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I-Robots presents Echoes Of Italy - The Age Of Voom Voom Music - Turin Dancefloor Express, on Space Echo Records. "Voom Voom Music was an independent Italian record label based in Turin, founded and managed by record producer Ivo Lunardi (Turin, December 6, 1940 – December 9, 2010). A pivotal figure in the Piedmont music scene, Lunardi was active both as a DJ and as the owner of several disco clubs. The label operated for several years in the latter half of the 1970s, releasing mainly productions connected to the Italian dance and pop scene. Since 2016, the original master tapes from the Voom Voom Music catalog have been owned by Gianluca Pandullo (I-Robots), a close friend of Ivo and Luca Lunardi. Through his labels Opilec Music and Turin Dancefloor Express, Pandullo oversees their preservation and historical enhancement."
This limited-edition compilation LP was curated from the legendary Westbound Records catalog by participating Record Store Day stores, and marks the second installment of the Westbound Records Curated by Record Store Day series. Volume 2 showcases the label's lasting influence on hip-hop and beyond, with some of the most sampled tracks in the Wesbound vault. The track list for this compilation was carefully curated by the hardworking people in record stores themselves.
Roman Hiele (1991) is a Brussels-based musician and composer whose work explores the boundaries between improvisation and electronic composition. His music unfolds as a living system of shifting harmonies, fractured rhythms, and unexpected turns.
At the core of Hiele’s practice lies a deep fascination for contrast, where his soundscapes act as both anchor and disruption, sharpening the emotional depth of images and spaces, a sensibility that extends into his collaborations with filmmakers, visual artists, and designers.
His new album, Emo Inhaler, on Stroom is an emulsifying force, blending these threads into a single, fluid whole. The record condenses compositions born from improvisatory explorations and electro-acoustic experimentation. Recorded and concluded across various studios and train coupés, Emo Inhaler is expansive, yet tightly woven, creating a singular sonic identity that explores Hiele’s own world of musical off-key vignettes, balancing between light and sinister. With Emo Inhaler, Hiele reaffirms his place as one of Belgium’s most adventurous and distinctive contemporary voices.
Robert Stillman didn’t set out to make a concept album about Steve Jobs. But as a composer and improviser whose music asks questions about his relationship with reality, a curiosity about the promises and follies of technology took him there. Following an intuitive path from James Bridle’s acclaimed book on non-human intelligence Ways of Being to the seminal 1995 essay “The California Ideology”, Stillman arrived at Walter Isaacson’s biography of Apple founder Steve Jobs – and what would become the catalyst for his new album. “10,000 Rivers points to an alternative narrative about a man who is tormented by the instability of his reality, so tries to invent his way out of it,” Stillman explains. “Ultimately, his tech designs become expressions of his will to replace the messy, disordered, temporary nature of the world with something that strives to be barely physical: streamlined, symmetrical, uncomplicated, and deathless.” Highly original, wholly unclassifiable, 10,000 Rivers is part cultural critique, part sonic biography and takes the form of a series of songs, instrumentals and abstract soundscapes that respond directly to moments or paradigms from Jobs’ life. Stylistically, it leans on Stillman’s relationship with the smooth music of Billy Ocean, Gloria Estefan and 10cc from the ‘80s and early ‘90s, made at what he calls “the knife’s edge between the human and the digital.” “A lot of this music, coincidentally, was contemporary with Jobs’ heyday and the mainstream adoption of his first personal computers,” Stillman continues, revelling in the playful deconstruction of their aspirational and anodyne qualities. Twinkling, synthetic arpeggios sit alongside tumbledown acoustic improvisation – think Mort Garson meets Moondog – fragments of ambient sound collapse into queasy auto-tuned lullabies, the melancholy paradise of Brian Wilson-esque California dreaming dismantled into uncanny free jazz freakouts. Recorded to ½-inch 8 track tape and mixed down in real-time to give it a live, performative quality, the result is a speculative, genreless soundtrack to a man’s life and the wider societal values it came to define. Drawing on his recent collaborations with Thom Yorke, Jonny Greenwood and Tom Skinner as touring support and live band-member for The Smile, Stillman’s work has long resisted categorisation, and been presented in a range of media, including installations, performance lectures and 12 solo albums, the most recent of which What Does It Mean to Be American? takes a similarly conceptual scalpel to complex notions of US identity. One of Stillman’s most ambitious and idiosyncratic projects to date, 10,000 Rivers is an elegy for the hubris of a humankind trying to design its way to immortality as it falls apart at the seams.
