NWWの現エンジニアColin Potterと共演したり、またマスタリングや作品の配給等で深く絡んでいる、1999年に実験音楽ユニットHuman Greedを始動したUKの作家Michael Begg。Brian Eno等も関与した一大プロジェクトFovea Hexの主要メンバーの一人であり、本作は2年振りに自身のOmnempathyで制作した2019年ソロアルバム。薄っすらと毒気を忍ばせつつ過去の作品より内省的且つクラシカルに仕上げた、程よい暗がりのあるアンビエント作品集。ICR周辺のUKエクスペリメンタル/持続音好きには非常にオススメの一枚です。
A new release from Mr. Begg, a limited edition (150 copies) C, housed in a Japanese Artboard wallet.
Here is what he says :
Midnight. Orchestras are tuning up in the verges of the hollow ways. I have built my own instruments from wood, antique metals and computers. I read a book about the harmonic consonance between planets - but the planets are all out of kilter. I see through holes in the past that manifest as chasms in the sky.
I am so sad. I am so angry. This is my only voice. These are my only tools. I sit still. Very still. I jump in time, but I always land in the night. The beautiful night. God, I cannot tell you how much I miss the night.
Yes, I meditate. It seems very obvious to me that these pieces come from that space, that place - but it doesn’t warrant any closer examination than that. Just, please, allow the seconds to decouple themselves from the minutes. Watch the hours drift up to that hole in the night sky.
This recording is a monument to a certain kind of laudable failure. It is what happens when someone with no gift for programming writes scripts in Python and Max in order to consume data and make the moon and the tide sing. It’s what happens when someone with cheap tools and the ghost of a sound to realise gets out of his studio and into the workshop to make doomed instruments from all the junk in the village. It’s what happens when a man with no formal musical education takes it upon himself to score and orchestrate an ensemble. It’s where ‘I can’t do this’ meets ‘I must do this’.
This is not creating something of worth from silence, this is more like recovering something once lost from the midst of a solid block of shapeless sound.
The work is done. The coding is spaghetti. The instruments are broken; warped and ragged. Still, the moon sings in my ear. The machines in the studio haven’t been updated in over three hours so are obsolete. Yet Clea’s cello, formed in the year of Mozart’s birth, spins a silver thread in space and time.
And so, another midnight. Wife and children sleeping. Another illustrated ruin in my hands. And under what skies? Out into the night. Close the coop, and put away the hens water. Look up. There is one word you need to find. And if you whisper the right word, it will carry beyond the dimmest star.