Shortcuts to a detour

Car La Crique

Honey Love

music: mike brosco
photo: mike brosco

I recently finished a large project which had been eating up all of my studio time. I'm happy to be back to a place where I can write and post new music. I started this track quite some time ago. I thought I'd dust it off and finish it to get things rolling again. I think I ended up putting more dust on it.

Underpin

Disquiet Junto project 0607: Compose a piece of music in which the relative amount of sound to silence starts at zero (that is, no sound), rises to approximately 40 percent (that is, 60 percent silent) and returns to zero again. Keep the pace fairly steady.

For more about this week's project, see https://llllllll.co/t/disquiet-junto-project-0607-silence-wave/

Process notes: I used a probability gate again like last week, but modulated the probability from 0% to 40% and back again using one long ramp from Rampage.  That ramp also controls starting and stopping the recording.

silence wave (disquiet0607)

Another spell, another feeler.

Mastered by Roach, check him out!
https://on.soundcloud.com/WUUmK

Book of Spells: To Relate To

A moment of your time please [133]

some instruments, including synth and the pulsating synth bed, mix: tea are sea @tea_are_sea
other instruments, narration, mix: sonic structures and silent stretches
method: some back and forth, with stonerjazz and re-evolution café orchestra sometimes listening in and edging on
narration: the thirteen canto poem finds its way into sound, a canto at a time
image: copyright jo richter, using a detail of my photo of a magazine depiction of the phaistos disc as one element among others

info: there is one more version of this canto to emerge from other collab partners. LOOK FORWARD!

poem / copyright jo richter

How long he stayed, he could not tell.
He worked ferociously, sounding all
existence that had touched upon him into
being: the smell of meadows, the curl of
ripples, the calm that centers in a storm;
the timbre of voices, the straight lines of buildings,
the aloofness of announcers on the radio.
His desk was cluttered, his mind strove clear.

When he did not write, he‘d read up on
the origins of his ancient art: Vergil and Dante,
Marlow and Shakespeare, Homer and Joyce,
Ovidus, Cervantes, Rabelais and Wieland.
He felt the linguistic seeds, blown from foreign
stems, grow filaments deep in his native soil, he
saw them ripen, flower profusely, yielding
their beauty to ever-changing mentalities.

And as his insight widened and he gained
perspective, the rows of encyclopedias
and dictionaries that lined his shelves
slimmed down, as he gave up consulting
English for French and German, these for
Latin and Greek, those for Persian and Sanskrit,
until he only referred to Indo-European roots.
His desk turned clear, his mind became uncluttered.

Eventually, he also slept and dreamt
whenever the veil sank upon him.
Guarded by the spire‘s safe walls, he would
awaken slowly, remembering outlandish
lore, scribbling notes and poems of bizarre
truthfulness and penning recollections of his
archetypal ties. Some of his realistic verse de-
rived from fragments of prolonged poetic trance.

His muse meanwhile taught him to cook, the
art of mixing individual ingredients to bring about
a taste all of its own that nourishes both mind and
physicality. The painters tend to fixate on surface
and colour, she said, the musicians on timing
the process, whereas the poets never get anything
done, enchanted by words like ‚ginger‘ or ‚yeast‘.
All of their dishes taste awful.

silence wave (disquiet0607)

Terry Mullett

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