APORIAMOR noun 1. The death of love’s contradiction. | “Embody APORIAMOR” Etymology aporia-: an irresolvable internal contradiction or logical disjunction in a text, argument, or theory. from Greek aporos ‘impassable’, from a- ‘without’ + poros ‘passage’ -amor: love. Sentimiento intenso del ser humano que, partiendo de su propia insuficiencia, necesita y busca el encuentro y unión con otro ser. Del latín amor. -mor: latin for death. APORIAMOR explores the affective ontological and organic processes of love and lust in the turmoil of an urban existence, through the female lens. It expresses the process of strengthening through heartbreak in its various forms. With her debut EP The Art of the Concrete, elsas knew that by giving that name to a record which was ironically expansive and experimental, she would be calling for a distilled and clearer path further down the line. This is what she’s been incorporating into the sonic world of this new EP, APORIAMOR, signifying the birth of a more matured and distilled version of herself as an artist. With APORIAMOR (“the death of love’s contradiction”) elsas conveys a personal process of healing in the romantic space. Through different experiences of heartbreak, elsas builds a language - a coping mechanism attached to its subsequent artistic expression – that isn’t founded on hardness or a closing-off, but instead, on a playful but profound reckoning, and learning of self-worth. APORIAMOR embraces the complexities of being a lover-girl: of moving through life with an open heart. It celebrates the clarity, sweet hindsight, and detachment that come from processing emotion. APORIAMOR is both an affirmation and a release. elsas makes canonical blends with a forward boundary-bending vision. Her sound in this record is naturally referential of both her Mediterranean heritage and UK alternative music — intrinsic parts of her lived experience. She has had the opportunity to collaborate with artists she deeply admires, each exchange enriching her creative world. The experience of working hand-in-hand with Sampha for the last 3 years and ongoingly has been a core of her evolution as an artist. She has also collaborated in many forms with artists like Florence + the Machine, Little Simz, Jordan Rakei, Jockstrap, Obongjayar, Black Country New Road, Genevieve Artadi (KNOWER) and Duval Timothy. Additionally, her ongoing work with the Idrîsî Ensemble, of which she is a core member, continues to inform her artistic depth. The making of this largely self-produced record unfolded over four years — “it’s a well-kneaded dough,” she says. These songs evolved through exposure to multiple environments: from early writing sessions in her childhood home in the Spanish countryside, to stages across the U.S. while on tour supporting Sampha. Experimentation and modulation are an intrinsic part of elsas’ method, conceiving songs as organisms that respond to their surroundings. Collaborators on this collection of songs include Shrink, Will Lister, Gabriel Gifford, Ethan P. Flynn and more. The record was mixed by David Wrench (a long-time supporter of elsas’) and Nathan Boddy, and mastered by Matt Colton. With APORIAMOR, elsas creates a visual world from the fabulation of the past, as an act of playful historical revisionism in which she embeds herself as both subject and storyteller. The songs function like an archive of her experiences across various years, each one unearthed and presented as some sort of archaeological artifact. Through this body of work, elsas begins to conceptualize herself as a legacy artist: one who honors the archive of her own becoming while emerging as a distinct and resonant voice in today’s musical landscape.
The second instalment of the Curio Cabinet gourmet-dub series, Bonnefoï Dub / Tolosan Dub straight from the southern city of Toulouse.
"Both are made by Stefan Dubs under the guiding light of his live project, Sòn Du Maquis. This project has deep roots in the free rave, micro-festival, and dub & sound system culture of his country. It’s also the name of his own label, home to his dub-infested productions; ranging from slo-mo jungle to droney steppers and blown-out trip-hop on a slightly medieval tip.
Staying true to classic sound system tradition, each side pairs the original cut with its own version.
First there is Tolosan Dub, a trancey bass meditation colossus with deep synth work moving around in the trees. Some early nineties UK digidub vibes are surely mashing up the dance here. The version workout slows things down a bit, taking you even deeper into the riddim... strictly warrior style !
On the B-side we've got Bonnefoï Dub, which is pure bass-bin filth with a rootsy harmonica touch and a raw clubby feel. This tune just screams to be played out loud on a proper sound system. The version is certified dance-floor gold, yet there are enough dubbed-out flavours going on for intimate headphone sessions or some mad home skanking."
