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Friday, August 24, 2012

lauren redhead - 'tactile figures'


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  1. the enigma machine 1: hendecaptych of hans memling
Here the word painting may refer to interpreting and is to be distinguished from that by Francis Bacon which is on oil and linen. That is: to be an album or a rock band is not the same as being attached to the bow of a boat. Covering, for instance, is creating but is on the surface. Many interpreters are painters but fewer are representative.

Performed by Trio Atem
Trio Atem: Nina Whiteman - voice, Gavin Osborn - flute, Alice Purton – cello

2. as a name i am a myth
An historical description of musical 'development' and the realities of chamber music are juxtaposed in a way which does not make clear which is the more absurd. The metal pubic address loudspeaker, more commonly seen at music festivals and train stations, acts as a commentator on the action of the performers as well as the arbiter of the situation in which the performers find themselves. Despite the commentary, they continue to play.

Performed by Trio Labyrinth
Heather Roche – Bass Clarinet, Elena J√°uregui – Violin, Sophia Russell - Harpsichord

3. in the back there was a pigeon (c)
A setting, and at the same time not at all a setting, of the tantum ergo. 
The invitation for the performers and the listener is to explore liturgy and the liturgical nature of musical canon and practice.

Performed by Edges Ensemble, directed by Philip Thomas. recording produced by Tom Riley.

4. then it became its own darkness
Veins are strung outward, cables swing slow to the floor, as then it became its own darkness: something thrums, hums, the grind of the axle, the wheel turns, the crow is clamouring,  the turn is quickening, and all the while there's the empty storm, dragging itself belly-up over dust dust and dirt and dust. It spasms, that thought, probing and nosing to hurry itself in, to drag itself into the earth’s rind, crumbling and crippling and sinking and stuttering, all the way down the rabbit hole, flailing, folding, into that finite space, it teases down the dirty riggings, the angles and towers that prop up the fever sky, helpless yellow stomach, it flares, corrodes; tumbling, scattering, tearing, vaudevillian in its delight and destruction, it scalpels and draws back the skin, probing and poking, dissection without discretion, the spine flaps open, and all the while, one shrunken cell is eaten by another, returning to the bone pile, and all the while there is a crash of concrete and metal heaped across the land, as one white pulse crackles in a cold corpus callosum, sparking one last shiver through  the synapses, it is sniffing out the last spore, the last piece of sugar, pleasure is in that, gazing on new shatterings, and the old stones, already broken, no need to taste, already such things merely echoes, and all the while it sees constellations that are neon and perfect, strings and precise stars, it clouds and obscures and swallows them all, and all the while the mouth gapes open, waiting to beget with the grind of the axle, the wheel turns, the crow is clamouring, it is clawing, hunting, digging, feasting, the turn is quickening, spinning on its side, that empty storm, crawling, dragging itself belly-up,  yet, concealed, ribbons of green and blue wind around, threads through the water, weaving and waiting and nesting, sparrow legs drawing little lines in the lime green air, and all the while, crumbling and crippling and sinking and stuttering, into the fractal it squanders itself, searching for that cessation and emptiness burning at the core, fearing it and feasting on it, graceless and boundless, consuming it and digesting it, disintegration, degeneration and absence its only assertion, and yet, concealed ribbons are winding, green is weaving, unseen, unsmelt, unheard, and all the while, it is clawing, hunting, digging, feasting, a shadow of a pleasure in that, seeing that place scratched,  bitten, wrecked, the remnants non-stirring, all sleeping, all in perpetual coma, and now, as it becomes what it was and had begotten, it is cessation, it can rest. and yet, and yet, weavings and windings, some strange itch, a heat snaps at the skull of it, but what of those spoilt things, all things were equally eaten, were they not? It cannot raise itself out of its own darkness, it howls back, spilling out the storm, but it cannot find that dread thing: for there are seeds in the rock, the sign bursts, around the ruin of the old sanctuary: for held there are the stones that will begin to hatch.
© Anna Clarke

Performed by rarescale
rarescale: Carla Rees – Kingma system bass flute, Michael Oliva – electronics

5. robin and marian 
Member of genus Erithacus, an outlaw, a sidekick, with stewed peas, a small child in the woods, killed with a bow and arrow, a three-wheeled car, including everyone, in education, Christianity, and elsewhere, nationalist or perhaps Jacobite, informally gentrified, ho, varlet.

Perfomed by Ian Pace

6. the enigma machine 4; the historicity of cartography
Tulse Henry Purcell Luper was born in Newport, Wales, in 1911, and was in Moab, Utah in 1928 when Uranium was discovered there. He may also have been to Burford although this is unconfirmed, and probably erroneous.
This piece, which has its roots in Luper's discoveries, is in sonata form. One might note that the quizzical character of the second subject in the development section finds its irrepressable apotheosis in the deconstruction of the climax found during the coda of the coda. However in this case it is the journey itself, rather than the destination, which becomes most important.

Performed by cat•er•waul
Edward Caine - Piano, Chris Leedham - Clarinets, Enrico Bertelli – Percussion 

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