix and the experimental music
tradition can also be explained with reference to Electronica. The question then
arises whether these similarities are the result of some influence on Bernstein by
the experimental music tradition. Bernstein’s background as a composer within
Electronica; the lack of any claims of influence by the experimental tradition prior
to the Reich Remixed project; and Bernstein’s unwillingness or inability to clearly
articulate any influence that Reich may have had on the remix also strongly
suggest that these traits are due to the influence of Electronica on his work. The
use of repetition is a fundamental feature of Electronica, as are the use of
electronic sound sources and treatments, minimal harmonic content and
composition utilising a minimum of means. Bernstein’s remix of Eight Lines also
utilises Dub-style production techniques including: the use of additive and
subtractive processes; the use of electronic treatments; the juxtaposition of looped
material; the use recontextualised sounds; and an emphasis on timbre and texture
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in the remix. Furthermore, the remix bears clear stylistic similarities to Dub in the
use of delay washes, vari-speeded (time-stretched) samples and the juxtaposition
of incommensurable loops creating rhythmic dissonance. Given Bernstein’s
acknowledgment of the influence of Dub on his work it is reasonable to attribute
these traits to the influence of Jamaican music rather than the experimental music
tradition.
There are also traits present within Bernstein’s remix that are not held in common
with Electronica but are present in the experimental music tradition. The use of a
drone-like percussive sound in the remix presents a possible point of contact with
the minimalist works of Terry Riley and LaMonte Young. Similarly Bernstein’s
stated preference for process-based composition is in line with the broad aims of
the experimental composers. However, these similarities are not necessarily
tantamount to experimental music influence. The use of the percussive drone is
not acknowledged by Bernstein as relating to any minimalist influence on his
work and is probably due to Bernstein’s choice of sample rather than a deliberate
emulation of Riley or Young. Though reinforcing similarities between Bernstein
and the experimental music tradition, these elements of the remix do not support a
case for direct influence.
Bernstein’s work does demonstrate strong similarities and congruencies with the
experimental tradition in a number of areas. Bernstein’s use of Reich’s Eight
Lines as source material has had an obvious influence on the content, form and
rhythmic construction of the of the remix. However, Bernstein has not engaged
with Reich’s material in a manner that is outside the scope of his usual practice
and key similarities between Bernstein’s remix and Reich’s original conform to
the overlap between traits found in Electronica and the experimental music
tradition. While Bernstein has undoubtedly been influenced by Reich’s original
piece in the creation of his remix, this Case Study does not support assertions of
direct influence by the experimental music tradition on Bernstein’s artistic
practice in general. Furthermore this Case Study does not support the notion made
in the liner notes of the Reich Remixed CD that minimalism has somehow
“filtered into the consciousness” (Gordon, 1998; p. 2) of Electronica. While there
are undeniable similarities between works of minimalism and Electronica, these
have been shown to relate to parallel developments within distinct musical genres.
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151
Case Study Two:
Surface Noise – A Cagean Approach to Electronica
In 1998 sound-artist Robin Rimbaud, also known as Scanner, created an
‘alternative film soundtrack’ of London. Titled Surface Noise, the work was
performed over three nights during a bus journey between London landmarks
Westminster Palace and St. Paul’s Cathedral. The ‘score’ for the piece was
generated by overlaying the melody of London Bridge Is Falling Down over a
map of London. Rimbaud recorded sound and images from the locations where
the notes fell and used the ‘score’ as a route for the bus to follow during each
performance. Rimbaud has stated that Surface Noise follows a “Cagean use of
indeterminacy” (2001; p. 67) and claims that his broader work is profoundly
influenced by the music and theories of John Cage. In a 2001 interview Rimbaud
stated “Cage has been a consistent figure on my life . . I went on to read all of his
published works, attended concerts and was lucky enough to meet him some years
ago” (cited in Cortes, 2001; online). Rimbaud has also acknowledged the
influence of minimalist composers Michael Nyman (Fringecore Magazine, 1997),
Terry Riley and Steve Reich (Lundeby, 2001) on his work.
This Case Study examines Rimbaud’s claims by identifying areas of contrast and
comparison between Rimbaud’s work and the experimental composers in order to
identify how and in what ways their influence may be observed. Surface Noise
will serve as a focus for this study as one example of the congruencies and
confluences between the work of John Cage and Robin Rimbaud. Accordingly,
Surface Noise will be discussed with reference to the key traits of both the
experimental music tradition and Electronica (identified in Part II). Whereas my
discussion of Howie B’s Eight Lines Remix was informed heavily by traditional
musical analysis, a similar approach would be less helpful in this instance due to
the nature of Surface Noise and the manner in which Rimbaud claims the
influence of Cage is transacted on his own work, discussed in more detail below.
Instead this Case Study will focus on Rimbaud’s composition process with
reference to his own assertions regarding the influence of Cage on his work, my
own interview data and various other interviews and articles written by and about
Rimbaud.
Robin Rimbaud
Robin Rimbaud came to prominence during the early 90s with the release of his
first two albums Scanner (1992) and Scanner 2 (1993). Both albums contain
recordings of intercepted telephone conversations placed against “minimalist
musical settings” (cited in Cortes, 2001; online). In response to these works,
Rimbaud was declared a ‘telephone terrorist’ receiving widespread press coverage
of his work and has since become a prominent artist within the Electronic
Listening Music genre. Rimbaud cites John Cage’s Variations IV (1965), along
with industrial group Throbbing Gristle’s Heaven Earth (1980), Brian Eno and
David Byrne’s My Life in the Bush of Ghosts (1981) and Robert Fripp’s Exposure
recordings (1979) as the inspiration for using human voices in his work (Marcus,
2001b). In this regard, Rimbaud’s stated influences outside of the experimental
music tradition are likely to have played a more important role than Cage, because
the human voice does not play an integral part in Variations IV. A case could be
made that the use of radios in Variations IV parallels Rimbaud’s own use of
‘intercepted’ transmissions via the scanner, though Rimbaud does not suggest this
himself.
Rimbaud has worked in collaboration with a number of high profile musicians
and artists including Laurie Anderson, Brian Ferry, DJ Spooky as well as author
and composer Michael Nyman. Alongside his commercially released albums,
Rimbaud has been involved with a number of multimedia art projects in which his
music is coupled with visual stimuli including film, dance pieces, art galleries and
other public spaces (Young, 1999). In addition Rimbaud has worked on several
high-profile commissions including work for the BBC and an imaginary national
anthem for the EU entitled Europa 25 as well as taking up a Fellowship in Sound
at John Moore’s University between 1993 and 1998.
At first glance, it would appear that Rimbaud is a model child of the experimental
music tradition, listening attentively to the voices of his parents and engaging
creatively with them. However Rimbaud is cautious of identifying his work as
experimental:
RRa8: In the way that my work refuses to address more traditional song forms, or
graphic narrative, or use more traditional instrumentation, most would argue
that my work is indeed experimental . . However, these terms frighten me as
they pigeon hole work before you've had the chance to make a decision yourself
and can be most misleading at times.
Interestingly, references to Cage do not appear in Rimbaud’s writings or
interviews until 1994 and Rimbaud’s recollections of his introduction to Cage –
either by his piano teacher at age 11 (Cortes, 2001) or his music teacher at age 14
(Burton, 1994) – vary between accounts. When asked for specific examples of
how Cage has influenced him, Rimbaud is vague:
RRa7: Cage has offered me endless inspiration to ways of living, not only through music
but through a shared responsibility and understanding of the world beyond just
work and creativity.
This response is problematic in that it suggests Cage has had a profound influence
on Rimbaud’s work without offering any specific examples. This should not
suggest that such evidence does not exist, merely that Rimbaud was unwilling to
expound further when interviewed for this research. The imprecise nature of
Rimbaud’s response is most likely due to the large number of questions and a
need for brevity. Rimbaud responded to the interview questions via email while en
route to Brussels from the UK and had initially declined to be a part of the
research due to a busy touring schedule. Frustrating as this is, these are the
realities of research of this kind and Rimbaud’s claims must be taken seriously
and investigated further. As a starting point it is useful to examine the key
aesthetic concerns of Rimbaud’s work. Rimbaud claims to take a strongly
conceptual approach to his work:
RRa1: What I do is take ideas, concepts, shapes, frames and generally contextualise
them within sound.
It is reasonable to assume then that if Rimbaud’s claims of influence are accurate
they should be observable in the ideas and concepts Rimbaud applies to his work.
This hypothesis is in keeping with the manner in which Rimbaud discusses Cage’s
influence, which tends towards conceptual rather than musical, “I just loved
concepts and Cage’s work . . and I could sense the ideas and structures that gave
them their depth” (cited in Fringecore Magazine, 1997; online). Rimbaud
variously describes his work as concerned with exploring the “relationship
between sound and architectural space and the space in between information,
places, history and relationships” (2001; p. 65); “the hidden resonances and
meanings within memory and, in particular, the subtle traces that people and their
actions leave behind” (Ibid; p. 69); and “the process of surveillance . . using the
indiscriminate signals drawn down from the ether, the acoustic data of the city, the
wow and flutter of our daily lives” (cited in Villas, 2000; online).
A constant element of Rimbaud’s work is ‘mapping’ physical environments by
creating audio documentations of the locations that he performs and records in.
Rimbaud has expressed this process as creating a ‘sound polaroid’ or ‘invisible
map’ of the locations such that “the sounds are reflective of that area” (cited in
Lee, 2000; p. 184). Rimbaud has utilised a number of techniques to achieve this
including the scanner (a long-range radio receiver that allows the user to tune in
on a range of transmissions, from ham radios and mobile phones, to electrical
surges) from which he derives his alias, audio generated from visual images via a
program called Metasynth and the use of samples “of locations, of cities, of
voices, accents, radio, television, music, etc.” (cited in Anon, 2003; online).
Rimbaud credits Cage with informing these ideas, suggesting that Cage’s
influence had led him to “zoom in on these spaces in-between” (cited in Cortes,
2001; online). What Rimbaud appears to be referring to is a perception that Cage’s
work is positioned ‘in-between’ music and noise through his use of environmental
sound. In the same interview Rimbaud suggests that “the effect of Cage taught me
that sound is ever present [and that this poses the question] . . how does one
define the spaces between music and sound?” (Ibid). Rimbaud has expanded on
these ideas most succinctly in a 2000 interview where he states:
I was very liberated by the ideas of John Cage where he talked about you embracing
your environment. So if you’re trying to work, and you’re trying to write or make a
film or something, and you hear these sounds in the background, you have to accept
the fact that this is part of the situation you’re in. It’s that environment whether good
or bad. It’s reflective of that situation. (cited in Lee, 2000; p. 184)
Whether this is an accurate reading of Cage or not is largely unimportant, what is
significant is that Rimbaud makes a connection between Cage’s writings and
music and his own use of environmental noise. Significantly, Rimbaud does not
always make this connection when discussing his work. Intriguingly the passage
from the Cortes (2001) interview (above) is repeated verbatim, but without the
references to Cage’s influence, in an article Rimbaud (2001) contributed to the
Leonardo Music Journal in the same year. It would be unfair to infer too much
form this, as the recycling of material may simply be a product of Rimbaud’s busy
schedule, however it is interesting to observe that for whatever reason Rimbaud
appears to be selective in aligning his ideas with Cage’s own. Further, the use of
environmental sound in ‘musical’ settings is not exclusive to Cage, or the
experimental music tradition, and can be found throughout the history of
Electronica beginning with Dub.
In addition to the use of environmental noise. Rimbaud suggests that his work
embraces a ‘Cagean’ approach to creativity, by which he appears to mean the use
of chance and indeterminacy. Rimbaud has stated “chance is a key factor in all
that we create . . and as such I embrace this Cagean approach to creativity” (cited
in Palmer, 2002; online). Similarly, Rimbaud describes elements of his 1998 work
Surface Noise as “following a Cagean use of indeterminacy” (2001; p. 67).
Notably Rimbaud does not refer to the sound of Cage’s compositions when
discussing the composer’s influence on his own work. This would suggest that in
some way Rimbaud engages with compositional processes similar to those
employed by Cage. Certainly Rimbaud echoes the experimental traditions
emphasis on process based composition through statements such as “art for me
has never been a 'thing', an object oriented discipline but more of a process” (cited
in Palmer, 2002; online); and "art is not a 'thing' spelt with a big capital A, it's a
process" (cited in Villas, 2000; online).
In practice Rimbaud’s terminology is misleading, as he appears to be referring to
the process of composition rather than composition as process. Rimbaud does not,
in other words, use process to refer to what Nyman describes as “outlining a
situation in which sounds may occur, a process of generating action (sounding or
otherwise), a field delineated by certain compositional ‘rules’” (1999; p. 4), but
rather to the more mundane process of the conceptual and musical steps leading to
the composition and ultimately realisation of a musical work. While it could be
argued that Rimbaud’s use of devices such as the scanner introduces an element
beyond his direct control, this does not correlate to Cage’s own use of chance
operations to determine specific elements of his compositions. Nor does Rimbaud
appear to compose in such a way that his works are structured so as to be
“indeterminate of [their] performance” (Cage, 1968; p. 69). Further contributing
to this quandary, Rimbaud is actually at odds with the rationale that underpins
Cage’s use of these techniques as a desire to eliminate his own personal prejudices
from the compositional process:
RRa11: I disagree with Cage here. I try to make work that connects with people. I've
always used a style of sound and sonic matter that attempts to maintain a
connection with people, that moves and engages them, rather than leaves them
in a confused, post modern, deconstructed analysis state where they are trying
to tear something apart to understand it, rather than simply move inside it and
become attached. My works have become increasingly personal over the years.
In order to make sense of Rimbaud’s claims, it is helpful to observe that he does
not think of composition and performance in the same way that Cage does. For all
his subversion of the medium, Cage’s compositions follow the tradition of
Western Art music in that the score and performance are separated to the point
that, in some cases, the system of instructions comprising the score is divorced
from the sonic realisation of the work in performance. An ‘indeterminate’ work, in
Cage’s terminology “refers to the ability of a piece to be performed in
substantially different ways – that is, the work exists in such a form that the
performer is given a variety of unique ways to play it” (Pritchett, 1993; p. 108).
Cage writes that “an indeterminate piece, even though it might sound like a totally
determined one, is made essentially without intention, so that, in opposition to
music of results, two performances of it will be different” (cited in Kostelanetz,
1971; p. 10). Like many composers of Electronica, Rimbaud manipulates and
arranges sound directly without the need for score or performer. Echoing
Stockhausen, Rimbaud argues that in some instances the ‘performance’ never
really takes place and the work exists only as ‘virtual’ construct:
I record into a sampler . . it’s digital information, it’s zeroes and ones . . then it goes
onto a DAT tape, so it’s never real; at this point, it’s even less real. It’s still zeroes and
ones. Comes out on compact disc, and in some way, it’s [sic] never actually existed.
(cited in Lee, 2000; p. 185)
In such a situation it becomes difficult to distance Rimbaud’s intentions from the
realisation of his compositions in the manner that Cage advocated, even if
Rimbaud wanted to (though as observed above, he would appear not to).
Furthermore, where Cage’s scores pertain to a structured process, Rimbaud’s
method of composition relies heavily on improvisation which he declares
“happens at the nexus point of all my work, even in the studio” (RRa12). By
improvisation, Rimbaud is referring to a live ‘remix’ that could be considered
synonymous with the improvisatory mixes of Dub:
Basically I take two or three MiniDiscs out with me, a keyboard, a sampler, a handheld Theremin, a little short-wave radio, and a scanner . . on the MiniDiscs I have a
series of rhythms or textures, so I have something going on at about 128bpm, then I
have another loop on another MiniDisc, and then another one, all running at the same
speed. Then I optimistically press 'start' at the same time and try and get them in
time . . . I just try and improvise around it (cited in Owen, 2001; online).
He appears to equate this form of improvisation with process based artwork in
that both result in a necessarily unrepeatable performance object (Lee, 2000) and
argues that each performance or recorded work captures a unique temporal
moment, the ‘sound polaroids’ (Rimbaud, 2001) discussed above. This causes the
act of composition and performance to become blurred, almost to the point that
the terms could be used interchangeably. Rimbaud views ‘live’ performance as a
form of composition in which looped material, samples and intercepted
transmissions are combined in an improvisatory manner (Owen, 2001).
RRa12: Composing generally occurs within a studio space, a dedicated location, that
allows for alternations, edits, decision making, a time for contemplation and rearrangement. Live performance is also a form of composition . . but overall
allows for a lot more risk taking. It's a reason I don't often use a computer in
performance for the fact of danger. I like not knowing the way a piece will
develop over time.
In this context each new performance produces a fundamentally different work
through the application of a consistent methodological approach. This presents an
interesting contrast with the experimental traditions use of indeterminate works in
which multiple, often dramatically different, outcomes are produced by the same
work. This goes some way to explaining Rimbaud’s alignment of his work with
‘Cagean’ ideals as both Rimbaud’s improvised composition method and Cage’s
use of indeterminacy result in outcomes which cannot be predicted in advance by
composer or audience and are necessarily unrepeatable. While the performer may
improvise within the context of an indeterminate work, the indeterminate process
is pre-planned and distinct from its realisation. However, in Rimbaud’s case it is
not that his compositions are structured in such a way as to make use of
indeterminate processes but rather, that he chooses to perform in an improvised
manner because he feels that to simply repeat his works verbatim is uninteresting:
RRa6: I'm not interested in recreating many of my works, they are really statements of
that moment in time so I simply store the samples on a disc, store the
arrangement digitally somewhere.
RRa13: It's invaluable for me to continue to discover in performance, rather than repeat.
I'm not a jukebox. I can't perform music that's created in a studio, unless I
simply just take a laptop with me to play back the work and that's personally not
very stimulating or exciting.
It seems then, that Rimbaud departs from Cage’s intention. If anything,
Rimbaud’s use of improvised composition is closer to Reich’s notion of
composition as sounding process, but it is not Reich who Rimbaud aligns himself
with in this regard. Whether or not Rimbaud’s work accurately reflects Cage is not
as important as identifying how Rimbaud believes he has applied Cage’s ideas.