«The project “a sad song for A.” was born from an insight Stefano Gentile had, driven by his moods and, in particular, a regret he had experienced in the past. It all began almost by chance, one evening, during an informal conversation. Stefano suggested that I narrate what I was experiencing most intensely at that moment: anxiety.
After thoroughly analyzing this emotional state, he asked me to translate it into words, to write texts that could give voice to the emotions surrounding it. From there, came the idea of dividing the emotional journey into four stages that, in one way or another, we have all experienced: Panic, Anxiety, Light, and Dream.
This is how Stefano involved me in this project, which combines writing, photography, and music with a specific goal: to make people feel less alone, creating an invisible thread of empathy through words, images, and sounds. In this way, “a sad song for A.” came to life and taught us – and continues to teach us – to feel closer to one another, to strike common inner chords, to remember that no one is truly alone when going through darkness, and that it is essential to never stop dreaming.» Giulia Dal Vecchio
In addition to Stefano Gentile and Giulia Dal Vecchio, “a sad song for A.” also features Gigi Masin, Fabio Orsi, Anacleto Vitolo, and a new multimedia project called Hiseka (Stefano Gentile and Giulia Dal Vecchio with various guests).
“a sad song for A.” is released as a deluxe box set containing four CDs and four 12-pages booklets, 17x17cm in size. The box is limited to 300 hand-numbered copies. Each musician worked on a phase of anxiety, creating a dedicated and original work. Stefano created the images and Giulia wrote the texts. Each of the four parts was given a title that is also the title of the sound work.
Anacleto Vitolo: Falling into a vortex of sick stars (for Panic)
Hiseka: Drowning in a sea of dust (for Anxiety)
Gigi Masin: Imploding in a blinding darkness (for Light)
Fabio Orsi: Listening to the sound of sunflowers (for Dream)
Gigi Masin's work is also available as two separate vinyl records, which feature two additional extra tracks not included in the CD version contained in the box set. In addition to the standard black vinyl edition, the two records are also released on clear vinyl in a limited edition of 200 hand-numbered copies each.
Four videos (one for each CD) are also available for streaming on Silentes’ YouTube channel, one made by Francesco Giannico and three made by Francesco Paladino.
London’s DJ Ojo expands his deep end club purview to a full album of purring downbeats, lilting rhythmelodies and technoid bassbin pressure with signature restraint and well-balanced weight for Blank Mind. It's really strong, tightly produced gear the far fringes of dub techno, somewhere between Monolake, Convextion, and the sort of thing Beneath and Kowton were up toback in the post-dubstep and post-UKF days of the late ‘00s...
One up to his label debut 12” of ’23, and a preceding EP for Significant Other’s Pain Management, the eight tracks of ‘Total Internal Reflection’ dwell in a vein of syncopated, offbeat UK bass music where deep house, dub techno, and electronic sound designer suss are reduced to barest essentials, as first shaped by the likes of Beneath and Kowton back in the post-dubstep and post-UKF days of the late ‘00s. It’s a sound that can sometimes take itself so seriously to the point of numbness, but is here inflected with just enough personality and sensuality in the tactile dub tech details and whirring, minimalist efficiency of the groove that buoys it to interest for connoisseurs of this sound.
A carefully plotted course emerges in the finely tempered escalation of tempo and opening of envelopes from a squashed, reticulated opener and nervier, skeletal 2-step parry of a title tune spangled with insectoid intricacy and adore dubbing, finding filigree variegation within a theme as the sloshing bleep swag of ‘Entropic’ nudges into mid-tempo swang shades from Paperclip Minimiser aces on ‘World of lens’, and echoes of Pole bounce around the sound sphere of ‘Axiomatic’, with a strong cap-tip to T++, but at depressed pace, on ‘Cruising’, and the sort of subs made for swimming in the club propel its most robust stepper ‘Isomorphic’.
Post-classical composer, sound artist, and curator Matthew Patton returns with his second album as Those Who Walk Away. Afterlife Requiem is an elegy to friend and collaborator Jóhann Jóhannsson. Drone, electroacoustics, and near-silences extracted from unfinished recordings on Jóhannsson hard drives, underpin two string quintets—Ghost Orchestra (Reykjavík) and Possible Orchestra (Winnipeg)—processed and erased in a doleful durational work. Patton also works again with Andy Rudolph (Guy Maddin) and Paul Corley (Sigur Rós, Ben Frost) on co-production and sound design, to forge a simmering physicality that juxtaposes roiling low-end with haunting movements of ghostly strings.
