Review Summary: Innocence, it don't come easy - in a sense it never will.
Protests...or riots. I’m not sure what the source of squawking is on the other side of the room but the commotion that has slowly overtaken my senses must not stand. Straining for any grasp of patience I approach through the doldrums of chance to investigate. The instigating bellows echoing from the walls are quickly unmasked as the screeching of a group of women. Co-workers. They are disrupting my concentration and my current project is on a deadline so there is simply no time for this vicissitude.
Oftentimes while under the employ with this erratic group of characters it has fallen upon me to pick the music that will hum through the community speakers. This results in an occasional sarcastic comment, the nadir of humor, implying unappreciation for my musical choices. No big deal. The journey towards unmatched musical discovery cannot be distracted by the simplest of vocal barbs. But the question remains. Why on this day does this group of ladies that doesn’t blink twice during my grindcore marathons get so bent out of shape by the second track from this diminutive, classically trained, Japanese composer?
The composer in question is of course Nidori Takada. Famous for her minimalism and fusions of style. In 1983 Takada went into the studio armed only with a handful of instruments and a sound engineer. Two intensive days later she emerged with what most consider the apex of her career. A master thesis for the examination of space and time. A close look at the distance between instruments themselves and the listener.
An untrained ear could perhaps ruminate that the resulting four musical movements are in a similar vein to Brian Eno or Mort Garson records. Even possibly the sequel to the Disintegration Loops recorded outside in a vibrant forest setting. The naturalistic sounds however are all performed in studio. The ocarina being a perfect stand in for a chirping bird while a marimba and recorder set the mood. The album is a climb. We’ll get to the mountain top, but for now in the foothills, the going is smooth and relaxed. For an album named after Lewis Carroll’s famous work the slowly enveloping landscape of the opening track peacefully portends Alice’s adventure to Wonderland.
The second suite, Crossing, is where the discordant percussive nature of the album takes center stage. Immediately the marimbas saturate the air as their notes layer over one another and casually switch from one polyrhythm to another. The rhythms change unannounced and with no obvious build up. Just as you think you’ve caught up to them they change course and the listener is forced off balance and must regroup. What is the melody and where is the harmony? All the while the notes keep falling and falling like raindrops on leaf petals. The spaciousness of the first track has been replaced by an invasive bombardment of your senses.
So what about this track grips the listener with madness like a cold skeletal hand grasping towards your heart from some dark abyss? Back to the location of my capitalistic servitude. Why did only women erupt in a heretofore unwitnessed show of aggression? Perhaps this track’s immediate focus on claustrophobic spacing had an affect. Also let’s not forget the story of the album’s namesake dealt heavily with the nonlinear passage of time and the music can be interpreted to reflect that. Do the rapid, repetitive beats subconsciously conjure the nearing expiration of a biological clock? Or perhaps it is simply that the inharmonious nature of the percussion backed by an ominous reed organ did more to discomfort them then any death metal growl ever could. The mystery lives on.
Time for a breather. You yearn to reach the final track. The summit. Catastrophe is inarguably the record’s finest moment. The distillation of every theme you have witnessed. The crescendo of the album’s very essence. But first you must breathe. Track three calls out to you. Come sit and relax. You can finish climbing the mountain later but now you must rest, and rest you shall. Even the woodwinds play back and forth as the sounds of oxygen entering and exiting your lungs. Your pulse has steadied and the ground you sit upon is now firm. One instrument doesn’t sound quite right. What did she do to her recorder? Oh, that’s just an empty Coke bottle turned into a whistle. The organ is a welcome addition when it eventually weaves its way into your consciousness. Finally there’s a melody to dance around the established rise and fall from the wind section. The dark sky is cloudless. Stars twinkle down from afar. The air is fresh. You are full of energy and ready to move onward. You’ll be at the top by sunrise.
At last we have arrived at the greatest musical movement. The grand finale where all the instruments are dusted off, abundance prevails, and radiance can shine. It’s pretty good.
Anyway, allow me to quell this assembly of discontent and quiet the harpies at my place of business. I can just play some different music to supplicate the masses, and alleviate the ringing in my ears. Until, finally satisfied, they walk away. Then it’s back to Takada once more. Let ‘em riot. It happened after Le Sacre du printemps and Stravinsky is lauded by musical historians. That’s already happening to Takada. She was largely ignored upon the initial release and only recently thanks to the internet's dispersion of music has started to receive acclaim worldwide. Although this swaying exploration of musical form often feels more like a product of the ‘60s to my limited perception, clearly its growing popularity suggests it to be timeless.