Nevertheless, it is questionable whether an improvised approach to the
construction of a musical work from sampled and ‘live’ materials can really be
thought of as ‘Cagean’. A similar approach to composition is observable in Howie
B’s Eight Lines Remix and as a recurring technique in electronic dance music
beginning with Dub.
In addition to Rimbaud’s acknowledged similarities to Cage, it is also possible to
identify several congruent elements which Rimbaud does not draw attention to. In
line with wider practice in Electronica, Rimbaud’s work makes a feature of
transforming sounds through digital means. His list of tools includes several
software programs designed to drastically manipulate audio, such as Metasynth,
Reaktor and Thonk as well as the GRM Tools and Pluggo plugin suites. Rimbaud
states:
RRa15: I chose to work with these tools as they offer me exactly what I need - the
ability to take sounds and transform them, to collage, to edit, to be a small
mobile unit for performance, to be light, to allow work to happen, rather than to
lose my way within a wall of sound.
This is congruent with Cage’s predictions on the future applications of music
technology. Rimbaud claims to make a feature of the creative abuse of ‘low-tech’
devices such as the scanner, walkmans and other (comparatively) cheap hardware,
finding alternate uses for and “bastardising [this equipment by] push[ing] it to its
limits” (cited in Lee, 2000; p. 183). Rimbaud suggests that music software is “best
when it’s abused [as it] can encourage you to work in patterns that can be
limiting” (Ibid p. 183). Such abuse of technology for the purposes of creating new
sounds is certainly present, though not uniquely so, in the work of Cage whose
Cartridge Music (1960) and prepared piano works exhibit just this sort of abuse of
music technology, in these instances, a concert piano and record cartridge.
Minimalist influence
Refreshingly, the purported minimalist influence on Rimbaud’s work is far easier
to detect. Rimbaud identifies the minimalist influence on his work as pertaining
specifically to his use of repetition via looped material, citing Terry Riley and
Steve Reich “earlier works in the 1960s [as] a great inspiration” (cited in
Lundeby, 2001; online). When interviewed for this study Rimbaud identifies the
minimalist traits in his music as relating to a paucity of musical materials:
RRa10: A problem with digital technology is that we are able to constantly layer up
ideas upon ideas, without allowing the actual basic idea to be recognised, So in
the music studio it's common to add track upon track to a recording, to colour it
and extend it, yet one can so easily be lost within these dense layers that the one
single narrative cannot be identified. I have a tendency to remove, rather than
replace/extend. I would rather hear the skeleton than the overbearing mass.
Both the use of looped material and composition with a minimum of means are
certainly common to the minimalist composers and experimental tradition,
however these traits are also prevalent in Electronica. In this matter Rimbaud
appears hardly distinct from the tradition in anything other than that he cites
minimalism as a primary influence rather than House, Techno or Hip Hop.
In the above discussion I have identified the manner in which I believe Rimbaud’s
claims to influence by the experimental composers may be born out in his general
practice. I will now turn my attention to examining Rimbaud’s Surface Noise
(1998) in order to see if these observations can be sustained with reference to a
specific musical work.
Surface Noise
This analysis will examine the composition and performance of Surface Noise to
identify whether the work bears out significant hallmarks of the influence of the
experimental tradition. To this end I will concentrate on elements of the work that
corroborate or challenge Rimbaud’s assertions regarding such influence. These
will include the identification of sound sources and sonic treatments, the pieces
structure and the role of rhythm and the composition process as documented by
Rimbaud. The role of ‘familiar’ musical features such as melody and harmony
will be discussed but are less important because they are de-emphasised in
Rimbaud’s own composition. Transcriptions and diagrammatic representations
have been used where appropriate, my preference however is to direct readers to
the recording of the work itself to verify the observations made in this analysis
(see Audio Examples 2–15, Appendix E).
The recording on which this analysis is based can be obtained freely from
Scanner’s website.27 This recording represents one of a number of performances
of the work and the only audio documentation available. Given Rimbaud’s
improvisatory approach to live performance it is reasonable to assume that the
other performances would not necessarily have made use of the same material or
have been constructed in the same way. The recording must therefore be
considered within the context of a particular permutation at a particular time. It is
27
See http://www.scannerdot.com
reasonable to suppose that the same general principles would have been applied to
each performance of the work and as such the available recording is suitably
representative for the purposes of this investigation.
The ‘score’
As noted to the introduction to this Case Study Rimbaud claims that Surface
Noise follows a “Cagean use of indeterminacy” (2001; p. 67). The ‘score’ for
Surface Noise was created by overlaying the melody of London Bridge is Falling
Down over a map of London. This process is superficially similar to Cage’s use of
several superimposed transparencies in some of his indeterminate works,
including Variations I. However there is a fundamental difference in the manner
in which Cage and Rimbaud view the composition process. In Cage’s works the
resultant score is interpreted by the performer as a series of instructions for a
specific musical performance. In the case of Surface Noise, the score does not
have a direct bearing on the structure of the musical performance. Instead
Rimbaud uses the score to suggest locations to collect sounds for use in the piece
and to stage the performance. In this regard the score of Surface Noise is more
akin to Cage’s use of chance operations to, among other things, determine the
types of sounds to be used in a composition. Even this association is problematic
as the score of Surface Noise does not actually determine what sounds will be
used, only where they must be drawn from, and as such has only an indirect
bearing on the performance event. Beyond this, Rimbaud does not specify any
further purpose for the score. Consequently the score represets only one aspect of
the pre-compositional process, in which sounds that may be used in the
performance are collected.
The performance of Surface Noise under discussion here comprises five sections
presented on Rimbaud’s website as separate audio segments, ranging in length
from 4:41 to 8:50. The sections do not bear clear durational relationships to one
another and do not appear to develop according to any formal structure. This is
unsurprising given Rimbaud’s ‘improvisational’ approach to live performance. As
each of the five sections should be equally representative of Rimbaud’s
application of his ideas, I will use Section One of the recording as an exemplar
and refer to salient features of the other sections where required.
While there is no clear formal development each section is constructed in a
similar manner. Figure 25 (next page) represents the arrangement of the first
section of Surface Noise (Audio Example 2, Appendix E) with reference to time.
Sonic material is gradually added to the piece as the section progresses and
removed in roughly the same order as the section draws to a close. Rimbaud
gradually builds a ‘bed’ of sounds that remain constant, either through repetition
or sustained drone-like sounds, once introduced. On top of this bed, Rimbaud
layers a number of intermittent sounds that do not recur with any identifiable
regularity (though they may repeat throughout the section).
Figure 25: Time plot of Surface Noise Section One
A similar method of construction is audible in each of the five sections, although
the content differs and in some cases Rimbaud will interrupt the normal
progression of a section by briefly interspersing a new sound to the exclusion of
all others. An example of this can be heard in Audio Example 3 (Appendix E). In
this instance it is difficult to discern whether the interruption is deliberate or the
result of a malfunctioning delay unit or sampler, or possibly an overloaded audio
buffer. Rimbaud reintroduces the loops he was using prior to the interruption
rather than simply mix them back in, and this suggests a physical interruption to
the performance.
In context however, it is unlikely that an audience would have perceived this as a
‘mistake’ and the interruption appears as simply part of the performance, a
genuinely indeterminate part at that. The manner in which the performance of
Surface Noise is constructed is in keeping with Rimbaud’s approach to live
performance and ‘improvisational’ composition. Surface Noise appears to be an
'indeterminate' piece because it produces several different pieces from the same
source material. That each ‘improvisation’ develops in a similar way does
however, suggest an unacknowledged or unconscious order, structure or perhaps
‘determinacy’ imposed on the work through the materials used, the method of
performance or perhaps Rimbaud’s own personal taste. Despite the fact that each
performance of the work is necessarily unique, Rimbaud’s method of improvised
composition do not equate with Cage’s understanding of indeterminate
composition. If anything, the use of repetition as a structural device suggests a
confluence with the minimalist tradition. Of course this doesn’t mean that Cage
has not influenced Rimbaud’s approach, simply that Rimbaud has not applied
Cage’s ideas faithfully. At best this indicates an innovative extrapolation of certain
elements of the experimental music tradition, at worst Rimbaud appears to be
imitating the actions of certain experimental composers but with a different
purpose or meaning.
In an interesting aside, there are examples within the experimental tradition that
more closely align with Surface Noise. Max Neuhaus’ Listen: Field Trips Through
Found Sound Environments (1966–68) for example, appears a clear precursor to
Rimbaud’s composition. Neuhaus describes the piece as: “an audience expecting a
conventional concert or lecture is put on a bus, their palms are stamped with the
word listen and they are taken to and thru an existing sound environment” (cited
in Nyman, 1999; p. 104). Though Rimbaud utilises processed rather than naturally
occurring sounds, there is an obvious similarity between Surface Noise and Listen,
at least in as much as the theatre and intention of both pieces (namely the
exploration of an existing sound environment) align closely. Rimbaud however
appears unaware of Neuhaus’ piece or at least makes no reference to the composer
or his work. This raises an interesting quandary in that Rimbaud is eager to
explicitly reference Cage while there are other examples – within the
experimental tradition – that provide a much better context for the types of work
he is creating. In part this may have to do with some level of legitimacy to be
gained through association with Cage’s work and ideas. In recent years Rimbaud
has made a successful career out of positioning his work within the contemporary
art world rather than Electronica and while John Cage is a well known composer
of the twentieth century, Max Neuhaus is unlikely to be recognised by reporters,
fans or funding bodies. Though this may appear improbably calculating, it is
common practice within contemporary music for artists and record companies to
carefully brand their music through an acknowledged set of influences.
Alternatively, it is entirely possible that Rimbaud is simply unaware of the
broader experimental music tradition beyond that of Cage and the minimalists.
This is an interesting prospect in itself as it suggests that Rimbaud’s exposure to
the experimental music tradition has been limited to some of the more prominent
composers and the influence that the experimental music tradition as a whole has
had on Electronica is much less than the rhetoric surrounding artists such as
Scanner might otherwise suggest.
The performance of Surface Noise employs two distinct types of sound sources:
recordings of environmental noise; and sounds generated using Metasynth, a
software program that can be used to generate audio from digital images.
Metasynth does this through a “reverse sonogram that uses light and color [of an
image] to control amplitude and spatial placement” (Spiegel, 2005; p. 34).
Rimbaud specifically used field recordings and modified photographic images
taken from the locations around London dictated by the score, in order to create a
‘sound-polaroid’ of the environment (Rimbaud, 2001). This results in an ambient
soundscape that is dramatically removed from the norms of House or Techno, but
can be considered broadly representative of other ambient works of IDM.
Working with these sounds Rimbaud created a number of short phrases and loops
for use in performance. Rimbuad uses similar sounds in similar ways so that, for
example, most of the percussive sounds hear throughout the performance of
Surface Noise derive from the recorded footsteps, often processed through a delay.
In addition, Rimbaud makes use of environmental street noise at the beginning
and end of each section of the piece. This serves to delineate each new section as
well as providing an impression of continuity between sections. At times these
recurring motifs give an impression of some form of programmatic development,
but this is not prominent or consistent enough to be considered a deliberate
device.
Many of the environmental sounds used in the performance are manipulated and
affected through the use of delays, heavy equalisation / filtering, time stretching
and granular synthesis. Rimbaud’s use of sonic treatments renders much of the
environmental sounds unrecognisable. One illustrative example is Rimbaud’s use
of electronically treated bells throughout the performance. The source of these
sounds is most likely the belltower at the Palace of Westminster in London (where
Big Ben is housed) as this is one of the locations used by Rimbaud for the
collection of source materials (Rimbaud, 2001). In addition, an unprocessed a
fragment of the Westminster Quarters (Figure 26) can be heard clearly at the end
of section one (Audio Example 4, Appendix E) while Big Ben itself can be heard
striking the hour at the beginning of the section (Audio Example 5).
Figure 26: Westminster Quarters
From samples of these bells, Rimbaud derives a number of loops that are used
throughout the performance. For instance, Audio Example 6 (Appendix E) taken
from Section Two of the performance is a short loop derived from the recording of
Big Ben heard at the start of Section One (Audio Example 5). The original sample
has been processed to remove high frequency content and accentuate the low
frequencies of the sound. The sound of the mallet striking the bell is obscured in
this process leaving only a resonant bass drone. Audio Example 7 also probably
finds its genesis in Audio Example 5, as the attack and resonant decay are similar,
but it is difficult to say conclusively as the sound has been heavily processed.
Audio Example 8 is derived from another recording of the Westminster Quarters
not used in this performance. This treated sample is used in Section Five and has
been processed to remove high frequencies, accentuate frequencies in the low
mid-range and create a grainy texture and distortion when the bell is struck.
Elements of the sample also appear to have been rearranged as the hammer sound
and bell resonance recur in an unnatural pattern. The same sample is also used in
Section Two of the performance but is processed more heavily to remove the
lower frequency content leaving only the sound of the bell being struck (Audio
Example 9). The celesta like sound heard in Audio Example 10 appears to be
derived from Audio Example 4 pitch-shifted up by approximately an octave and
divested of low frequency content. In each of the above examples it is possible
that the treatments were achieved through the use of equalisation or pitch shifting
but the grainy texture and unusual recurring bell pattern in Audio Examples 8 and
9 suggest that granular synthesis is a more plausible explanation. Variations in
sounding pitch between the processed bells are likely the result of accentuating
particular overtones produced by the bells or pitch-shifting employed by Rimbaud
before, during or after the sounds were processed.
Regardless of the specific types of treatments applied to the sounds, it is highly
unlikely that they are the result of indeterminate processes. Rimbaud has made a
number of important determinations regarding this, including selecting material to
be processed, choosing the manner in which to manipulate a particular sound and
identifying which of these sounds will be used in performance. Even if Rimbaud
had no direct control over the process of sonic manipulation itself, he still
determines the ways in which these sounds are treated as well as identifying
sounds and loops to be used in performance. There appears to be no qualifier for
these decisions other than Rimbaud’s own tastes and preference for how he would
like the work to sound. In opposition to Cage’s notion of indeterminacy, Rimbaud
exerts a high level of control by selecting and processing this material for use in
performance. Subsequently, while Rimbaud’s manipulation of sound could be said
to fulfil Cage’s imaginings in his essay Experimental Music, it undermines the
notion that Surface Noise is an indeterminate work.
The recording contains no predetermined melodic or harmonic content. However
both melodic and harmonic content is present as the result of environmental
factors such as the Westminster Quarters, London underground public
announcements and sounds produced by Metasynth. Sounds created with
Metasynth are more conventionally ‘musical’ such as the sustained G flat chord
heard in Audio Example 11 (Appendix E). The harmonic content present in the
environmental recordings on the other hand is arguably incidental or a by-product
of the sonic treatments discussed above. In either case there is no underlying
harmonic structure and the sounds appear to be used either for their textural
quality or coherence with Rimbaud’s stated intention to utilise only material
captured ‘on location’.
The rhythmic content of the piece is not ‘scored’ but is instead the product of
looped environmental noise. Though use of repeating material produces a strong
sense of pulse throughout, the loops are not arranged with regard to any clear
metre or rhythmic structure. Significant variations in rhythm are common and
arise from the introduction and juxtaposition of often rhythmically dissonant
looped materials and the use of delays. An example of the former can be heard in
Audio Example 12 in which the established pulse of Percussion Loop 1 in Section
One is usurped by the more prominent, though rhythmically dissonant, Percussion
Loop 2. Rimbaud’s method of live composition is laid bare in this extract as he
first triggers the loop but then, for an unknown reason, decides to re-trigger the
loop in a different (and far more dissonant) location. The use of delays to affect
changes in rhythm is also evident in Section One and can be heard in Audio
Example 13 where the percussion loop has been fed into a delay unit creating a
brief counter-rhythm reminiscent of the use of delays in Dub. Rimbaud does not
appear to exert direct control over the rhythmic content of individual loops and as
such, it could be argued that the rhythmic content of the piece is indeterminate in
that it is outside his direct control. As previously discussed, Rimbaud has exerted
significant determination in selecting the material used in the performance and
chooses which loops to juxtapose and when to introduce them into the piece.
While congruent with the composition aesthetic of some composers within the
experimental tradition, the methodology employed in the performance of Surface
Noise is at odds with Rimbaud’s ‘Cagean’ approach to indeterminacy (2001).
Changes to texture are affected primarily through the use of envelope and
frequency filters, some of which are sequenced to create extended patterns. An
example of this can be heard in Audio Example 14 (Appendix E) where the
second percussion loop used in Section One (labelled Percussion Loop 2 in Figure
25 above) is affected by a sequenced filter. One cycle through the filter sequence
encompasses eight repetitions of the percussion loop, creating the impression of
an extended loop though the rhythm itself remains unchanged. Similarly the toned
percussion heard in Audio Example 15, taken from Section Three, is affected by a
resonant filter which is manipulated throughout the section to produce slight
variations in tone and timbre. Variations to texture are also achieved through the
addition and subtraction of elements within each section and these tend to
generate the most dramatic changes in timbre, rhythm and dynamics.
Discussion
Through his writings and interviews Rimbaud consistently articulates links
between Cage’s work and his own. Rimbaud cites Cage as a key influence on his
work along with minimalist composers Steve Reich, Terry Riley and Michael
Nyman. Rimbaud claims that Surface Noise employs a ‘Cagean’ approach to
creativity (2001). Rimbaud appears to draw on number of distinct ideas found
within Cage’s writings to create an aesthetic that, while not necessarily in keeping
with Cage’s original intentions, highlights what Rimbaud believes is a connection
between Cage’s work and his own. These claims were examined through
discussion and analysis of Rimbaud’s musical and conceptual concerns with
particular reference to Surface Noise.