“Everything I have ever written is a Requiem. Everything an ending. Death is smeared all over this music. My work is about disappearance—of the present, the past, of everything. Afterlife Requiem gets slower and slower over its duration, it is one huge ritardando, time is not just slowing down—it is disappearing. Without even thinking, two related tragedies occurred and came to the surface organically while I was writing, recording, and working: the death of my mother and the death of composer and friend Jóhann Jóhannsson. When I start writing, I am not thinking of anything in particular, I am just writing, composing, recording, and listening… but something always makes itself apparent or pushes itself through in an unforeseen way. After my mother’s medically-assisted death, in clearing out her apartment, I realized that I was also erasing the physical manifestation of her world—and that I was doing the exact same thing with the music I was writing and recording. During this time, Jóhann’s death also kept making itself apparent.
For Afterlife Requiem I have taken short abandoned fragments from Jóhann Jóhannsson's hard drives and placed these disembodied audio ghosts in alternating sections within my own music, leaving them impure—and in the process blurring the distinction between making and un-making. After his death, I had been given these hard drives from Jóhannsson's Berlin studio to listen to. This music was abandoned, in various states of formation and dissolution: an index of decayed and dead memories, forgotten and now existing only within a series of interlocking mechanical parts which in time will themselves fail and disappear, like everything else. For months, I listened to these remains of Jóhann’s music obsessively, trying to discover clues about Jóhann before he died. Many times I would find that he had left the recording device going long after the recorded music was over. He seemed to be unaware that the music had ceased or didn't register this was the end of the music or maybe he was distracted by something else. But I found these long silences profoundly emotional and touching.
The disappearing elegies of Afterlife Requiem are not so much music as they are the remains of music. In this way I always work towards the subtraction of meaning. The music is distant and smeared, damaged, ghost-like and haunted, only hinting like a half-forgotten memory of what once existed; a condensed depiction of decay and erasure. I have underlaid the whole of this new piece, from beginning to end, with these disembodied silences from Jóhann’s own work, space, and time. Now gone forever, his recorded silence remains; a monumental vacancy lost to the world. Throughout the piece, and especially in the ‘Memorial Environment’ sections, I also incorporate countless natural-world sounds, everything from volcanic lava to freight elevators to human blood flow to turbine hiss to suicide injections.
Artist Robert Smithson said decades ago: ‘It is the dimension of absence that remains to be found’. For me, this music also measures how time runs out. In fact, time already has run out. Eternity has already begun.”
– Matthew Patton (Those Who Walk Away)
‘Fragments’ is the debut album from Beak> co-founder Billy Fuller. "Although this is a solo album, it’s not a solo album in the traditional sense of representing an artist’s thoughts and feelings during a particular time frame. This is a record that spans time as it collects fragments of Billy creating alone in his home studio over the last few years. Through listening, one gets the impression of art that sometimes has a vision in mind, and is sometimes just the product of someone enjoying the process of creating in the moment. During the break in Beak> activity in early 2025, Billy revisited his collected compositions and found that there was a common thread, a cohesive atmosphere. Every single track on this album was created by Billy alone, and his personality threads itself through the 16 tracks. He likens the process of compiling the tracks to making a cassette compilation for a friend when he was a kid. Fragments is moody, immersive, and utterly unbound. Across the album, kosmiche-inflected, hauntological electronica plays freely with melody, finding emotional resonance for our unpredictable times. Neu-esque repetitions and motorik grooves pulse beneath skewed electro textures, and occasional spoken-word passages drift in and out like transmissions from an unknown broadcast. Occasional flashes of psychedelic prog guitar cut through hazy atmospheres, edging the sound further toward Fuller’s own kind of hypnagogic pop, that is strange yet deeply human. Fragments isn’t an album about singles, or trends. It’s music for the love of making music, by a musician who hasn’t stopped making and releasing new music for over 25 years. It is a self-effacing triumph of musical freedom."
With their self-titled release on Titrate Records, Post Coma presents two twenty-minute passages shaped by a winter improvisation. What surfaces is a sense of detachment — at times even dissociation — treating the improvisation as a shared descent into the inner psyche. Listening as much to each other as to the remnants of their own decisions, the music emerges as a kind of cognitive experiment — a document of mutual attunement and the debris that gathers in its wake. The result lies suspended between motion and conclusion, leaving space for what lingers beyond.
On composing Tom Phillips' Irma
In February and March of 1977, for Brian Eno’s Obscure Records, I made a version of Irma. The following notes on the piece arise out of that involvement and try to show how the piece can be made into a performance state.
Irma is a curious score – it is printed on a single sheet 50cms x 50cms. The notation consists of fragments from Tom’s continuing treatment of the victorian novel by W. H. Mallock, which he calls A Humument, and utilises those short verbal fragments that refer to either ‘‘libretto’’, ‘‘decor and mise-en-scène’’ or ‘‘sounds’’. These 3 categories are arranged in separate sections on the square sheet with, at the bottom, a line of stave notation. At first sight it looks like a piece of indeterminate music – clearly there has to be some preparatory work done before it is performable and no-one would venture to perform directly from the score - but if it is approached in this spirit, like realising a piece by John Cage or Morton Feldman written during the 1950’s, the sounding results are either largely of a documentary
interest, or rely entirely on the gifted performer to make into a coherent sounding whole. True, one could say the same thing for a piece by Cage, such as Variations I, but there the
performer is given a number of precise parameters of sound within which he should work, whereas Irma needs to be re-composed rather than realised.
If the distinction between ‘‘composing’’ and ‘‘realising’’ is overlooked, and if only the materials present in the notation are used, then the result is likely to be impoverished and it is clear that, looked at in isolation as a self-contained work, the score is notationally very thin. So one either produces an impoverished piece of sounding music, or one takes the responsibility to look further. Tom does not say explicitly that one must go beyond Irma into the rest of his work, but he does say that one has to go outside the piece. On the score he writes: ‘‘Perhaps to treat the indications here given as if they were the only surviving fragments of an ancient opera, or fragments of eye and ear witnesses’ accounts of such, and given no knowledge of performance tradition of the time, to reconstruct a hypothetical whole which would accommodate them economically, would be an appropriate basis of approach to a production.’’ So, try to put it back together and try to fill in all the gaps between these fragments. This approach, which, incidentally coincides with an interest in such procedures within my own work, seems to be the most suitable. If the ‘‘composer’’ uses the sorts of methods that Tom evidently uses in producing pictures, in making A Humument (of which Irma is a part), and if he uses the notations of Irma as clues to lead him into whatever area seems likely to yield rich results, then a much more satisfactory outcome is likely – satisfactory both in terms of the quality of the sounding material and in terms of consistency with the rest of Tom’s oeuvre.
There are clearly many ways in which the various fragments of verbal notation can be used. One fruitful way was to take each of the fragments as the notes of, say, a critic at the only performance of the work (in a hypothetical past), perhaps jotted down on the back of an envelope (then torn into fragments in a rage, or through frustration at some element in the piece? Make the piece inadequate in some way?!). These elements, then, would have been memorable for some reason or other, or used as an aide-memoire to recall something else (even something outside the work). The elements could have occurred at evenly-spaced intervals throughout the performance, they may have all been featured in some way (loudly, as solos), they may have been the worst parts (being retained to damn the piece in a subsequent review, since lost or never written – the composer got wind of the review and murdered the critic, retaining the fragments as the only link with the crime. . .). On the other hand they could be used as discrete musical units quite separate from the main body of the work, which has to be looked for elsewhere. Whatever solution, or combination of solutions, is found it is evident that the composer and librettist are more or less obliged to move outside the work itself i.e. outside the printed score. (One of the original ideas I had, which was not very practical, was to see if I could use another opera called Irma. A possibility was one written by H. J. Banawitz first performed in 1885, which would have had the right period in terms of the connection with the W. H. Mallock original. This seems to have had few performances, perhaps only one, and seems to have disappeared. I thought of looking for the manuscript, treating it in the same way as Tom had treated the Mallock novel, and making a sort of ‘‘musical Humument’’ out of it. While that seemed to have some intellectual sympathy with Tom's work, it might not have sounded anything like an opera, and it did seem to me that one of the notions of Irma is that it is conventional to some degree. Indeed, while much of Tom’s musical work lies within the field of experimental music and graphic notation, his musical taste is conservative, and the greater part of the musical references in the main body of his work are to past, and historically respectable, composers like Brahms, Mozart, Fux, Scarlatti and so on.)