Figure 27 (next page) plots Rimbaud’s key musical and conceptual traits in
relation to the ascribed influences discussed in this Case Study as well as areas of
confluence with Electronica. Traits identified as relating to the claims of influence
by Cage and the Minimalists are encompassed within the solid boundaries. Area’s
of confluence with relevant genres of Electronica such as Hip Hop, Dub and IDM
not explicitly referred to by Rimbaud in relation to his work are encompassed by
dashed lines. As can be seen, many of Rimbaud’s musical and conceptual
concerns are congruent with the experimental music tradition, however the
majority of these are also present in the broader, and overlapping, context of
Electronica. While this significant overlap may be expected in the work of a DJ /
producer such as Howie B, the limited number (one) of musical and conceptual
traits in Rimbaud’s work relating uniquely to the work of Cage, the minimalists or
the experimental music tradition more broadly is curious.
Figure 27: Musical and conceptual traits found in ‘Surface Noise’
Under scrutiny, Rimbaud’s aesthetic framework and artistic output do not align
perfectly with his stated experimental influences. While Rimbaud refers to terms
and ideas in common parlance in the experimental music tradition, his
understanding of their meaning is often divorced from their original context. On
first reading Rimbaud’s preference for process-based work appears congruent
with the experimental music tradition. However, Rimbaud uses the term to
describe the process of composition rather than the types compositional processes
documented by Michael Nyman (1999). Though bearing superficial similarities to
Cage’s use of graphic scores, Rimbaud’s score for Surface Noise does not function
in a discernibly similar manner to those used by Cage or other experimental
composers. Unlike the experimental composers, Rimbaud’s work employs no
separation between the acts of composition and performance and does not employ
the score in such a way that it has a direct bearing on the performance act. In
Surface Noise, Rimbaud utilises the score as part of a pre-compositional process
that, while influencing the performance environment, has little bearing on the
structure or performance of the musical work.
Rimbaud’s use of repetition and the presence of minimal harmonic and melodic
content indicate a possible minimalist influence, but such traits are also common
to the bulk of Electronica. Rimbaud’s approach to live performance, creating an
improvised mix from various pre-recorded sound sources, can also be aligned
with standard performance practice within Electronica, from Dub and Hip Hop
through Disco, House, Turntablism, Jungle and IDM. Likewise Rimbaud’s use of
improvised thematic musical forms is congruent with the work of other artists
within Electronica. The musical application of noise, use of electronic sound
sources and treatments and an emphasis on timbre / texture over melody and
harmony are more likely to support Rimbaud’s assertions of a Cagean influence
on his work. Despite these techniques being present in some forms of Electronica,
Rimbaud’s use in the context of Surface Noise is generally less ‘rhythmic’ or
‘musical’ and significantly more dissonant than much Electronica.
Parallels can be drawn between Rimbaud’s use of environmental noise, sonic
treatments and the prominence of rhythm and texture in the performance of
Surface Noise and key traits exemplified by Cage. In particular, the performance
of Surface Noise can be said to privilege texture and rhythm, over melodic and
harmonic content, paralleling Cage’s own use of rhythm as a means of realising
the ‘all sound’ music envisaged in his essay The Future Of Music: Credo (1968).
Interestingly Rimbaud does not make this association himself, instead identifying
Cage’s use of ‘environmental noise’ in compositions such as 4’33” as heavily
influencing his own work. While the use of environmental sounds in the form of
scanned telephone conversations and ambient noise are mainstays of Rimbaud’s
work, the manner in which these sounds are utilised and the rationalisation
Rimbaud offers for their use differs significantly from Cage’s own. Where Cage’s
use of noise initially tended towards the replacement of traditional rhythmic
instrumentation with non-musical sound, Rimbaud utilises environmental noise in
a manner congruent with other forms of Electronica, most obviously Ambient.
While parallels can be drawn to Cage’s use of noise in his aleatoric and
indeterminate works, Rimbaud’s understanding and application of what he terms
‘Cagean indeterminacy’ differs significantly from Cage’s stated ideals. Rimbaud’s
interpretation of Cage’s use of indeterminacy results in improvised thematic
musical forms that ape the outcomes of Cage’s indeterminate works but are
divorced from Cage’s methodological approach. The performance of Surface
Noise is not demonstrably indeterminate in the way that Cage defines the term
with regard to form, content or performance. There is a superficial similarity
between the construction of the score of Surface Noise and some of Cage’s works
(such as Variations 1). However, Rimbaud utilises the score artefact in a manner
at cross purposes to Cage’s own, having little bearing on the form or structure of
the performance. Though Rimbaud views each performance as necessarily unique,
the improvised nature of the performance makes it almost impossible to
distinguish the realization of the work from Rimbaud’s preferences and
preconceptions as a composer. Rimbaud further invests his personal taste and
preference into the piece through the process of selection and processing the
sounds. As such, the performance of Surface Noise is at odds with Cage’s notion
of indeterminacy, which requires the composer to remove his own taste and
preference from the creative process.
With regard to the broader influence of experimental music on Rimbaud’s work it
is possible to identify traits that are strongly reminiscent of the minimalist
composers in Rimbaud’s work. The performance of Surface Noise makes use of
repetition and minimal melodic and harmonic content. However such traits are
also common among much Electronica and there is no clear evidence that
Rimbaud has drawn on the minimalist tradition in this instance. Interestingly
Rimbaud appears unaware of artists and works within the experimental tradition
more closely aligned with his own concerns. This suggests his engagement with
the tradition is somewhat populist in nature and possibly related to Rimbaud’s
branding of his work and himself.
Rimbaud’s work demonstrates significant congruencies with the experimental
music tradition but also significant variance, often in precisely the area’s where
Rimbaud claims to have been influenced the most. The available evidence
suggests that the influence Rimbaud draws from the experimental music tradition
has been subject to significant reinterpretation or extrapolation. Rimbaud has
reinterpreted, in some cases dramatically, his sources of inspiration and filtered
them through the music of his own contemporaries with probable reference to
prevailing market forces. This is of course precisely the type of innovation that
has always been a part of the transfer of musical ideas. This Case Study supports
Rimbaud’s claims that he has been influenced by the experimental music
tradition, while at the same time pointing out key differences between the ways in
which these influences have impacted on his work and the way in which they
might be understood in their original context.
Case Study Three:
Errata Erratum – Online Systems Music
In 2002, Paul Miller (DJ Spooky That Subliminal Kid) created an online
installation for the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art. Errata Erratum is
a multimedia work that ‘remixes’ Marcel Duchamp’s Sculpture Musical and
Erratum Musical in an interactive form. Miller has stated that while researching
the work he “found so many examples of how DJ culture intersected with some of
the core tenets of the twentieth-century avant-garde that it seems to have
unconsciously absorbed them all” (2004a; p. 93). While Nyman (1999) takes
pains to differentiate between the experimental music tradition and European
avant garde, Miller makes no such distinctions, identifying DJ culture as a “kind
of inheritance” (cited in Radio V, 1998; online) of John Cage’s Imaginary
Landscapes No. 1 and Hip Hop as an “extension of the New York tradition of
minimalism” (cited in Hargus, 1997; online).
This Case Study will discuss Errata Erratum with reference to Miller’s broader
assertions linking his work, and Hip Hop more generally, with the experimental
music tradition. Miller’s claims will be evaluated by comparing and contrasting
musical and conceptual traits in Miller’s work with those of the experimental
music tradition and Electronica. Errata Erratum provides a useful focal point for
this study as Miller discusses the piece at length in his book Rhythm Science. In
contrast to the preceding Case Studies, a fundamentally different approach is
required in this instance as Errata Erratum exists as an interactive installation
work rather than a recording. Consequently this Case Study will focus mainly on
my interview with Miller as well as the extensive discussion of Miller’s work in
his own writings and interviews. Traditional musical analysis plays almost no role
here and an emphasis instead is placed on the conceptual underpinnings of
Miller’s work.
DJ Spooky, That Subliminal Kid
Paul Miller has a background in Philosophy and French Literature, having studied
both at university level, and began DJ-ing while an announcer on US college
radio. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Miller has studied music at a university
level, though he notes he did so for only one semester. Miller is an internationally
respected touring musician and composer who has worked in collaboration with a
range of underground hip hop artists such as Kool Keith and Dr. Octagon as well
as sound artist Robin Rimbaud, turntablist DJ Olive, Dub producer Lee ‘Scratch’
Perry, Slayer Drummer Dave Lombardo and Public Enemy’s Chuck D. In
addition, Miller has curated a number of New York experimental music clubs and
‘happenings’ and lectures at the European Graduate School. Miller also
contributed a piece to the Reich Remixed project discussed earlier in this
dissertation, a work that he has performed in concert with the Kronos Quartet.
In the mid 1990s Miller began releasing music under the moniker of DJ Spooky
That Subliminal Kid. Borrowed from the pages of William Burrough’s Nova
Express, Miller views his alter ego as a “conceptual art project” (2004a; p. 13)
focusing on the role of sound in contemporary culture. In one interview Miller
reveals that he views his own work “as an inheritor of the Warhol sort of post-pop
thing” (cited in Radio V, 1998; online). Though ostensibly situated within the
context of the New York hip hop scene, Miller’s music (termed ‘ILLbient’ by
collaborator DJ Olive) has been compared to the Ambient music prevalent in the
UK Rave scene at the same time (Reynolds, 1995a) and is characterised by the
collage of numerous, often non-musical, sound sources. Describing Miller as an
abstract turntable artist, Thom Holmes depicting the milieu of sounds present in
Miller’s work as:
. . a kind of real-time musique concrète, weaving electronic tones into the mix,
sampling, Dubbing, and rearranging chunks of sound like pieces of time. It is a heavy
brew of noise, voice, electronic distortion, sampling, and an occasional musical or rap
riff . (2002; p. 270)
Miller claims a strong aesthetic underpinning to his work that incorporates his
studies in philosophy, asserting that “DJ-ing was always an extension of my
writing” (cited in Baxter, 1997; online). Miller supports this stance by pointing to
the etymology of the word ‘phonograph’ – phono (sound), and graph (writing)
– suggesting that the act of DJ-ing (phonography) could be best described as
“sound writing” (Miller, 2002; online). Miller often refers to his work music in
terms of literary metaphors (particularly science fiction) and often discusses music
in terms familiar to post-structuralist theory. Miller views stream of consciousness
writings and non-sequential narratives found in literature and philosophy as
analogous to the DJ mix (Miller, 1996). Much of Miller’s writings and interviews
exhibit a similar tendency to jump rapidly between ideas that are not obviously
related. In this regard it is likely Miller is emulating philosophers such as Deleuze
and Guatarri who exhibit a similar decentred, non-hierarchical form of prose.
Despite this, Miller does make consistent (and coherent) statements relating to the
intentions behind the creation of his work, though these are dispersed across
numerous sources and are in some cases lacking specific detail. It is possible to
glean an understanding of Miller’s aesthetic in relation to the experimental music
tradition through the analysis and synthesis of these sources.
In general, Miller’s writings and interviews are more concerned with the influence
of ideas than musical traits. Miller suggests that ‘the remix’ is one representation
of the sorts of rhizomatic structures found in the writings of Deleuze and Guattari.
Miller posits that “the basic sense of ‘rhizomatic’ thought [is the] driving force”
(2005; online) behind his music and art. A recurring theme in his writings is the
rejection of binary oppositions in favour of hybridity and flux:
Derridean difference and its re-engagement with textuality . . take us to a place where
all is flux – the boundaries between the different mediums have long ago faded. Sound
and sentiment, symbol and signified – all that is old news, flotsam and jetsam floating
in the strange continuum . .‘the electromagnetic imaginary’” (n.d; online).
Miller proposes that “music is all about creating tools for thinking – about giving
people systems to organize information outside of the European categories of
‘rationality’ and ‘universal subjectivity’ that drove the Enlightenment” (2005;
online). One of Miller’s key compositional aims is to recontextualise sounds by
creating collages (that Miller equates with information) in ways that break free of
existing associations for the listener. Miller refers to ‘flipping’ aesthetic norms and
established ideas in order to create “new situations for people to look at the world
around them” (cited in Pinon, 2001; online):
PMa1: So many people are afraid to flip things in a different style because they feel like
they'll lose their ‘credibility’ – I want to flip things to the point where people
de-program from that kind of mentality.
Miller cites experimental composers such as Cage, amidst a long list of other
influences including James Brown, (visual artist) Basquiat, Afrika Bambaata,
author Raymond Scott and Sun Ra, as examples of this type of creativity (Pinon,
2001). Miller views sampling as a way of achieving his artistic vision by creating
with “found objects” (2004b; online). Although Miller’s terminology could
suggest Varèse’s use of found sounds, Miller’s reference appears to be the visual
art tradition and more specifically Marcel Duchamp’s found (art) objects such as
the infamous urinal. Miller states that “by using a found object . . that has the
ability to hold replicated information, and in turn can be used to reproduce that
very same information . .[the object] arrives at a point where it is the
electromagnetic equivalent of the blank canvas” (1996; p. 352).
Miller’s adoption of what might be termed a post-modern or deconstructive
approach to art – Miller prefers “post-post-modern” and “reconstructive” (cited in
Simula, 2005; online) – results here in a somewhat dogmatic opposition to socalled mainstream American culture. Miller suggests the core elements of his
work derive from his experiences as a young African American male, and his
racial identity appears strongly tied to the notion of hybridity and diversity in his
work (Miller, 1996). Miller also argues that this racial identity has set him at odds
with the art ‘establishment’ (as Miller views it) (Simula, 2005). Miller is at pains
to identify himself as an ‘artist’ proper as well as a DJ and musician, but
complains that the multiple contexts his work exists within are often not
recognised by mainstream culture (Ibid). In one instance Miller compares the New
York art world to the South African apartheid regime, suggesting that,
PMa13: It has its racially encoded visions of what is acceptable ‘black’ art, and I don't fit
it . . the DJ thing took over because the art world can't deal with real diversity.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Miller is equally polemic when discussing politics,
culture and the role of the media in contemporary society. In particular, Miller’s
interviews, writings and works started to address more overtly political themes
post the 2001 terrorist attacks in New York (Miller’s home city). Many of Miller’s
writings and interviews on the subject appear somewhat heavy on rhetoric, but
Miller’s passion for his subjects is evident. He posits his preference for diversity
against what he views as a society, at least in America, which is hamstrung by
social hierarchies and rigid ways of thinking and doing. Miller appears to view the
current political climate in the United States as heading toward an Orwellian
dystopia where big brother is always watching and double-speak is the language
of choice. Within this context, Miller believes his music and art take on a
significance beyond themselves and provide “an inner space for people to work
out various passions and obsessions” (cited in Baxter, 1997; online). Many of
Miller’s diverse influences are assimilated under what he terms an “obsession
with technology” (Ibid) as a way unfolding and communicating common human
experience. Miller is notable among his peers in that he possesses a strong sense
of historical precedence to his work:
PMa9: The whole notion of mix culture parallels what has been going on in certain areas
of philosophy and intellectual property law, architecture, genetic engineering,
and media manipulation.
Miller proposes that the DJ mix provides a forum for exploring media literacy in
contemporary culture and views his own work as and promoting the sort of
diversity of culture and ideas that he believes is imperative for future generations.
PMa10: I feel like I was born on the cusp of this kind of stuff, and its a drag. If I had
been born maybe 20 years later, I would be in the right generation. My
generation still has a lot of boundaries about multi-culturalism, which is a real
fucking drag. White Americans still think that they are the centre of the
universe, and because I travel a lot, well... its pretty easy to see that this isn't the
case. My style of music reflects that paradox . . the ‘dark’ and ‘eerie’ Hip-Hop
shit I have on my mind comes out in the music, but its also an exploration of
how to get out from under the dead weight of the 20th century.
Experimental influence
The relationship of Miller’s work to the experimental music tradition is complex
and somewhat elusive. Miller’s statements regarding this tradition often relate to
perceived parallels between Miller’s own work and that of experimental
composers. In such instances the influence on Miller’s own work is inferred rather
than articulated. It is therefore important to carefully evaluate whether these
parallels result from Miller’s assimilation of elements of the experimental music
tradition or some other source. Miller positions the development of his work as a
continuation of the art ‘happenings’ of the 1960s. Miller suggests that his early
performances were “based on indeterminanc [sic]” (2004a; p. 48). and were
intended to pay homage to the likes of John Cage, Nam Jun Paik, Joseph Beuys
and Allan Kaprow. At the same time, Miller argues that his work functions as a
critique on what he describes as conservatism within contemporary art music:
Art-music people are still trapped or entrenched in what is basically an early seventies
aesthetic of what is experimental music, and the focus is on the live performance or
the traditionally validated musical instrument. (cited in Baxter, 1997; online)
This poses problems when discussing the influence of experimental music on his
work. While Miller suggests his early works based on indeterminacy and paid
homage to Cage (among others), he also rejects the influence of the experimental
tradition as part of the established Western Art world. Such comments appear to
cast Miller in the role of a rebellious teenager at odds with the aesthetics and
musical ideals of a previous generation, but this would be an unfair caricature.
Miller does not see the experimental music tradition as static, but something that
changes with time. In this context Miller’s critique refers to the enshrining of the
experimental music tradition rather than his extrapolation of these elements in his
own work. Miller claims to take the work of the experimental composers as a
jumping off point for his own works and ideas. He does not reject what has come
before in the experimental music tradition per se, but rather the orthodoxy he
believes is present in art music:
PMa4: The 70s was an era were a lot of this stuff was new, and now a lot of that stuff has
become the establishment. I want to upset the balance and engage some
different milieu.
To all intents and purposes Miller believes that his work does draw on elements of
the experimental music tradition, as Miller himself understands it. At a basic level
he believes that his work is experimental in that it explores the deconstruction of
musical, cultural and artistic norms. However this is somewhat removed from the
tenets of the experimental music tradition and Miller’s own understanding of this
diverges somewhat from that of Michael Nyman (1999). Similarly to
commentators such as Homes (2002) and Martin (2002), Miller does not make
any distinction between the experimental music tradition and the European avantgarde. This creates difficulties in identifying what Miller actually means when he
discusses the influence of experimental music on his work. In his book Rhythm
Science (2004a), Miller suggests that DJ culture intersects on numerous occasions
with the “core tenets of the twentieth-century avant-garde [and that] it seems to
have unconsciously absorbed them all” (p. 93). When asked about this statement
via email, Miller was unwilling to provide specific examples of the ways in which
such an absorption might have taken place. Instead he suggested “it's all about the
re-appearance of phenomena . . I guess its the technological equivalent of
reincarnation” (PMa3) and that he builds on the works of experimental composers
as a basic vocabulary for his own compositions. Miller states that “my generation
has to deal with a media vacuum, and most people don't find a historical reference
for what they're doing, they just say, ‘This is what I'm doing, and it reflects my
interests’” (cited in Baxter, 1997; online). Miller contends that his familiarity with
twentieth century art music provides his work with a “longer sense of tradition”
(cited in Shipp, 2002; online).