The sources that were used, then, in making the piece apart from the score itself involved the following. I obtained the volumes of A Humument and noted all connection with music, with the role of Irma, and with the possible narrative; I looked at all the prints of Ein Deutsches Requiem after Brahms, which use elements from the Humument and refer directly to a musical work; I went through the catalogue of Tom’s work (Works. Texts to 1974); I went through Trailer, which uses the Humument, in fact a spin off from the main work; I went through all the other pieces of music that he has written to see if they could be used in any way; and I checked as many paintings/prints that I could which had a direct or indirect connection with either A Humument, Irma or with music. The painting The Quest for Irma (1973) which shows her in back view looking out to sea gave much information. It is the only portrait of her and she appears even here as anonymous, or rather, faceless. It gives a marine setting for the work (though since at least two pieces of music that I have written deal, to some degree, with marine incidents it might be argued that I might have been better off avoiding such a reference, but it is very blatant). She is looking out to sea from the Dorset coast and this attitude seems to be characteristic of her behaviour: ‘‘I tell you. . . that’s Irma herself. . . watching the waves fall. . . repeating certain sorts of verse. . .’’ So here we have an elusive heroine, obsessively watching the sea off the Dorset coast, given to repetition. Further checks within the Humument revealed a spate of marine references: ‘‘boat of dreams. . . lost on rocks’’; ‘‘the sad horizon of sea, hours she spent with her sadness on the beach’’; ‘‘see, see, the things. . . the things from the changed sea’’; ‘‘a cruise in an opium clipper’’; ‘‘marine engines and boilers’’; ‘‘ten years’ travel and sport in foreign lands’’; ‘‘a certain light flashed. . . among the eastern clouds’’; ‘‘sinking lights. . .’’ and so on. On the other hand, she is not in mourning since she wears a bright red dress.
One page of A Humument is almost a summary of the feeling of Irma and is certainly one that I tried to emulate. ‘‘. . . The whole history of it is so vague. . . eagerly, gradually the words that I heard I put aside as an opera, an insufficient one; still organ for what – me, me. . . I can’t quite tell. hardly books. . . it was the libretto of the music, of the music – I can’t tell. . . I can’t tell - but all was for the same thing to capture in drawing, and to express in music, thought and study. . . the loss. . . the least important. . . moon I myself am myself in search of an object for love? way? Yes and no – enter myself. . . associating me and me. It made me within me some mystery. . .’’
Other pages give more precise information about particular sounds, rhythms, timbres and so on. The instrumentation was, to a large extent, governed by the references to musical instruments that I found in all these sources. ‘‘Tube’’ suggested tuba. The piano is mentioned
many times, especially in connection with John Tilbury. The gong is specified – ‘‘suddenly a gong in series’’ – which also gave me the whole of a short percussion interlude between the second and third sections of the work. Strings were suggested by a phrase ‘‘the history viola’’ occurring in A Humument and this gave me a reason to feature the viola in some way, in fact using it in unison with the female voice, identifying the viola with the title of the opera. The fact of having strings is such a convention of normal orchestral scoring that it would really have needed a positive clue to the contrary to have excluded them, bearing in mind the relationship of the piece to musical convention.
I used the tuned percussion, and especially metallic instruments, from certain onomatopaeic syllables, like ‘‘ting’’, ‘‘ping’’, ‘‘ding’’ which I had originally considered using as a chorus of instrumental imitations, but decided ultimately to use the instruments themselves.
Two of the prints from Ein Deutsches Requiem after Brahms gave me a great deal of material for the second section of the opera, a slow duet between the two main characters. Print number 5 shows a number of parasols, both closed and open, and has the legend ‘‘. . . a sound was given up’’ taken from A Humument. That particular picture suggested itself since there is, within both the score of Irma and within the published Humument a fragment which reads ‘‘the first parasol sound’’, with the addition, in Irma, of ‘‘f, f’’ indicating loud. From the text of the Requiem printed on the picture, I could find the precise section of music in the
Brahms original which consists of a solo for trombone (in the score I use baritone horn for its greater flexibility and ease of pitching, but it uses the same range, and has the added advantage of resembling the French Horn, an instrument more closely associated with noble operatic melodies.). The ‘‘parasol sound’’, then, indicated that I should use that particular instrument. What it plays came from another source, from the score of Irma. which gives ‘‘quiet, high, intonation divine. . .’’ and ‘‘. . . drops the tone . . . various phrases. . .’’ all of which enabled me to have that particular instrument playing, with "divine intonation’’, a long melodic line consisting of a descending stepwise chromatic scale from top E down an octave, but very elongated. The other use of the Requiem was for the other half of the slow section, and used the following print, number 6, which refers to a sequence of rather chromatic chords in the original which I used as fragments, like the Irma score, inserting chords of my own between groups of those by Brahms to make a new sequence. So the whole of the second section uses references to the Brahms Requiem – in the first half to the harmonic content (vertical), in the second half to the melodic line (horizontal).
The last section of the piece, a chorus ‘‘Love is help, mate’’ uses a page of A Humument that is dedicated to Morton Feldman, though the actual results bear no relation to Feldman's music as such. What I did with that page was to look through some of Feldman's music to see if there was anything in it that was consistent with the way that I was approaching the score of Irma. It occurred to me to use a vocal piece for something that would be vocal within Irma and since Tom had dedicated another page to Christian Wolff – in fact a page of Trailer – and since Wolff and Feldman were close associates with Cage in the 1950’s, I used a piece called Christian Wolff in Cambridge (in spite of the fact that Tom had attended Oxford, and the Cambridge here refers to Harvard). This is a wordless choral piece which is hummed – and I used a lot of humming in the score, often as a means of separating discrete images – and consists of mildly dissonant chords. There were, however, one or two more consonant ones and I omitted those which sounded like ‘‘modern music’’, and so was left with one or two chords that I used, along with others interjected to produce a smooth flow, as the accompaniment to the melody of ‘‘Love is help mate’’. The addition of other chords was necessary because of the static quality of Feldman’s piece in which each chord is an isolated entity, and this mirrored what I was doing, on a larger scale, with the whole of Irma; taking isolated fragments and finding ways of reassembling them into a continuous whole. It could be said that I was doing to Feldman what Tom had done to Mallock since each of us extracted from a body of material what was needed for a particular circumstance, though my extraction was a good deal more cursory.
The melody that this accompanies comes from a number of sources. One of these is the stave notation and references to specific notes on Irma itself – about 60% of the notes in the melody – the rest being added by myself. One of the ideas for this came from Eric Sams’ researches into the ciphers in Schumann's music, and in particular from the fact that he originally found a clue to the cipher by finding 5-note melodic phrases in which the 1st, 3rd and 5th notes were C-A-A (Schumann’s wife was called CLARA) and this gave the possibility of finding what L and R became in the musical code, and thence other possible letters. Using this notion, using the notes given by Irma, and inserting between them other notes, the melodic lines are composed by myself but taking as a starting point the notation of Irma. The stave notation at the bottom of the score I found more usable in this way, and also as bass-lines, in transposition, rather than as originally given.
There are, obviously, some very direct references in the score, and it is the presence of these that ensure a very eclectic result: references like ‘‘the Ring’’, ‘‘the Emperor’’, ‘‘the International’’. The first of these, allied to a notation that refers to many ‘‘s’s’’ (German for E flat) suggested the opening of the Rheingold. The second, ‘‘Emperor’’, could have been a number of references – the ‘‘Emperor’’ Waltz (Strauss), the ‘‘Emperor’’ Concerto (Beethoven), the ‘‘Emperor’’ Quartet (Haydn) and so on. In the event I used the last two, and toyed with the idea of using the source for Haydn’s ‘‘Emperor’’ Quartet viz. his ‘‘Emperor Hymn’’ which became the Austrian national anthem, and which was, in its turn taken from a Croatian folk tune. I considered omitting all the musical references and only using the words of this latter ‘‘Vjutro rano se ja stanem Mal pred zorom’’ – and relished the fact that I would have been injecting something with precise semantic value, though one which I did not understand, but in the end omitted it for reasons of pronunciation difficulty. With ‘‘the International’’, I was delighted that it was misspelt (Internationale) and this made of it a lipogram (like the Ellery Queen story that omits the letter ‘‘t’’) and so I quoted the music leaving out the note ‘‘e’’. I had also considered the idea of the lipogram in another context. The original of A Humument is the Victorian novel A Human Document which leaves behind the letters AN DOC, and this gives a lipogrammatic anagram of NO ADC, that is, to avoid the notes A D and C in the piece as a whole. This seemed to be excessive, however, since it would have effectively ruled out one of the two vowels available in musical cryptography, and they are not easy to come by.