In practice, Miller has adopted a somewhat schizophrenic pantheon of influences
and borrowed from each one as convenient. For example, Miller praises Iannis
Xenakis for an ability to “precisely organize noise and silence” (cited in Baxter,
1997; online) while apparently ignoring that Cage’s work explored similar
concerns from the 1930s. Elsewhere Miller refers to the work of Cage and
Xenakis as coming from “two radically different camps of ‘systems culture’”
(cited in Shipp, 2002; online). Miller’s polarises Cage and Xenakis as random and
algorithmic composers respectively, neglecting Cage’s own algorithmic
composition techniques such as the use of ‘square root’ or ‘micro-macrocosmic’
rhythmic form. Interestingly, the upshot of Miller’s observations is that “’systems
culture’ has now become the basic way we think about music – random and
algorithmic at the same time” (Ibid). Perhaps the best explanation of Miller’s
approach to the question of influence is that Miller is simply a child of postmodern times. Amid a myriad of musical, philosophical and cultural influences,
Miller argues that “electronic music makers . .[are] much more willing to jump
around and try and create this kind of psychological collage space” (cited in
Baxter, 1997; online). In a corresponding statement, Miller suggests somewhat
glibly that its “a post-modern situation – cut and paste as we go” (cited in Radio
V, 1998; online).
Miller believes that elements of DJ culture exhibit a strong conceptual
underpinning that is comparable to that of experimental composers John Cage,
Steve Reich and Philip Glass (FAQT Magazine, n.d.). Substantiating these claims
proves difficult. Miller draws parallels between the use of repeating breakbeats in
Hip Hop and the repetition of small motifs in the minimalist tradition. He
indicates that “if you look at the New York school of minimalism in the 60s . . all
that stuff translates directly to Hip Hop” (cited in Shipp, 2002; online). It is
unclear however, whether this is as the result of direct influence on Hip Hop by
minimalism. It is more likely that the similarities noted by Miller are due to a
confluence of musical developments between the two traditions. In an interesting
aside, Miller argues that both Hip Hop and minimalism are a response to an urban
environment. He suggests that New York’s landscape “guides the mind towards
this kind of extreme minimalism” (cited in Baxter, 1997; online) and proposes a
correlation between the “recursive spatial arrangement of tones [and the
architectural] deployment of building materials to create a building’s framework”
(Miller, 1996; pp. 349–350). Despite parallels between Hip Hop and minimalism,
Miller’s work does not exhibit minimalistic traits that are distinct from forms of
Electronica.
Similarly, Miller (1996) views the DJ mix as a way of deconstructing the
relationship between performer and audience. He suggests that the boundaries
dividing performer and listener are blurred by the DJ’s use of found objects or self
generated sounds to evoke emotive responses. In effect, Miller is describing the
inclusion of the audience, either in place of or in tandem with the performer, as
the focal point of much Electronica. The UK Rave scene in particular, actively
promoted and documented the audience as the centre of attention during
performance events. In turn, this finds parallels with some experimental works in
which the role of both performer and audience is one of active participation in the
creation and reception of a musical work.
Less easy to discern is the influence of John Cage on Miller’s work. Miller refers
to Cage’s Imaginary Landscapes No. 1 as a sort of pre-cursor to contemporary DJ
performance in general, as well as to his own work specifically (Radio V, 1998).
At one level this comparison rests on Cage’s use of the record turntable as a
musical instrument. Though it is difficult to prove a clear link between John Cage
and proto-turntablists Grandmaster Flash, Afrika Bambaata and Grandmaster
Theodore, several authors and artists have suggested such a link does exist (for
example, Holmes, 2002 ; Toop, 1995) and Miller reiterates these claims. Miller
draws parallels between Imaginary Landscapes No, 1 and his own Illbient style
suggesting that Cage “recorded frequencies of an urban situation and put it to
vinyl” (cited in Radio V, 1998; online). This arises from an apparent
misunderstanding on Miller’s behalf of Cage’s piece. Rather than the “frequencies
of an urban situation” (Ibid) suggested by Miller, Imaginary Landscapes No. 1
instead utilises test-tone recordings that are vari-speeded to create fluctuations in
pitch. Miller’s writings often exhibit such gaps (perhaps gaffs) in his
understanding of Cage’s work and ideas. Miller describes the performance of
Cage’s 4’33” as follows:
John Cage used to just stare at the piano in his silence pieces. The instrument was a
jumping off point – an interface that had so many routes available. Cage wanted to
highlight that meditational aspect of the creative act. (2004a; p. 28)
Miller’s reading 4’33” is open to some conjecture, not least because it was pianist
David Tudor and not Cage himself who performed the work. 4’33” aims to focus
the performer and audience’s attention on the unintended, and thus indeterminate,
sounds occurring within the context of a performance environment. As Cage
himself notes, “silence becomes . . not silence at all, but sounds” (1968; p. 22).
Such misunderstandings do not negate Miller’s claims regarding Cage’s influence
but rather point to a somewhat creative interpretation of Cage’s ideas on Miller’s
behalf. The inferences Miller draws from Cage’s work are often difficult to predict
and are demonstrative of a propensity to channel and redirect existing ideas in
new and creative ways. Perplexingly, Miller compares the composition techniques
used in serialism to the cut-up style production techniques found in some Hip
Hop, and compares Cage’s use of indeterminacy with digital sequencing:
PMa3: You can see the dialog between Pierre Boulez and John Cage . . as a good overview of the idea of indeterminancy [sic] and serialism. These days if you look at
what's gone on with digital "sequences" versus the kind of scratch media/cut up
media we see as a basic vocabulary of youth culture at this point, you can see
how these kinds of compositional strategies became tied in with the basic ways
that we think about music and media.
As Miller points out, certain parallels can be drawn between the techniques
employed by composers of serialist works and the use of sequencers to
‘retrograde’ and ‘invert’ samples. However it is unlikely that Hip Hop has been
directly influenced by serialism and the parallels that do exist appear superficial at
best and misleading at worst. While both serialism and Hip Hop make use of
retrograde materials in the form of tone rows and samples, they are the result of
very different compositional processes and are put to entirely different musical
ends. Miller’s comparison of digital sequencing and Cagean indeterminacy is
perhaps even more problematic. That Miller is aware of Cage and Boulez’s
correspondence suggests Miller has a more than superficial familiarity with
Cage’s writings. However, Miller’s references to the use of sampling has much
more in common with musique concrète technique than Cage’s application of
indeterminacy.
Digital sequencing is one of the most determinate of all electronic compositional
processes in that the intention of the technology is to have every sound or event
‘locked’ to a bar, beat, frame or time marker. Subsequently the results will be
identical each time the sequence is played back unless some other indeterminate
element is introduced into the process. Furthermore, the notion of indeterminacy
is reliant on a separation between the acts of composition and performance that is
anathema to the use of the sequencer. A sophisticated playback device, the
sequencer renders the act of physical performance unnecessary because the
composer can arrange and realise a work virtually. In this regard the use of the
sequencer is described perfectly by Stockhausen’s proclamation that “in electronic
music, the interpreter no longer has any function. The composer, in collaboration
with some technicians [or technology], realizes the entire work” (1958; p. 373). In
an innovative interpretation of Cage’s notion of indeterminacy, Miller uses the
term indeterminacy to refer to the process of reception rather than realisation.
PMa2: Cage looked to the idea of ‘indeterminancy’ [sic] and of giving up control over
his compositions – I do the same with thinking about the basic fact that once I
put a track out in the world, anyone and everyone who wants to can change and
transform it. The digital update on Cage's concept bounces this through the idea
of the continuous update.
Elsewhere, Miller interprets Cage’s idea of indeterminacy as relating to the
juxtaposition or collage of a number of sounds, a practice which is fundamental to
DJ performance. In this context he claims that if “you look at John Cage's idea of
‘indeterminancy’ and its relationship to turntables – the concept fits solidly . . The
idea of collage drives my mixes – that's the point” (2005; online).
Miller’s approach to composition and performance embraces an improvisatory
aesthetic involving the deliberate recontextualisation of sounds. Miller views the
act of DJ-ing as a “form of improvisation [involving a] one-man band” (cited in
Bastin, n.d.; online) comprising turntables, sequencers or computer software.
Miller’s uses of the term ‘improvisation’ refers to an unplanned process of music
creation in live performance using pre-recorded source materials. Miller suggests
that the DJ not only expresses themselves through their choice of samples or
records, but creates a form of aural sculpture wherein the recombinant nature of
the DJ mix results in a form of collaboration between the DJ and the recorded
music. Miller argues that in this way “the DJ acts as the cybernetic inheritor of the
improvisational tradition of jazz, where various motifs would be used and
recirculated by the various musicians of the genre” (1996; pp. 349–350). Because
of this improvisatory aesthetic, Miller posits each performance of his work as a
unique event existing only for the moment of time in which it occurs:
PMa11: Performances are direct reflections of that one night, that one scenario. Every
one of them is different. They're all artefacts that are meant to vanish into the
night, or for that matter into the next podcast.
While this is in line with Cage’s definition of an indeterminate work as one that is
unrepeatable, the means by which this unrepeatability is brought about, namely
improvisation, is difficult to assimilate with Cage’s intentions. It seems likely that
Miller has adopted his approach to indeterminacy from Electronica and
acknowledges “I grew up on ‘live’ electronic music . . combined with a kind of
Dub tradition as well” (2004a; p. 36). Discussing the setup for his live
improvisations, Miller states that he likes to work with a digital mixing board that
allows for the (re)combination a variety of sounds and samples in a manner
similar to that of Dub producers such as King Tubby and the Scientist (Pinon,
2001). While this methodology produces outcomes that parallel Cage’s
indeterminate works, Cage arrives at these outcomes in a completely different
manner to that practiced by Miller. Though Miller is eager to identify his work as
having some relationship to the experimental music tradition, his writings and
interviews inform only part of what is a complex landscape. In order to gain a
more complete picture of Miller’s artistic practice as it relates to the experimental
music tradition, I will now examine Miller’s piece Errata Erratum.
Errata Erratum
The analysis of Errata Erratum will examine the composition and realisation of
the piece with reference to Miller’s stated aims and his assertions that Errata
Erratum demonstrates several parallels between Electronica and the experimental
music tradition (Miller, 2004). As with previous Case Studies, this analysis will
focus only on the specific features relevant to the discussion at hand. Miller’s
writings and interviews inform this analysis and provide a useful framework
within which to evaluate his artistic practice. Unlike the other pieces under
discussion in this dissertation, Errata Erratum does not exist as a finished work
but is rather a potential work that is realised through interaction with the audience.
As such analysis of the piece will be restricted to various component parts and the
way in which these are implemented. Descriptions, diagrams and screen captures
of the web-based interface of Errata Erratum have been used to highlight aspects
of the piece, however readers are encouraged to explore the online installation for
themselves.28
Described as a “web based DJ project” (Miller, 2004, p. 93), Errata Erratum
remixes two musical works composed by Marcel Duchamp, Erratum Musical and
Sculpture Musicale. Though predating the experimental tradition by several
decades, Duchamp’s works exhibit traits congruent with those of John Cage. Such
confluences are not unexpected because Duchamp is referred to several times in
28
Viewable at http://www.moca-la.org/museum/digital_gallery/pmiller/opener.html
Nyman’s Experimental Music (1999) as a clear antecedent to the experimental
music tradition. Futhermore, Duchamp and Cage shared a long friendship, Cage
composing Music For Marcel Duchamp for the artist in 1947 and the two
performing Cage’s Reunion on-stage together in 1968.
Written to be performed by Duchamp and his two sisters, Erratum Musical (circa
1913) was created by placing cards containing a musical note, text taken from a
dictionary and the name of a performer (Yvonne, Magdelaine and Marcel) into a
hat and then drawing them out at random (Kotik, 1991). The resulting ‘score’ is
thus constructed through a series of chance operations, as Cage would later define
the term, or via a series of ‘mistakes’ that give the piece its name (Erratum
Musical roughly translates as ‘misprinted music’ or ‘musical misprint’). The text
used for the piece was taken from a dictionary definition of ‘imprimer’, “Faire
une empreinte; marquer des traits; une figure sur une surface; imprimer un scau
sur cire (To make an imprint; mark with lines; a figure on a surface; impress a
seal in wax)” (cited in Chen, 1999; online) with the following directions:
Sculpture Musicale: Sons durant et partant de différent points et formant une
sculpture sonore qui dure. Translated, this reads “Musical Sculpture. Sounds
lasting and leaving from different places and forming a sounding sculpture that
lasts” (cited in Lotringer, 2000; online). Kotik (1991) notes that the piece is
similar in form to the fluxus compositions of the 1960s, although the work could
also be considered indeterminate in that the form, content and realisation of the
piece is removed from Duchamp’s direct control, and thus intention, as a
composer.
Errata Erratum inverts the relationships between composer and composition,
performer and audience, predicating the realisation of the piece on interaction
between the web interface and user. In effect the listener becomes the DJ, creating
an individual mix from found audio objects (a further reference to Duchamp) they
are presented with (Miller, 2004a). The piece comprises an interface (the control
panel) by which the audience interacts with the piece and the stage where the
results of this interaction are displayed. The control panel contains five ‘decks’
(Figure 28, next page) that function similarly to a DJ’s turntable. Each deck
contains three virtual turntables, represented by pull down menus, that control
sounds and images on the stage. Each of the five decks contain the same audio
and visual ‘samples’ but operate independently of one another (Figure 29, next
page). The first of the three ‘turntables’ controls a series of what Miller terms
‘roto-reliefs’: that is, circles of varying dimensions that contain patterned surfaces
of different kinds.
The Stage
Control Panel
Figure 28: Web interface for Miller's Errata Erratum
Images
Roto Reliefs
Audio Samples
Figure 29: One of the five ‘decks’ utilised by Errata Erratum
These roto-reliefs are representations of the cards Duchamp used in the creation of
Erratum Musical, as Miller understands them (2004a) although the number of
roto-reliefs (14) does not coincide with the number of cards (75). Visually, the
roto-reliefs are reminiscent of spinning records as they orbit through regular
cycles described by the controls situated at the bottom of each deck. The second
turntable contains a series of images of Duchamp himself that follow proscribed
pathways across the stage. These images have no clear parallel in Duchamp’s
works. Miller does not describe a specific purpose for them other than further
investing Duchamp’s personage within the remix. The final turntable holds
several audio loops that comprise the musical elements of the piece. Two of these
loops contain samples of Duchamp himself, but otherwise have been created by
Miller, apparently without reference to the works he is remixing. His choice of
sounds reflects his own recorded output much more closely than that of Duchamp.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Miller’s interpretation of Duchamp’s musical works do
not completely align with the artists original intentions. Rather than a scored
work, Miller believes Erratum Musical to be “little more than cues for . .
unconscious sonic impulses” (2004a; p. 96). This interpretation of Duchamp’s
work fits more comfortably with Miller’s own aesthetic which, as discussed
above, relies heavily on an improvised form of composition and performance. It is
understandable that Miller would opt for an interpretation that would allow him to
utilise his preferred methods of composition. What Miller misses, or ignores, is
the aleatoric structure of Duchamp’s piece. Though composed by chance
processes, Erratum Musical, as with the work of many experimental composers,
does not allow for the sort of open interpretation that Miller suggests. This
discongruity illuminates the ways in which Miller creatively interprets, in some
cases completely reinterprets, the work and idea’s of his influences in order to suit
his own artistic agenda.
Though identifying Duchamp’s use of cards drawn from a hat in the composition
of Erraturm Musical, Miller makes no reference to the score of the work. Instead
he suggests the piece was a kind of party game in which Duchamps’ sisters and/or
guests would “take a card from a . . and sing random phrases based on a loosely
defined interpretation of the cards’s [sic] patterned surfaces” (2004a; p. 96).
Miller’s reference to the patterned surfaces of the cards here is intriguing – he
appears to have mistaken the dictionary definition of ‘imprimer’ for literal
patterns engraved into the surface of each card. On the basis of this
(mis)interpretation Miller has inscribed a series of patterns on the roto-reliefs
present on the ‘stage’ of the web interface. The patterns themselves are apparently
drawn from Duchamp’s work (Miller, 2004a), though Miller does not offer any
references as to which works in particular he chose to ‘sample’. In any case, it is
interesting to note that Miller’s creative interpretation of his influences
encompasses the visual as well as audio mediums.
In relation to Sculpture Musical, Miller appears to have borrowed Duchamp’s
ideas more literally. Duchamp’s piece is much closer to the sort of open system
used in Errata Erratum. Miller states that his remix is an “explicit experiment
with sonic sculpture” (2004a; p. 96) created anew each time the work is viewed.
The loops could also be seen as fulfilling at least part of Duchamp’s directions by
presenting “sounds lasting and leaving from different places” (cited in Lotringer,
2000; online). Despite this, Errata Erratum does not concern itself with creating a
lasting musical sculpture. Each configuration of the piece is necessarily transitory
and disposable lasting only as long as the user chooses.
Though unacknowledged, Miller also references a separate and incomplete
musical work by Duchamp, The Bride Stripped Bare By Her Bachelor’s Even:
Erratum Musical (circa 1912). Existing only as an unpublished series of notes,
The Bride Stripped Bare outlines a mechanical system described by Duchamp as
“an apparatus automatically recording fragmented musical periods” (cited in
Kotik, 1991; online) comprised of funnel, seven open-ended cars and several
numbered balls and scored for a “player piano, mechanical organs or other new
instruments for which the virtuoso intermediary is suppressed“ (Ibid). Though
they are distinct works, Miller appears to confuse this piece with the
aforementioned Erratum Musical and makes detailed reference to The Bride
Stripped Bare in the closing paragraph of his composition notes:
Like Duchamp, the piece [Errata Erratum] also indicates the instruments on which it
should be performed, but they are icons made of digital code. Where he would write
“player piano, mechanical organs or other new instruments for which the virtuoso
intermediary is suppressed,” we can click on a screen . .The title for the “system” is:
“An apparatus automatically recording fragmented musical periods.” Here, again,
we’re left with the ability to make our own interpretation of a given framework, and
are invited to run with it as a kind of game “system.” The “apparatus” that let’s you
make the compositions in his original notes is comprised of three parts: a funnel,
seven open-end cars, and a set of numbered balls. Think of all of them as being
flattened out on your screen and that’s what the Errata Erratum remix is about.
(2004a; p. 97)
Mysteriously, the manner in which the funnel, open-end cars and numbered balls
are represented in Errata Erratum is not stated. Furthermore Duchamp’s
requirement that the apparatus used for The Bride Stripped Bare be one that
automatically records fragmented musical periods is not incorporated into Miller’s
piece. It is conceivable that the control panel acts as a sort of funnel, limiting what
flows onto the stage and that the roto-reliefs and images of Duchamp, in as much
as they could bear a passing visual resemblance, could be representative of the
numbered balls and open-end cars respectively. However, the number of the
components and the manner in which they operate does not align with Duchamp’s
score. As has been borne out frequently in this Case Study, it would appear Miller
has simply used Duchamp’s instructions as a form of creative stimuli in a manner
which is difficult to identify in Errata Erratum as it is presented.
Both audio and visual components of the piece utilise repetition as a structural
device. Miller suggests that the roto-reliefs and images of Duchamp placed on the
stage “are explicitly referencing loops and repetition, cycles and flows” (2004a; p.
97). Similarly, the interface and looped audio materials encourage the layering of
repeating material in a manner congruent with techniques employed by the
minimalist composers. Further, the small number of samples and simultaneous
playback channels (the five decks) limit user-created mixes to a minimal sonic
palette. More importantly, the audio loops are devoid of significant harmonic
variation, dictating an overall static harmony regardless of how each individual
mix is created. More complicated rhythms can be formed by layering the rhythmic
loops on top of each other because the different starting points of each loop result
in the creation of dense rhythmic dissonance that could be likened to the use of
polyrhythms by some minimalist composers, or even Reich’s phase pieces. The
system is therefore rigged towards ‘minimalist’ outcomes as the user is unable to
introduce new material and is constrained in their use of harmonic and rhythmic
material regardless of how the samples are configured. Finally, the multimedia
nature of the work and the fluxus-like nature of Duchamp’s works remixed by
Miller suggest strong parallels to LaMonte Young’s work with the Theatre of
Eternal Music.
In line with Miller’s broader aesthetic intentions, Erratta Erratum also
demonstrates similarities with Cage’s use of indeterminacy. Cage’s indeterminate
scores are by nature systems of instructions or series of tools rather than
representations of sound. In this regard Errata Erratum is very similar to Cage’s
ideals. Although the work is not scored, the performer / audience member is
presented with a series of tools through which the piece is realised. These tools
and the open nature of the piece conform to Cage’s notion of an indeterminate
work as essentially nonintentional. Cage writes that “what this nonintentional
music wants to do is . . to make it clear to the listener that the hearing of the piece
is his own action – that the music, so to speak, is his, rather than the composer's”
(cited in Kostelanetz, 1971; pp. 10–11).
Errata Erratum conforms to this ideal by requiring the listener to create their own
mix of the piece. Miller describes this as an ‘open system’, stating explicitly that
the work is about “the gap between execution and intent “(2004a; p. 93). Because
of this, not only the experience of the piece but also its realisation is predicated on
the listener rather than Miller himself. In doing so it might be reasonable to
suggest that Miller is relying on 'listener competence' (see Stockfelt, 1997; Moore,
1996; Green, 1988) to make sense of the mechanism they are being presented with
and interact with it in a meaningful way with reference to the genre norms of Hip
Hop. Indeed Miller points the audience towards how to interact with the tool and
provides listeners with 'example' mixes he has made with the tool demonstrating
that it is possible for Errata Erratum to produce 'sonorous' or 'musical' output. At
the very least Miller’s work invokes and extends what Glen Gould (1984) terms
the participant listener who “is an associate whose tastes, preferences, and
inclinations even now alter peripherally the experiences to which he gives his
attention” (p. 122). However concerns over whether or not the listener is a
‘competent’ participant, or even end-user, misses the point of the game-like nature
of Duchamp's original pieces, Cage's notion of indeterminacy and, I would
suggest, Miller's interpretation and application of both. Miller views the user’s
interaction with Errata Erratum as aleatoric, suggesting that chance operations
are engendered through interactions with the graphic interfaces (Miller, 2004b).
Errata Erratum also demonstrates Miller’s use of Dub style improvisation but
turns control over to the audience. In doing so, Miller distinguishes the act of
composition (the design and creation of the Errata Erratum interface) from that of
realisation and reception. Miller is not only giving up control of the outcome but
also re-imagining the 'product' of his creative endeavour as a system or process
rather than a realized ‘work’. Whether or not the listener is 'competent' to engage
with this process is largely irrelevant. That being said, the limitations placed on
the audience by the restricted source materials and possible configurations
distinguishes the piece from Cage’s indeterminate scores, which rely far more
heavily on the interpretation of both performer and audience. Though significant,
such differences are reducible to the degree to which Errata Erratum is
indeterminate of the composer’s intentions. Errata Erratum does demonstrate
strong links with the methodologies and aesthetic concerns of the experimental
music tradition and bears out a number Miller’s claims in relation to his work.
Discussion
As an artist Paul Miller is first and foremost interested with ideas and, in a manner
similar to Cage, thrives on the creative (mis)interpretation of others’ work. Miller
draws links between his own work, Hip Hop and the experimental music tradition,
specifically citing Cage and the minimalist composers as important precursors.
Miller appears to have a broad but not deep understanding of the Western Art
music tradition. He is conversant with key composers, their music and ideas but is
often unaware or misunderstands crucial specifics. Miller is primarily concerned
with the expression of abstract ideas through his work and thus any discussion of
his influences tends towards philosophy and aesthetics rather than specific
musical traits. That Miller equates Cage with James Brown, Basquiat and Afrika
Bambaata suggests his influences are as diverse and non-linear as his writing.
Clear precedence is further confused by Miller’s appropriation of the visual art
tradition as a more clear precedent for his musical works. The musical use of
noise in Miller’s work, for example, displays strong congruencies with the
experimental music tradition but Miller himself attributes this to the influence of
Iannis Xenakis and Marcel Duchamp’s use of found art objects. These stated
influences appear somewhat counter-intuitive given that Miller acknowledges the
influence of Edgard Varèse, John Cage and a range of other composers whose use
of noise in a musical context appears closer to Miller’s own.
Many of Miller’s claims regarding the influence of the experimental music
tradition are a reflection on perceived areas of congruence, arrived at after Miller
had already developed his own compositional aesthetic. Miller’s use of electronic
sound sources and treatments, repetition, minimal musical means and musical use
of noise are all likely the result of his background in Hip Hop and Dub. Miller
observes, correctly, that there are strong similarities between the experimental
tradition and the ways that composers of Electronica approach and engag with the
creation, recording and performance of musical works. This is in line with Miller's
comments that he is aware of the historical context of his own work. Despite the
non-linear nature of many of Miller’s writings and interviews it is possible to
identify areas of congruence and similarity between his work and the
experimental music tradition through discussion of Errata Erratum.
Figure 30 plots Miller’s key musical and conceptual traits in relation to his stated
and inferred influences drawn from the experimental tradition and Electronica.
Acknowledged influences are identified with solid lines whereas influences that
are inferred, though unacknowledged, are represented by dashed lines.
Figure 30: Musical and conceptual traits found in ‘Errata Erratum’
Miller’s use of repetition and static harmonic and rhythmic content in many of his
works is congruent with techniques employed by the minimalist composers.
Miller claims his use of repetition as a structural device parallels minimalism, and
argues that much of his work is systems based in a manner congruent with the
experimental music tradition. Whilst Miller’s writings acknowledge these
congruencies, he suggests that they may be due to some indirect influence. That
these traits are held in common with much contemporary Hip Hop production
indicates that direct influence of the experimental music tradition here is unlikely.
Paralleling the active participation required by both audiences and performers
within certain experimental works, Miller seeks to involve his audience in
conjunction or in place of the performer. Citing Cage as an influence, Miller also
claims to utilise both chance processes and indeterminacy in his compositions.
These assertions are borne out in Miller’s general practice but exist within the
context of a complex gamut of influences ranging from Electronica to
experimental music, visual art and politics. Though Miller identifies particular
traits within his work as ‘experimental’ they are more likely the result of a
confluence of influences. Miller’s claims that Hip-Hop has unconsciously
absorbed the core tenets of experimental music arise from his observation of
similarities between the two traditions rather than an obvious historical or musical
precedence. Miller’s positioning of Cage's Imaginary Landscapes No. 1 as a
precursor to turntablism relates specifically to the use of the turntable as an
instrument rather than to a clear influence of this work on Hip-Hop. Such
precedence, though obviously of significance to Miller, does not reify his claims.
The lack of evidence for how Cage’s composition may have impacted DJ practice
in Electronica suggests that such similarities arise from the unrelated, though
parallel, adoptions of music technology in Hip Hop and Electronica.
It is clear that Errata Erratum exhibits several traits that are congruent with works
from the experimental music tradition. Though ostensibly referencing the musical
work of Duchamp, Errata Erratum demonstrates a clear influence with regard to
indeterminate structure in line with John Cage’s aesthetic. The piece also
demonstrates minimalist traits by way of constrained harmonic and rhythmic
content in a system designed to produce repetition and stasis. In practice, the
construction of the interface and static musical elements imposes a minimalist like
outcome on the user. Similarly, the layering of incommensurate drum loops could
be likened to the polyrhythms or phasing present in some minimalist works.
However, these similarities can also be attributed to the influence of contemporary
Hip-Hop production on Miller’s work because the web-based interface mimics the
use of turntables which in turn directs the user to create polyrhythms. Finally,
though the multimedia nature of the work suggests parallels to La Monte Young
the work could be understood equally as drawing on the strong history of works in
the visual arts.
Miller’s interpretation of Cage’s use of indeterminacy has led him to develop an
improvisational performance and composition aesthetic, a position at odds with
Cage’s original intentions. Despite this, Errata Erratum conforms to Cage's
notion of indeterminacy in that, by releasing the work into the public domain,
Miller gives up control of the work’s realisation, leading to an essentially nonintentional outcome. The work utilises a genuine process-based composition
technique that places both performer and audience in the roles of active
participants. Miller views the DJ mix as a way to deconstruct the roles of audience
and performer, so perhaps this could also be used to deconstruct the associations
of art and popular music. The design of the control panel used in Errata Erratum
mimics the function of a DJ mixer and encourages the audience to create what
might be termed ‘Dub’ versions or ‘live’ remixes of the work. This is modelled
closely on Miller’s own performance practice and it is interesting to note that the
means by which Miller achieves a Cagean approach to indeterminacy is through
commonly utilised techniques present in Electronica. As such, the work exists at a
fascinating crossover between the experimental music tradition and Electronica,
representing a clear synergy of the two.
Though Miller’s work displays congruencies with the experimental music
tradition, his diverse and overlapping influences make it difficult to synthesize the
source of any one particular idea or musical trait. Miller’s work and writings do
point towards an experimental influence, and the analysis of Errata Erratum
supports Miller’s claims, in at least as much as the work is genuinely
indeterminate. Miller’s pastiche-like approach to his music and influences indeed
create an rhizomatic interconnection of ideas from which Miller draws freely and
indiscriminately. While it is difficult to divine precise lines of influence in this
complexity it is however, possible to discern congruencies that point to influence
by the experimental music tradition on Miller’s work.
PART IV:
A CASE FOR PROGIGNERE
Conclusions and Implications for Future Research
Returning to the opening themes of this dissertation, in the late 1990s critics,
journalists and music scholars began referring to a loosely associated group of
artists within Electronica who, it was claimed, represented a “new breed of
experimentalism” (Cox and Warner, 2004; p. 365) predicated on the work of
composers such as John Cage, Karlheinz Stockhausen and Steve Reich. Although
anecdotal evidence existed, such claims by, or about, these Clever Children were
not adequately substantiated and are symptomatic of a “loss of history” (Holmes,
2002; p. 273) in relation to electronic music forms in popular culture. This
dissertation has examined the musical works of three Clever Children that are
claimed to exhibit the influence of the experimental music tradition. Within the
Collective Case Study, questions of influence were examined using an analytical
framework comprising musical analysis, interview and document review,
informed by the historical developments and key musical and conceptual traits of
the experimental music tradition and Electronica. This analytical framework
facilitated an approach to the complex relationships between these artists, their
works and their supposed experimental forebears by responding to the three subquestions posed in the introduction of this dissertation.
What are the historical narratives and key musical and conceptual traits of
the experimental music tradition and Electronica identified in existing
literature as precursive to or having influence on the Clever Children?
The historical narratives detailing the impact of the experimental music tradition
and Electronica on the emergence of the Clever Children were detailed in Part II
of this dissertation. Though necessarily selective, they provide an overview and
context of the broad trends and concerns that have emerged as purportedly
antecedent to the Clever Children. With regard to the experimental music tradition
this includes the musical application of noise and electronic sounds, often through
the application of new music technologies; the use of process based compositional
strategies including aleatory / indeterminacy and; the adoption of stasis and
repetition with regard to musical form and content 29. From these developments a
29
See again Cascone (2000), Cox and Warner (2004), Emmerson (2000, 2007), Holmes
(2002), Martin (2002), Neill (2002), Prendergast (1995), Toop (1995), Veal (2007), Witts
and Young (1996)
Discussion and Implications for Future Research
200
list of key musical and conceptual traits were derived from generally observable
trends including the parity of musical and non-musical sound, ambience and
noise; the use of electronically generated, recorded and treated sound; the giving
up of compositional control to musical processes; the re-evaluation of all aspects
of the musical work, its creation and realisation; the exploration of repetition,
stasis, drones and psycho-acoustic phenomena; dramatically expanded musical
form; and a re-engagement with modal harmony (as presented at p. 74).
As detailed in the second section of Part II, Electronica represents a wide array of
musical aesthetics and performance practice. The emergence of Dub, Disco and
Hip Hop gave way to House, Garage and Techno, which were transplanted to the
UK Rave scene giving birth to Hardcore, Gabba, Jungle and a range of post-Rave
Electronica encompassing the work of the Clever Children. The development of
new musical forms within Electronica is tied intimately with the application of
electronic sound sources, treatments and recording technology; market forces
governing the production and consumption of dance music; and changes to the
role of composer, performer and listener that accompanied the re-evaluation of the
creation, realisation and reception of musical works. Arising key traits and their
relationship to the evolving history of Electronica are summarised at p. 118. The
discussion of the historical narratives and the accompanying lists of traits provide
a basis for comparison between the two traditions and informs the analytical
framework applied to the Case Studies.
What areas of congruence or confluence exist between the experimental
music tradition, Electronica and specific works of the Clever Children in
which experimental influence has been claimed?
Significant overlap exists between aesthetic and compositional concerns of the
experimental music tradition and Electronica (see Figure 2, p.121). In particular,
there is a strong congruence in the use of repetition as a structural device; the reevaluation of the roles of composer, performer and audience in both traditions; the
use of electronic devices and treatments in composition and performance; the use
of pre-recorded musical materials; and a privileging of timbre and rhythm over
and above harmony and melody. Such congruence would appear to corroborate
the claims of appropriation and influence between the experimental music
tradition and Electronica in the writings of Cox and Warner (2004) and others.
Discussion and Implications for Future Research
201
When examined critically however this confluence of musical ideas is the result of
parallel developments stemming from new approaches and advancements in
technology, prevailing market forces and external influences held in common
between the two traditions. Though not precluding individual cases where
influence may have occurred, this indicates that the experimental music tradition
has not had a significant direct influence on Electronica as a whole. Instead these
findings identify a credible alternate and complimentary musical lineage of the
Clever Children that conforms to many of the musical and aesthetic traits within
Electronica that might otherwise point to the influence the experimental music
tradition identified outlined in this dissertation.
The congruent nature of parallel developments in the experimental music tradition
and Electronica suggests that certain similarities should be expected between
individual works that draw on elements from either tradition. This is borne out
through the analyses of works by Bernstein, Rimbaud and Miller. Though
emerging from distinct genre areas within Electronica, there is significant overlap
between these three composers, their works and the experimental music tradition.
Figure 31 (next page) maps the key traits and areas of congruence or confluence
present in the experimental music tradition, Electronica and the works of the
Clever Children under discussion in this research project. As in earlier figures, the
blue area represents the key traits present in the works of the Clever Children,
whilst the area in yellow represents the experimental music tradition and the area
in red Electronica. Areas of overlap represent confluence or congruence between
these key traits with annotations RR (Robin Rimbaud), PM (Paul Miller), HB
(Howie B.) and All, referring to the occurrence of traits within specific case
studies. This serves to highlight the unique nature of each case while also
demonstrating the high degree of commonality that exists between the work of
Bernstein, Rimbaud and Miller; Electronica and; the experimental music tradition.
Those traits not contained within the area representing the case studies should be
understood as key traits present in the experimental music tradition and
Electronica that are not present in any of the case studies. By extension, those
traits present in the case studies that do not align with the experimental music
tradition or Electronica are placed within the blue area.
In what way do these areas support or undermine the claims of influence
made by or on behalf of the Clever Children?
Discussion and Implications for Future Research
202
Though quite distinct in conception, creation and realisation when examined
collectively the works of Rimbaud, Miller and Bernstein bear strong resemblances
to the salient features of the experimental tradition. The composers and works
have emulated, to varying degrees, the outcomes of experimental works,
producing pieces that are created, sound or are realised and received in a
superficially similar manner to works within the experimental music tradition,
while not necessarily adhering to the process by which they were created. In each
instance there has been shown to be a significant gap between the stated aesthetic
concerns and influences of these artists, specifically in regard to the influence of
the experimental tradition, and their practice as evidenced through the works
analysed. Intriguingly, the willingness for these Clever Children to acknowledge
some form of experimental influence on their own work is inversely proportional
to how literally they adhere to musical and conceptual traits of the experimental
music tradition.
Bernstein, whose remix of Eight Lines is the closest fit in terms of clear musical
similarities with the experimental music tradition, is resistant to the claims that his
work is influenced by the experimental music tradition whereas Rimbaud and
Miller, who appropriate ideas from the experimental tradition in a more abstract
and creative manner, strongly advocate the influence of the experimental
composers on their work. This points both to the creative interpretation and
application of experimental ideas by the Clever Children in making such
influences their own.
In each of the works, the composers make use of repetition as a structural device;
minimal harmonic and melodic content; the musical use of ‘noise’ and; the use of
electronic sound sources and treatments. Across these works – Bernstein’s Eight
Lines Remix, Rimbaud’s Surface Noise and Miller’s Errata Erratum – the use of
repetition as a structural device conforms to use of the technique within
Electronica, as does the use of minimal harmonic and melodic content.
Discussion and Implications for Future Research
203
Figure 31: Overview of key traits of experimental music and Electronica plotted against
traits present in the Collective Case Study
Discussion and Implications for Future Research
204
In general, the use of electronic sound sources and treatments can also be said to
conform to the norms of Electronica. In the instance of Rimbaud’s Surface Noise,
the exclusive use of ‘non-musical’ sounds differentiates the work from the
dominant paradigm within Electronica. Rimbaud’s use of non-musical sounds also
serves to engender an emphasis on timbre and texture in Surface Noise that is at
the exclusion of traditional notions of melody, harmony and rhythm, serving to
further align the piece with works within the experimental music tradition.
Common to the pieces by Rimbaud and Miller is the use of an improvised musical
form that relates to each artist’s interpretation of ‘indeterminacy’. In both cases
the composers have reinterpreted the notion of an indeterminate work being
divorced from intention, repeatability and controllable outcomes. Instead Miller
and Rimbaud utilise improvisation to achieve pieces that are unrepeatable and
whose outcomes are unknown. In doing so however, they invest a level of
intention in the realisation of the pieces under discussion that points to their
creative interpretation and application of ‘indeterminacy’ informed by, but distinct
from, the experimental music tradition. Though arrived at by distinct processes
improvised and indeterminate works both require the composer to give up direct
control of the outcome of the compositional process and produce unrepeatable
performance events with respect to form and/or content. This is more pronounced
in the case of Rimbaud’s Surface Noise, which engenders no separation between
the acts of composition and realisation and the personages of composer and
performer. Related to Rimbaud and Miller’s use of indeterminacy is an
improvisatory approach to mixing or remixing pre-recorded material. Rimbaud,
Miller and Bernstein all proscribe to a Dub and/or Hip-Hop influenced approach
to dealing with pre-recorded materials that sees each artist create ‘live’ improvised
mixes as part of their composition or performance process. Though it is not
possible to draw wide-ranging conclusions from this limited number of analyses,
the fact that this approach is evident in each case suggests that an improvisatory
approach to composition and performance may be a feature of the work of other
Clever Children within Electronica.
Finally, it is worth noting the stated preference for ‘process based’ composition
that each of the artists claims as a feature of their work. In the case of Bernstein
this claim refers not to an ‘experimental’ approach to process driven composition
or performance but to Bernstein’s acknowledgement of the importance of the
Discussion and Implications for Future Research
205
compositional process to his work. Despite this, Bernstein’s remix of Eight Lines
does exhibit the type of ‘sounding’ process expounded on by Reich in his essay
Music As A Gradual Process (1968). The works by Rimbaud and Miller
demonstrate a much stronger similarity to the types of processes that are a feature
of much experimental music. In both instances the composers utilise deliberate
compositional processes that, while not synonymous with those used in the
experimental tradition, do reflect a similar concern with the process of creation
and performance over and above the outcomes.
Through insights gleaned in discussion of these sub-questions it is now possible to
come to an informed position regarding the primary research question:
Can the historical narratives linking the Clever Children with an
experimental music tradition be substantiated with reference to their artistic
practice?
This research has revealed that the Clever Children under discussion do not
represent a clear succession to the experimental tradition outlined by authors such
as Cascone (2000), Cox and Warner (2004), Emmerson (2000, 2007), Holmes
(2002), Martin (2002), Neill (2002), Prendergast (1995), Toop (1995), Veale
(2007), Witts and Young (1996) and others. Instead they delineate a new field of
music that can be best described as appropriating elements of the experimental
music tradition outlined in this dissertation and applying these to new contexts in
which such ‘influences’ mingle with a multiplicity of congruent and contrary
musical and aesthetic ideals. Embedded within the convergent context of
Electronica and the experimental music tradition discussed in Part II, the Clever
Children have borrowed from a variety of sources creating works that suggest a
new field of musical expression and enquiry. Like the experimental tradition itself
the composers under discussion here represent significant diversity in the
approach each artist brings to their work.
None of the works conform to traditional Western Art music conceptions of
composition, realisation or reception of musical works and as such adhere to an
‘experimental’ approach to music making. Bernstein’s remix of Eight Lines can be
described as through composed, non-performative and passively received. Though
the creative process may, as identified by Bernstein, have involved some level of
improvisation the realisation of the work in recorded form, clearly structured
Discussion and Implications for Future Research
206
sections of the piece and the heavy use of samples taken from Reich’s original
work imply a deliberate through composed structure. Though Bernstein’s remix
may be intended or find its way into a dance club context, the work is not
intended to be performative in the traditional sense. Instead the work is realised as
a virtual construct of samples, loops and beats the juxtaposition of which is not
intended for live reproduction. The nature of the work means that the audience’s
reception of the piece is through some form of playback medium and divorced
from its performance. Thus the reception of the piece is passive rather than
interactive, any direct engagement with the piece being reactive or responsive
(listening, dancing) rather than causal (having some impact on the outcome of the
pieces realisation). Of the works under discussion, Eight Lines is most in line with
the norms of Electronica, which, barring some notable exceptions, generally
comprises through-composed recorded works received by the audience via some
form of playback medium. However, precedence can also be seen in John Cage’s
Williams Mix, which is a through-composed non-performative work that is
realised only in recorded form and received passively by the listener.
Rimbaud’s Surface Noise is closer to the norms of Western Art music in that the
work, though improvised rather than through composed, is realised through
performance in front of an audience (though admittedly in a non-traditional
performance environment). Each performance of Surface Noise is an improvised
juxtaposition of pre-recorded materials sourced as part of the composition
process. Though available in recorded form, the improvised nature of the piece
leads to a different outcome each time it is performed. Pieces such as Cornelius
Cardew’s Treatise, along with certain of Cage’s indeterminate works, express
similar concerns in that they are realised through performance in front of an
audience and allow the performer significant freedoms in interpreting the score
with relation to the sonic content and structure of the work in a manner similar to
improvisation. As such the recordings of the work that do exist are best
understood as a document of the performance rather than the realisation of the
work (as per Bernstein’s remix of Eight Lines). Surface Noise challenges
traditional conceptions of reception as the work is performed in a non-traditional
and somewhat novel environment of a double-decker bus.
In contrast to Rimbaud’s and Bernstein’s work, Miller’s Errata Erratum is an
interactive multi-media work that, much like Miller’s writings, exists not in a
Discussion and Implications for Future Research
207
clearly delineated categorisation but rather in a middle ground between
performance and recording, improvisation and through-composition. Of the works
under discussion, Errata Erratum deviates the furthest from works of the
experimental music tradition. First and foremost, the interactive web-based nature
of the work was not possible until the late twentieth century and early twenty-first
century, which saw the widespread availability and adoption of computer
technologies including the Internet. This is not to suggest that there is no
precedence for Miller’s work in Western Art music. In fact there are several
examples of similar interactive computer and web-based works, for example
William Duckworth’s Cathedral30. Miller’s work is then congruent not only with
the aesthetic concerns of the experimental music tradition but also with works
within the Western Art music tradition produced subsequent to the period of
experimental music documented by Nyman. The piece is realised through
audience interaction with the web-based interface but also seeks to emulate
turntables – a playback mechanism. The piece is performative inasmuch as the
work is not realised as a recording and the user chooses which samples to play
back in a similar manner to the performance technique Rimbaud employs for
Surface Noise. However, the limitations of Errata Erratum’s interface cause a far
more linear outcome than Surface Noise and the performer/audience engages with
the work as a musical toy or playback mechanism that exists independently of the
temporal nature of a performative work. Similarly, the web interface removes the
realisation of the work from the direct control of the composer and allows the
audience to create an improvised mix of the various audio excerpts. However
Miller has limited the sonic options available to the audience, causing the
outcome of interplay with the interface to become somewhat prescribed.
Implications for Future Research
The breadth of practice represented by the works of Rimbaud, Miller and
Bernstein suggests a field within which similar works of contemporary
experimental electronic music may be situated and suggests several areas for
further study. First and foremost this research indicates the need for a more clear
and reliable scholarly documentation of the history of electronic music in the
context of popular culture in the latter part of the twentieth and early twenty-first
centuries. Beyond the need for an historical record in its own right, this type of
30
See http://cathedral.monroestreet.com
Discussion and Implications for Future Research
208
research would provide a helpful context within which future research could take
place. One of the contributions this investigation hopes to make is an
understanding of how to best deal with the vast, in some cases undocumented,
historical context in which the artists and works discussed exist. Without new
work, the loss of history that already exists will only become more pronounced.
Rather than simply documenting musical styles and developments for their own
sake, such research is important as it provides both an awareness and appreciation
of the unprecedented changes to the way music is conceptualised, created and
consumed.
Electronica, indeed music in general, comprises constantly evolving genres
heavily tied to fashion and popular culture. In such a context there is a legitimate
concern that any new research will become swamped by developments rendering
even the most fastidious enquiry outdated, incomplete or irrelevant. However, this
is a common feature of all research projects and rather than shy away from such
exciting new territory, researchers have unique opportunities to document
contemporary musical and cultural zeitgeists as they happen. Research that on its
own may reveal only limited and specific information will, when accompanied by
similar investigations over a prolonged period, allow for a fuller understanding to
emerge.
In effect, contemporary researchers have the opportunity to contribute to the
documentation of a ‘musical history’ for future generations. Such an endeavour
may be highly complex, but has the distinct advantage of allowing the researcher
to engage directly with living people, music and cultures. Many of the key figures
within Electronica are still alive and in some cases still creating and regularly
performing their work. Furthermore there is a growing trend among practitioners
such as Rimbaud and Miller to document their work and ideas through articles,
interviews and blogs. In many ways these para-musical outputs are a boon to
researchers of Electronica but pose a new set of problems to do with the
ephemeral nature of online sources. Domain names often change, data may be
modified or deleted after posting and in some cases sites or blogs are left to decay
or cease to be entirely. User groups, bulleting boards and, increasingly, social
networking sites may also provide valuable documentary evidence or contact
points with emerging artists and scenes though they often require a high level of
critical evaluation and participation on behalf of the researcher. It would be a
Discussion and Implications for Future Research
209
missed opportunity to ignore the valuable information that can be gleaned from
such insider sources given that some proponents of Electronica may be
unavailable to future generations of music researchers.
A good starting point would be to investigate and build upon the development and
relationship between the popular forms of electronic music in the late 1970s and
early 1980s. This was a seminal period for electronic music in the twentieth
century due to the emergence of popular music forms created entirely by
electronic (rather than mechanical) means without the need for, or costs associated
with, human musicians. This intersection of musical and technological innovation
coupled with driving market forces is evidenced again and again in the
development of Electronica. This coalescence of art, ingenuity and commerce
represents a central narrative in the development of Electronica and one that may
prove a beneficial framing reference for future research in the field. Michael
Veale’s 2007 work Dub: Soundscapes and Shattered Songs in Jamaican Reggae,
published during the final stages of this research, is one example that addresses
exactly these concerns in relation to Dub, providing a useful foundation for more
detailed musical scholarship.
After the development of Dub, Hip-Hop, Disco, Techno and house music the next
key area for historical documentation is the coalescence of musical styles
described in this dissertation as the ‘UK Sound’ focussing on the British dance
music scene of the early 1990s. Though encompassing a range of genres this
period is significant as it marks a split in Electronica between works created
primarily for the purposes of dancing/club environment and others created for
recreational listening. Rather than trying to follow the minutiae of each new
developing genre and subgenre in this period a more useful approach would be to
examine this key transition as it provides a context for later developments in
contemporary experimental electronic music. Another useful starting point for
future researchers would be Cox and Warner’s Audio Culture: Readings in
Modern Music (2004). Audio Culture is a particularly interesting sample of
scholarly and non-scholarly writings many of which touch on Electronica in its
various forms. More usefully, Audio Culture serves as a good introduction to the
journalists, critics and researchers have worked to document various elements of
Electronica.
Discussion and Implications for Future Research
210
In addition to an expanded and thorough history of Electronica, there is a need for
music scholarship to engage with and understand the processes of recording
production. It is almost impossible to understand the bulk of Electronica without
some sort of appreciation for the manner in which it is created and disseminated.
Electronica is a result of a production process that sees the studio as a
compositional tool and is influenced heavily by the intended consumption
medium and environment. The medium and the tools used by producers of this
music influence the content and structure of musical works in a way that is not
obvious unless the researcher is aware of them. Both Channan (1995) and Katz
(2005) have addressed exactly these concerns with reference to the broader
context of audio recording production but there is a need for similar work that
examines the specifics of Electronica production.
One example of the type of influence such devices have played on the
development of Electronica is the way in which the operational design of early
sequencers, samplers and drum machines encouraged composers to use repeating
musical elements locked to a constant pulse. Subsequent developments in music
technology have allowed for a much greater freedom of musical expression and
yet much Electronica still adheres to the use of repeated elements locked to a
constant pulse. Intriguingly many of the new tools used by composers of
Electronica deliberately model the interfaces and sounds of earlier ‘limited’
technologies. Moreover, certain ‘classic’ devices such as the acid bassline
generating TB-303 have attracted an almost cult-status among producers that has
seen them appreciate in value as they have gotten more outdated. This raises a
range of questions regarding the relationship between composers, electronic
instruments and musical content. Research into these questions could beneficially
examine the development of the first widely available drum machines, sequencers
and samplers as well as the short and long-term influence of such devices on
Electronica. Such research might also address the ways in which digital recording
and sequencing technologies, which allow audio and midi data to be rearranged at
the whim of the operator, have developed and impacted on the role of music
production. A starting point for such research would be documenting key
producers, production styles and production techniques. One approach would
involve the identification and analysis of popular and influential (often not the
same thing) recorded works with specific concern for the audio production
Discussion and Implications for Future Research
211
process; documenting and analysing the audio production process of such works
through interviews, observation and practitioner based research and; cross
referencing the information gained about each recording against those from
similar time periods and styles as well as to historical developments in audio
recording technologies. This approach would focus on the production process,
analysis of recorded texts and historical developments of audio production in
order to provide a multi-faceted response to a complex field of study.
Returning to the focus and limitations of this particular research project, further
research would also be beneficial into the broader field of contemporary
experimental music identified in this dissertation. This subject area extends far
beyond the boundaries implicit in a doctoral thesis and this dissertation has
sketched only an outline of the music and current practitioners. Research in this
field may include an examination of contemporary experimental music in the rock
and post-punk genres; further documenting and analysing the works of artists in
the field; and examining the changing place of ‘experimental’ musics in popular
and Western Art music traditions. Building on the work presented in this research,
further research in this field requires the application of an appropriately nuanced
analytical model coupled with historical enquiry and ethnography.
One useful line of enquiry in this regard would be to examine the progression
from punk to new-wave and post-punk musics ending with so called post-rock
bands such as Sonic Youth, who display distinct experimental tendencies
epitomised in their 1999 album, Goodbye 20th Century, featuring performances of
works by a range of experimental composers including John Cage and Cornelius
Cardew. Tied up in this progression is the cross-pollination between such
‘experimental’ popular music artists on the development of contemporary popular
music. The notion and realisation of experimentalism within popular music forms
is a potentially fascinating area for research and one that likely relates both
implicitly and explicitly to the development of new musical sounds, styles and
ideas. Martin’s Avant Rock (2002) helps to outline this area of study and Theo
Cateforis’ paper, Total Trash: The Analysis of Post Punk Music (1993) may
provide some useful reference points for both the selection and engagement with
appropriate works. A final area of enquiry worthy of future study is the use of the
‘experimental’ nomenclature in popular music. Reference points for
experimentalism appear to be in constant flux and related to the normalisation of
Discussion and Implications for Future Research
212
what were at one time considered experimental traits. Surveying both popular and
Western Art musics this research would seek to establish the ways in which the
idea and process of experimental music have been used by and impacted on
musicians, composers and critics over the course of the twentieth century. Such
research would go some way to producing a ‘true’ history of experimental music
over the last century by exploring the artists who have existed on the fringes of
popular and Western Art music and the reasons for their co-option and / or
rejection by the musical mainstream.
From Clever Children to Voices in the Desert
More than thirty years have passed since Michael Nyman first wrote about the
experimental music tradition. During this time the various forms of Electronica
have realised many of the promises and prophesies presented by the composers
and works of the experimental tradition. The future of music has resulted in a
sonic landscape in which myriad musical forms from the entirety of human
history are available on demand to be used and abused by creators of new musical
works. The democratisation of creative technology has, and will continue, to
break down the arbitrary distinctions between the acts of production and
consumption, as consumers become creators, critics and disseminators of new
cultural currency. The rhizomatic and anarchic nature of these exciting new
developments in music and culture have the potential to cause unprecedented
confusion, as the rapid exchange, adoption, rejection and reinterpretation of ideas
are flung together in the supercollider of contemporary culture.
These factors have contributed to a loss of musical history engendered by rapid
cultural and technological change while challenges to the acts of composition,
realisation and reception have fundamentally altered the way current and future
generations conceptualise, create and consume music. Our musical world is
changing in unimaginable and unprecedented ways and artists on the edges of
popular culture are often the very ones driving the innovations that inform
mainstream tastes and consumption patterns. In this context the experimentalists
at the fringes of art, music and literature have become increasingly important as
the bleeding edge is absorbed time and again into the maelstrom only to reemerge, driven by new challenges and possibilities. As such the Clever Children
discussed in this research may be voices in the desert, the prophets of the future of
Discussion and Implications for Future Research
213
music, declaring the ways in which the music of our time will impact on
generations yet to come. Rather than shy away from their ravings there is a need
for musical scholarship to explore their visions and relay their stories, not as an
act of documentary interest but as a vital part of the conversation that research
should be making with popular, and unpopular, culture.
This research has engaged with the emerging narratives spun by and about the
Clever Children in order to redress, in part, the loss of history faced by researchers
in this field. This research has done this by placing the Clever Children within an
historical context through examining the relationships to their immediate
forebears in Electronica and appropriated parentage in the experimental music
tradition. In doing so this research promotes an awareness and discussion of the
alternate and divergent musical practices that inform the music of our own time
and may influence the music of our future. From Clever Children to voices in the
desert it is beholden on music researchers to listen carefully through the
maelstrom of competing and colliding musical ideas to find the prophetic and
prodigious innovators whose work challenges and reveals who we are and what
we might become.
Discussion and Implications for Future Research
214
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Appendix A
Interview with Howard Bernstein via telephone, 22 April 2005
Q1:
What do you remember about the Reich Remixed project?
HBa1: It was, er . . the whole memory of it was . . I would say a labour of love I
would say. It took me . . Normally it takes me like a day – two days to
work on it, to start and finish a mix. Usually it’s a day maximum, this one
took me three days. So it took me a long time and it was simply because
of the time signatures and you know working – basically there was a lot
of - the actual mix that he did himself was made up of about 15 – 20
takes edited together so whenever I was given the actual multi track it
wasn’t one particular mix of – one particular session which they used,
they used a collection so I had to piece together quite a lot of different
sections and find where this came from and that violin line and it was
quite a difficult task but it was good I enjoyed doing it it was a big
challenge for me.
Q2:
Steve Reich has said of your remix of Eight Lines, “I think Howie B's [remix] is a
very sophisticated job. I wrote the whole piece in 5/8, and he kept it that way.”
Could you comment on how you approached the remix from a musical
perspective particularly given the irregular time signature, what elements did
you decide to keep / change and why?
HBa2: The way I approached it was I wanted to just express myself on his piece
of music. For me the time signature wasn’t a problem it just meant more
work. I’m familiar with – if you listen to music you’re familiar with
different time signatures, it’s whether you work in them or not. And I
hadn’t worked in that time signature before it was very interesting. What
I did was, I chose different sections and I gave each section a different
name and then I just went about filling up,making each section for me
listenable to in a new way and then as I finished working on each section
I moved on to the next and that was the way – I mean normally when I’m
working on a piece of music I work on the whole piece but simply
because of the nature of the beast this time I had to separate it out into
different bits because it was different tempos as well er it was you know
as what happens with classical music – there was no strict timing the
timing was of the person – they weren’t playing to any synthesizers. The
tempo was I would say was not rock solid so that gave me in a way it
made it more difficult but freed it up a little as well It pushed me into a
house that I’d never been into before and I enjoyed it. And the
programming I did on it was also was in five eight and it was very
interesting for me – the rhythms and the cyclic aspect of the whole thing
is quite unique because of that.
Q3:
How did you choose what elements to keep ?
HBa3: I just chose what I liked it was just pure taste nothing . . . I wasn’t – there
was no objectivity at all there, just subject. It was like, I like that I want
to keep that and also wanting to pay respect to the original as well,
there’s no point massacring it. So it was like I wanted to keep an element
of the original and also I wanted to make it mine as well so it was that
balance but I think it worked I think it worked quite well.
Q4:
Do you see any similarities between your own work and that of Reich’s?
HBa4: The only similarity is the fact, no I don’t not very much I don’t see any
similarity I think maybe there’s an attitude to space but in terms of that
nothing else.
Q5:
Where would you place yourself on a continuum between a musician and an
artist that happens to be working in the field of music? a) Musician; b)
Predominantly a Musician; c) Equally Both; d) Predominantly an Artist; e)
Artist.
HBa5: I would classify myself as a tap dancer. I think the idea of classification is
a bit boring really cause I find it holds I find these things are like putting
a restraining order on somebody. If you say I’m a musician then it means
that I’m not an artist and if you say I’m an artist then it’s not, I just hink
that I’m a lover of music. I’m not bothered what I’m classified as, I don’t
care.
Q6:
Was there any conscious effort on your part to emulate elements of Reichs
original piece, e.g. structure, instrumentation, etc. ?
HBa6: Yes, I wouldn’t say emulate I would say, yes because emulate is an
interesting word. I would say handshake I would say.
Q7:
Was the structure of Reich’s original referenced?
HBa7: It was referenced to the lord above - not to Reich! It was mainly what
sounded good to my ears if it bore any resemblance to Reich’s, it was
purely coincidental. For me it was . . Can you give me one minute I’m
just getting in a cab. [long pause]. Hello? Just give me one more second,
one more second ok?
Q8:
How do you feel about the statement ‘the process of creating a piece of art or
music is more important than the product’? a) Strongly Agree; b) Agree; c)
Neutral; d) Disagree; e) Strongly Disagree.
HBa8: I think the process is highly, yeah I totally agree there. In terms of yeah,
totally agree. The process is process, I mean the actual end product is
really quite interesting and subjecting my relationship to the end product
or even calling it a product I mean that in itself – you’ve got a
relationship in calling it a product. So yeah I totally agree with him.
Q9:
What are some of the processes you use?
HBa9: Good food, great tea, great sense of humour, I would say good friends, a
great social, I mean a good environment in the studio. You find that once
you have those parameters looked after everything seems to flow quite
well.
Q10:
Musical process?
HBa10: It doesn’t really matter – you could be sitting in a bedroom or sitting in a
steel room and the group of poepel that are there if theres electricity there
and then you can document that experience you can record a piece of
music on a rusty nail. It’s the content not the end product, not the end
thing that’s the most important thing I mean I guess it’s absolute?
process. And that’s what great about music and puts It apart from
anything else.
Q11:
Steve Reich has suggested that you may have worked from MIDI transcriptions of
the original score, as well as the 24 track tape for your remix of Eight Lines. Is
this correct and if so, why did you choose to work in this way?
HBa11: No I had the score, and I also had the tape, the multitrack tape so I was
working physically but I mean the score I had simply so that because I
had to have something and I just wanted to see how it actually ran I
didn’t actually use the score that much to be quite honest.
Q12:
Do you consider your music to be experimental? If so what does the term
‘experimental’ mean to you?
HBa12:
No, I experiment but I don’t let other people listen to my experiments.
Occasionally I do but I think it’s very selfish to do that. So for me, I lik
leaving people with questions but I don’t like people going what the
fuck is that, it’s not fair. I’m more interested in communicating with
people than non communicating. I experiment all the time in the studio
but it’s the result of the experiments people hear but they don’t hear the
experimentation.
Q13:
Where did the voices heard in your remix come from and did you select them
specifically for what they were saying, or for their sonic properties?
HBa13:
They came from a New York musical which I thought was quite
appropriate considering that it [Eight Lines] came from New York.
Q14:
Why did you choose these voices?
HBa14:
I thought the musical was very kitsch, very kitsch musical, it was very
New York . . Reich, his whole thing is coming from New York. It
sounds to me like the musicians he uses the studios all of that, so I just
wanted to get my New York in there. And whenever you hear those
voices you go where the hell did that come from? And I really like that.
I really like that.
Q15:
Where they chosen for the sound or what they were saying?
HBa15:
For the sound, and what they were saying, there’s a mixture of both I’d
say.
Q16:
How did you treat the samples?
HBa16:
I treat everything very heavily and I do that simply to make it my own.
From something I can make cars, I can make, it’s like building your a
musical instrument, you dismantle something and then construct it
again.
Q17:
Do you use those effects to create contrast or to get the sound your after?
HBa17:
To get the sound I’m after I would say. I would say it’s very direct what
I do and it’s quite simple as well, it’s not complicated. I take a sound
put it into a sampler and you know dismantle it that’s it and then you
know, put it into another environment which it didn’t come from.
Q18:
So it’s about pulling sounds out of there context and reassembling them?
HBa18:
Q19:
Yeah.
What is your studio setup?
HBa19:
Depends on what I’m doing. If I’m writing then I’m in my own studio
and that studio is an analogue setup. I’ve been working off eight track
machine recorder analogue keyboards and a few digital keyboards as
well. There’s samplers there’s drum machines old drum machines from
the mid-80s. I’ve got again, keyboards from that time as well in terms
of sequencing I’m using a MIDIsequencer, an Atari 1040 . an old
German . . and the software I’m using is from 1992. I’m not one of
those, I’m not into the whole computer thing – I’ve got computers
coming out of my everywhere but I don’t use them in the studio. I let
other people use them for me it’s too distracting.
Q20:
So you’d perform your remix as you were going or would it all be sequence.
HBa20:
I’d sequence it and then perform on top of it, record a lot of the stuff on
with Riech [unintelligible] is performed live. It takes a little bit longer
but you get more movement.
Q21:
Similar to Lee Perry?
HBa21:
Q22:
Yeah
You mentioned earlier that communicating with your audience was a very
important thing with the work that you do. What ideas did you want your
remix to communicate?
HBa22:
I wanted it to communicate I think humour, also I mean humour was the
most important thing for that one simply because it was such a difficult
task and I thought I’d just get myself laughing and the people in the
room laughing. And also the idea as well that because the piece I
worked on was so complex and it was like taking away the idea of
making something sound really complex but it’s really when you
actually listen to it there’s nothing complex at all about it. It’s just lots
of things going round and round in cycles, so I think it was like not to
alienate people from his work which a lot of people sometimes do get
alienated because it sometimes seems very complicated but its not, and
it was again an open arms trying to introduce people to Reich who
probably normally wouldn’t listen to him. That was I think probably the
main intention of mine.
Q23:
Have you received any formal musical training? a) None; b)Private Teacher; c)
School; d) University; e) Other.
HBa23: No musical training no – all by ear – self taught.
Q24:
Several reviewers suggest that your music has a definite minimalist influence,
has Reich’s work, or the work of other minimalist composers influenced your
own music prior to or as a result of working on the Reich Remixed project? If
so how?
HBa24:
No I think he’s a big influence, Steve in terms of. . . I couldn’t put a
finger on what it is. Definitely the guy has, I don’t know has had some
influence on me and a lot of people I work with as well. Because of the
I think, it’s complicated but In terms of what he’s actually done and
how it’s influenced me I don’t know but yes I listen to his music quite a
lot and it’s added colour to my life which is great.
Q25:
What do you see as the major difference between Reich’s original Eight Lines
and your remix?
HBa25:
I don’t know it’s difficult to describe I’d say the main difference would
be attitude to recording but then again I don’t know, I really don’t know
what the main differences are. Night and day.
Q26:
Dub influences?
HBa26:
It comes from my history of music, that’s what I’m really into in music.
I’m into Dub, I’m totally immersed in Reggae and jazz, all those things.
Q27:
How do you document your work? a) Western Notation; b) Graphical Notation;
c) Written Instructions; d) CD; e) MP3; f)Video; g) Other (Please describe).
HBa27:
I record
Appendix B
Interview with Robin Rimbaud (Scanner) via email, 28 November
2004
Q1:
Where would you place yourself on a continuum between a musician and an
artist that happens to be working in the field of music? a) Musician; b)
Predominantly a Musician; c) Equally Both; d) Predominantly an Artist; e)
Artist
RRa1: C. I've never art to be any kind of 'thing' object based etc. More
conceptual. What I do is take ideas, concepts, shapes, frames and
generally contextualise them within sound, as it personally offers me
more in terms of understanding, expansion and exploration.
Q2:
Do you see a difference between the acts of composition and performance in your
work? If so how would you describe that difference?
RRa2: Composing generally occurs within a studio space, a dedicated location,
that allows for alternations, edits, decision making, a time for
contemplation and re-arrangement. Live performance is also a form of
composition, taking a shape of sounds and moving towards a particular
direction, be it abstraction, soundtracking a film, striking the hip with
more rhythmic sounds, but overall allows for a lot more risk taking. It's
a reason I don't often use a computer in performance for the fact of
danger. I like not knowing the way a piece will develop over time.
Q3:
How do you feel about the statement ‘the process of creating a piece of art or
music is more important than the product’? a) Strongly Agree; b) Agree; c)
Neutral; d) Disagree; e) Strongly Disagree.
RRa3: C in some ways, in that with some artists I would argue that ideas alone
can be inspirational and one doesn't always have to experience the work
itself to find some greater reward – I'm thinking for John Cage for
example who offered up new ways of thinking around sound and music
that can live beyond his recorded works (none of which he was
especially interested in as 'products'). Yet the product is a very modest
and accessible way of sharing ideas, to disseminate them into a wider
space, a greater public. That's what I still like about CDs in that they are
carriers in ideas that can be modestly bought for what they potentially
offer.
Q4:
Have you received any formal musical training? a) None; b) Private Teacher; c)
School; d) University; e) Other.
RRa4: B. I took piano lessons when I was around 10-11 years old with a teacher
who lived a few doors down from my family home.They cost 50 pence
per lesson but we had to stop as my mother couldn't afford them after a
while. I took to teaching myself the guitar at the age of 16 and is in fact
the only instrument I can play more traditional music on, should you
request to hear a tune :-)
Q5.
How do you document your work? a) Western Notation; b) Graphical Notation;
c) Written Instructions; d) Audio Recording; e)Video Recording; f) Other
(Please describe).
RRa5: B, C D and E. It's always been an interesting position trying to work out
the best way to store ones work. Most of my material could be scored
for instrumentation and indeed in December of this year, 2004, I have a
series of string quartets being released on Sub Rosa record label.
However, I'm not interested in recreating many of my works, they are
really statements of that moment in time so I simply store the samples
on a disc, store the arrangement digitally somewhere. Concerts are
often recorded and if bootlegged I just ask that the recording be
forwarded to me. Sadly this rarely happens but I like to trust people as
far as possible.
Q6:
You have mentioned on several occasions that John Cage has been an influence
on your music, and in one interview you have stated that you embrace a
‘Cageian approach to creativity. What explicitly about Cage and his writings /
music do you draw influence from and how does this influence manifest itself
in your compositions and performances?
RRa6: My goodness, I couldn't even begin to answer this question now. Like
Joseph Beuys who was also a teacher of ideas, Cage has offered me
endless inspiration to ways of living, not only through music but
through a shared responsibility and understanding of the world beyond
just work and creativity.
Q7:
Do you consider your music to be ‘experimental’? If so please explain what the
term ‘experimental’ means to you?
RRa7: In the way that my work refuses to address more traditional song forms, or
graphic narrative, or use more traditional instrumentation, most would
argue that my work is indeed experimental. It's exploring a world of
sound within shapes and frames that are not so familar to most people.
However, these terms frighten me as they pigeon hole work before
you've had the chance to make a decision yourself and can be most
misleading at times
Q8:
You have stated in a previous interview that the Scanner recordings were
comprised of minimalist musical settings. What does the term ‘minimalist’
means to you and in what ways do you think of your music as ‘minimalist’?
RRa8: A problem with digital technology is that we are able to constantly layer
up ideas upon ideas, without allowing the actual basic idea to be
recognised, So in the music studio it's common to add track upon track
to a recording, to colour it and extend it, yet one can so easily be lost
within these dense layers that the one single narrative cannot be
identified. I have a tendency to remove, rather than replace/extend. I
would rather hear the skeleton than the overbearing mass.
Q9:
John Cage wanted to make music which was freed from his own individual taste,
memory and tradition. Do you similarly try and distance yourself from the
creative process? Why/Why Not?
RRa9: I disagree with Cage here. I try to make work that connects with people.
I've always used a style of sound and sonic matter that attempts to
maintain a connection with people, that moves and engages them, rather
than leaves them in a confused, post modern, deconstructed analysis
state where they are trying to tear something apart to understand it,
rather than simply move inside it and become attached. My works have
become increasingly personal over the years.
Q10:
On one occasion you were quoted as saying that ‘Improvisation is really
important. It’s the work I do.’ How do you use improvisation in your work? Is
improvisation more a part of your composition or performance process?
RRa10:
Improvisation happens at the nexus point of all my work, even in the
studio, in that I often play blind, without hearing the rest of track,
randomly throwing in disparate elements that may jar with the rest.
Friction within composition is extremely important and often offers a route
out of a blind alley.
Q11:
Do you view your performances as unique or repeatable events? Why?
RRa11:
Yes. They commonly work around a frame or reference point, be this a
tempo – I might decide to make the entire set run around a groove of
128bpm. Or a texture, or a time restriction on stage. Within this general
frame I'm able to let loose a series of themes that might sometimes gel,
sometimes grate, something collapse within one another. It's invaluable
for me to continue to discover in performance, rather than repeat. I'm
not a jukebox. I can't perform music that's created in a studio, unless I
simply just take a laptop with me to play back the work and that's
personally not very stimulating or exciting.
Q12:
How do you think your audience interacts with your work? Do you get feedback
from your audience?
RRa12:
Constantly. As you know I always respond to emails, I don't play ego
games like others might do. It's very important to maintain this
connection for me personally. I'm happy to speak with people after
performances as it always help to gauge the success of a work.
Q1:
In previous interviews you have stated that you use the following equipment:
RRa13:
Logic Audio 4.5, Reaktor, Metasynth, GRM Tools, Thonk, Mac
Powerbook, Scanner, Akai S1000, Roland JV-1080, Digitech Time
Machine
Q14:
Why have you chosen these tools to work with and how do you utilise this
equipment to create and perform your music?
RRa14:
These tools have altered - Logic Pro 7, Ableton Live, GRM, Pluggo,
ReplayPlayer, Thonk G4 Laptop, Alesis processing units, CD mixers,
Pioneer CD decks, etc. I chose to work with these tools as they offer me
exactly what I need - the ability to take sounds and transform them, to
collage, to edit, to be a small mobile unit for performance, to be light, to
allow work to happen, rather than to lose my way within a wall of
sound.
Appendix C
Interview with Paul D Miller (DJ Spooky) via email, 30 May 2005
Q1:
You state in Rhythm Science that "During the time that I spent researching for
Errata Erratum, I found so many examples of how DJ culture intersected with
some of the core tenets of the twentieth-century avant-garde that it seems to
have unconsciously absorbed them all". Can you give examples of how and why
you think this is the case? What do you mean by the 20th century avant-garde?
PMa1: The 20th century avant garde started out a while bunch of small time misfits: Futurism, Dada, a lot of the Paris poetry scene (Appollinaire,
Cocteau etc) who never thought they'd really have a shot at the big time.
What happened, as the rest of the century unfolded was that one era's
mythology became another era's technology. In 1939 when John Cage
did his "Imaginary Landscape No. 1" piece for turntables, who would
have thought that turntables would ever become a metaphor for
frequencies? It's all about the re-appearance of phenomena. Think of the
way everything returns in one form or another . . I guess its the
technological equivalent of reincarnation - the same thing happens with
sampling. My book explores this kind of stuff from the viewpoint of
someone who is a practitioner of the art-form. All I want to figure out is
how to compile all of this stuff into one seamless art form – one that can
be physical (sculpture, painting, architecture), and invisible (wireless,
files, etc). It's really within reach of artists these days. So many people
are afraid to flip things in a different style because they feel like they'll
lose their "credibility" – I want to flip things to the point where people
de-program from that kind of mentality.
Q2:
In a previous interview you have compared DJing to "John Cage's notion of what
he called the 'imaginary landscape'". What parallels do you see between your
work and Cage's and if so how have his ideas and music influenced your own
work? Did they influence the creation of Errata Erratum?
PMa2: My work is fragmented and based on strategic explorations of "chance
processes" - but from the viewpoint of recorded sound. Scratching, plus
cut n scratch stuff is what all of this is about. "Rhythm Science" is all
about pattern recognition, and I think of this approach as all inclusive.
Cage looked to the idea of "indeterminacy" and of giving up control over
his compositions -– I do the same with thinking about the basic fact that
once I put a track out in the world, anyone and everyone who wants to
can change and transform it. The digital update on Cage's concept
bounces this through the idea of the continuous update. My art-piece was
a meditation on the . .
Q3:
How do you view the difference between 'composition' and 'performance' in the
work that you do? How does this relate to the Errata Erratum project?
PMa3: Errata Erratum is an old project at this point. The issues it was concerned
with got absorbed by my book and some of my film and multi-media
projects. Composition is strategy, and when I look at what has gone on
throughout most of the 20th Century, versus what's going on now with
networks, we're seeing that the ideas of philosophers like Derrida's
concept of "archive fever" - you can see the dialog between Pierre
Boulez and John Cage (they corresponded for about 20 years or so), as a
good over-view of the idea of indeterminancy and serialism. These days
if you look at what's gone on with digital "sequences" versus the kind of
scratch media/cut up media we see as a basic vocabulary of youth culture
at this point, you can see how these kinds of compositional strategies
became tied in with the basic ways that we think about music and media.
I love to think about how these kinds of "meta" narratives in music
reflect culture at large. Nothing is separate! Everything is linked!
Everything is hybrid! That pisses off people, but hey, that's the way it is
this days. That's what I think needs to be explored: the space between
performance and composition. It's not just about improvisation (so many
of the 80s composers like John Zorn, Bill Laswell, Arto Lindsay etc) base
their style on that. I think my stuff has absorbed a lot of what those guys
were dealing with as a basic vocabulary and set off in a different
direction.
Q4:
You have stated that "art music people are still trapped or entrenched in what is
basically an early seventies aesthetic of what is experimental music, and the
focus is on the live performance or the traditionally validated musical
instrument". How do you see experimental music has developed or moved on
from that 1970s aesthetic? How does this relate to multimedia projects such as
Errata Erratum?
PMa4: Yeah, the conventional art world is mad boring. But hey, what's going to
change it except new information. That's my driving force. It's the 21st
century. Things should be a lot wilder!!! The 70s was an era were a lot of
this stuff was new, and now a lot of that stuff has become the
establishment. I want to upset the balance and engage some different
milieu. But hey, things should be fun as well. Too many times things get
bogged down with all sorts of ideologies. It's too early in the 21st century
to really see where its all going to go, but I have some gut feelings about
it all: live "improvisation" becomes multi-media software interface,
geography becomes irrelevant, the idea of art, architecture, freeware will
be the basic venue for creativity - the artist will be like shareware.... and
all human endeavour blurs into total art - rhythmic metaphors for a
blurring at the core of technology's transformation of the human social
realm . . Errata for everyone!
Q5:
How do you feel about the statement 'the process of creating a piece of art or
music is more important than the product'? a) Strongly Agree; b) Agree; c)
Neutral; d) Disagree; e) Strongly Disagree.
PMa5: The answer to that one is pretty much a) Strongly Agree. I think that you
can't look at the end result of a process as anything more than the
accumulation of what went into it.
Q6:
In Rhythm Science, you discuss the concepts behind the Errata Erratum project.
From a more practical standpoint, how did you approach the creation of Errata
Erratum? What where the practical processes / steps involved in the creation of
the project?
PMa6: The idea of the remix is essentially about updating the idea of the "object
trouvé" – I'm just getting the process into a more open source mentality. I
really feel like we need to think of the process of open culture/free
culture as a fundamental issue for the 21st century. It's just the way of the
world at this point. My moto for this is basically, "the future isn't what it
used to be." Shuffle the deck, and see what pops out. That's the lesson we
learned from John Cage. Duchamp taught us that the deck was fixed in
favour of the dealer. Let's get poker faced here, and think: pick a card,
any card. You're only as creative as your minds ability to frame new
situations. Creativity is usually listed as an adjective. So is "creative." I
just like to flip the language on this and think of both as verbs.
Q7:
You have stated in the past that minimalist composers such as Steve Reich,
Phillip Glass and Charlemagne Palestine have been an influence on your work.
How has this influence affected the way you create music and how are there
ideas reflected in your work? Do you see any parallels between your work and
the work of these minimalist composers?
PMa7: It's all about repetition. I tend to think that we are seeing repetition come
back into some kind of poly-rhythm. Synthesis equals syncopation.
Kinetic bass motion for the musically perplexed becomes form following
function. Software dematerializes all of this: I don't need an orchestra, I
can simulate one. Ditto from drum-beats. Pulling together a lot of sounds,
and synthesis, pulling together a lot of rhythms – all of this points to
multiple conditions and contexts playing at the same time. That's
sampling. But minimalism links these rhythms (think of your average
Kanye West tracks' samples or Donald Judd's minimalist sculptures, or
the links between Glass and techno). I love playing these forces against
one another. The first impulse of "purists" is to always compartmentalize.
My first impulse is to blur.
Q8:
Where would you place yourself on a continuum between a musician and an
artist that happens to be working in the field of music? a) Musician; b)
Predominantly a Musician; c) Equally Both; d) Predominantly an Artist; e)
Artist
PMa8: The answer folks, is e) Artist - it is all of the things you mention below,
plus its fun. Comments: see above.
Q9:
You mention in Rhythm Science that Illbient as a style developed out of you
wanting to pay homage to the "art happenings of the 1960s scene around John
Cage, Nam Jun Paik, Joseph Beuys, and Allan Kaprow". I also notice that The
Media Sounds course you teach at the European Graduate School uses Michael
Nyman's book 'Experimental Music: Cage and Beyond' as one of the textbooks.
How did you become aware of this scene and how has it influenced your views
on music and art?
PMa9: Unzip, UnStuff the loaded file and check the attachments [note: no
attachments were present with the email]: I like to think of my take on
that question as a kind of upside down scenario: we're living in a world
where the boundaries between nature and nurture, artificial and "real"
vanished a while ago. From the idea of world leaders using mass media
throughout most of the last century, to the way we receive news of mega
disasters like the death of Princess Diana, the World Trade Center
terrorist attacks, and the tsunami disaster if late last year, we have moved
further and further into some of the ways that Mcluhan's prophetic
visions described, and Hendrix's music ascribed. Chaos! Hybridity!
Mixture! Extreme class and social hierarchy divisions! Racial paradoxes!
History as non-linear media surfing! Google quests for the
mathematically perplexed! My book references stuff like Samuel
Delaney's "Dhalgren" as science fiction soundtracks, as audio culture for
a world where our cell phones have become mobile homes. "Rhythm
Science" infers these things, and makes music the metaphor for these
massive social changes. I like to expand the "metaphor" for these kinds
of phenomena out into the realm of the "everyday" because it seems like
the "everyday" is getting more and more surreal with each passing
moment. When Bush creates a myth of a war, when 1984 becomes a
codeword for a civilization where "fact" vanished and became
advertising . . you know . . stuff like that. I write from a platform that
looks at these kinds of situations as "natural." Mythology and technology
have blurred so much that we look at films like the Matrix but forget
stuff like Plato's myth of the cave in his book "The Republic." Try riffing
on that in terms of America's media landscape, and the convergence of all
of these issues seems writ pretty large. I just unpack the idea of the dj's
"mix" as a kind of media literacy exploring these issues – after all, its an
ecology that I call home. The whole notion of mix culture parallels what
has been going on in certain areas of philosophy and intellectual property
law, architecture, genetic engineering, and media manipulation. xamples:
Grokster (a name taken from a science fiction novel "Stranger in a
Strange Land"), heavy metal hip-hop (my new album "Drums of Death"),
poetry made from ad jingles (any James Earl Jones "Hello, Verizon"
ads . . don't forget he was the voice of Darth Vader-branded "blackness
y'all!) etc etc.
Q10:
Do you consider your music to be 'experimental'? If so what does the term
'experimental' mean to you?
PMa10: Yeah, my stuff is experimental in the basic sense that it doesn't accept
norms, and seeks to foster an understanding of the contexts that it
explores. I really think that experimental music is about what composers
like Michael Nyman would describe as a series of questions. But that
comes from an omnivorous quality. A lot of people, like I said before,
tend to just stick to one style. I tend to think that's pretty boring. I also
really enjoy it when composers like Brian Eno or Jem Finer do strange
projects, like audio tones that are meant to parallel the development of a
clock with algorithms that unfold over 10,000 years . . . stuff like that.
But with hip-hop. Basically America is mad fucked up when it comes to
diversity. I'm writing to you from London at 7 a.m. after chilling out here
for a week, and basically yeah, when you look at America from abroad, it
just seems like the way people lock things down – I like to call it the
"demographic shuffle" – keeps things really boring. That's why I'm such
a fan of "mash-up" culture. Sure, America popularized DJ culture, but its
our bastard child. At this point, the way I see it, people just want to lock
things down and stick to their own clans, which will make things get a lot
more hectic over the next decade or so. It'll take a generation or so to
really respect diversity. I feel like I was born on the cusp of this kind of
stuff, and its a drag. If I had been born maybe 20 years later, I would be
in the right generation. My generation still has alot of boundaries about
multi-culturalism, which is a real fucking drag. White Americans still
think that they are the center of the universe, and because I travel a lot,
well . . . its pretty easy to see that this isn't the case. My style of music
relfects that paradox, and means basically all my style – the "dark" and
"eerie" hip-hop shit I have on my mind comes out in the music, but its
also an exploration of how to get out from under the dead weight of the
20th century.
Q11:
In general, do you view your performances as unique or repeatable events?
Why?
PMa11: Nah, performances are direct reflections of that one night, that one
scenario. Every one of them is different. They're all artefacts that are
meant to vanish into the night, or for that matter into the next podcast. I
really, really, really think that you should have a mix CD at the end of
every concert. Bands do that these days. They're just catching up. I give
away mix CD's at my lectures as a kind of invocation of the "gift
economy" and I'm inspired by writers like Louis Hyde and William
Gibson, so the networks are all about exchange.
Q12:
Have you received any formal musical training? a) None; b) Private Teacher; c)
School; d) University; e) Other.
PMa12: The answer: d) University. I studied under Elliot Schwartz and Mark
Polishook at Bowdoin College. But I only did music theory for a
semester or so.
Q13:
How do you document your work? a) Western Notation; b) Graphical Notation;
c) Written Instructions; d) CD; e) MP3; f)Video; g) Other (Please describe).
PMa13: In every way possible –digital media tends to get bogged down with
different storage media, and the methods of encoding different sound
files and sound sources change every couple of years, so I try to encode
things in a way that will be able to translate from different media into
different mediums. Think of Dj Spooky as the musical equivalent of
Adam Smith's invisible hand given a turntable, and flip the code on what
Bakhtin used to call "heteroglossia" (speaking many languages), and
that's what's up with my stuff. I look at American writers like H.P.
Lovecraft as a perfect example of the paranoia of racially encoded
narratives that reflect how frightened white Americans are of diversity.
Combine his stuff with Neil Labute or David Mamet's theatre of "in the
company of white folks" and you get an idea of what I have to deal with
in terms of actually investing in the project of multi-culturalism in
downtown Manhattan. The artworld is pretty much like the old South
Africa – it has its racially encoded visions of what is acceptable "black"
art, and I don't fit it. You have to remember I started as a conceptual artist
focused on the role of sound in our culture. The DJ thing took over
because the art world can't deal with real diversity. On the other hand, the
Bush Administration has the most diverse Cabinet in American history
(plus his dad nominated Clarence Thomas!!), and guess what its done:
exactly zero. I really want to shake things up. It sickens me that the
conventional artworld and much of the digital media scene is pretty much
the same as the Bush Administration. That's a shame. I actually think
multicuralism is not only a lot more fun than just sticking with your own
tribe, but actually a lot more interesting. You get a lot of information
from a lot more inputs, and that makes your information a lot richer.
Anything else is boring.
Appendix D
Informed Consent Information Sheet Supplied to all Participants.
Clever Children:
The Sons and Daughters of Experimental Music
Information Sheet
Who is conducting the research
David Carter
Griffith University Queensland Conservatorium
Ph: +61 7 3875 6345
Email: [email protected]
Why the research is being conducted
This research aims to document the work, theories, aesthetic concerns and
philosophies of a selection of musicians, producers and composers who have been
influenced by the experimental music tradition.
What you will be asked to do
Should you choose to participate in this research, you will be asked to complete a
questionnaire relating to your artistic / musical practice. This may involve
answering questions relating to your musical / artistic influences, compositions,
aesthetic and philosophical concerns and how and why you create music. The
questionnaire should take about 30 minutes.
Risks to you
Participation in this research poses no physical risks to you as the research asks
only that you identify your perceptions of your own music and practice. As far as
possible this research will seek to ensure that you are not misrepresented,
verballed and / or defamed. In order to achieve this, specific information relating
to your participation in this research will be made available to you for comment
prior to publication.
Your confidentiality
The conduct of this research involves the collection, access and / or use of your
identified personal information. The information collected from this research will
be reported in specific terms and will involve identification of participants. All
data will be kept in a locked filing cabinet in the Queensland Conservatorium at
Griffith University for a period of 5 years before being destroyed.
Your participation is voluntary
Your participation in this research is voluntary and you do not need to answer any
question unless you wish to do so.
Mechanism for distribution and return
This questionaire was distributed to all participants via email. Completed
questionaires can be returned via email to David Carter at [email protected].
The ethical conduct of this research
Griffith University conducts research in accordance with the National Statement
on Ethical Conduct in Research Involving Humans. If you have any matter of
concern regarding the research that you wish to discuss you may contact David
Carter, or if you prefer an independent person you may contact the Manager,
Research Ethics: Office for Research, Bray Centre, Griffith University, Kessels
Road, Nathan, Qld 4111, telephone (07) 3875 5585 or email research-
[email protected].
Feedback to you
Specific information relating to individual participants will be made available to
each participant prior to publication for comment. A report of the general findings
from the study will also be made available to all participants.
Expressing consent
If you choose to complete and return this questionnaire you will be deemed to
have consented to participate in this research. You are free to withdraw from this
research at any time by notifying David Carter of your wishes.
Please print this sheet and retain it for later reference.
Appendix E
CD of Audio Examples
Track List
Audio Example 1:
Eight Lines Remix – Howie B
Audio Example 2:
Surface Noise Section One – Robin Rimbaud
Audio Example 3:
Surface Noise – Sonic Interruption
Audio Example 4:
Surface Noise – Unprocessed fragment of the Westminster Quarters
Audio Example 5:
Surface Noise – Big Ben Striking the Hour
Audio Example 6:
Surface Noise – Short Loop Derived from Recording of Big Ben
Bell
Audio Example 7:
Surface Noise – Heavily Filtered Recording of Big Ben
Audio Example 8:
Surface Noise – Filtered and distorted Westminster Quarters
Audio Example 9:
Surface Noise – Filtered and heavily processed Westminster Quarters
Audio Example 10: Surface Noise – Westminster Quarters pitch shifted and filtered.
Audio Example 11: Surface Noise – Sustained chord produced with Meta-Synth
Audio Example 12: Surface Noise – Percussion Loop 1
Audio Example 13: Surface Noise – Use of Delays to Affect Changes in Rhythm
Audio Example 14: Surface Noise – Percussion Loop 2
Audio Example 15: Surface Noise – Toned Percussion Affected by a Resonant Filter
Note: Audio Examples are included in this dissertation under the provision of
Section 103C of the Australian Copyright Act which allows for fair dealing
with audio-visual items for the purposes of research or study.