[ reviews ]
14. untitled #89 [ • rec. 1999 ]> rel. 1999 - CD Or, UK ()
Francisco López "Untitled #89" (CD, Or - UK)
"Untitled #89" is next part of ongoing series of untitled albums, started from "silent" Drone Records EP. This one is more atmospheric, and starts after 1.5 minute pause. Very minimal, but intense "natural" noise, evolving from silence to peak and then back from peak to silence. This work have strong hypnotic quality - if you're able to listen carefully and attentively, you'll find yourself in the state of flux. Currently López is very prolific composer - watch for his new works released via Staalplaat and Linea Alternativa. www.chat.ru/~svalemor/l_.htm#3
Francisco López "Untitled #89" (CD, Or - UK)
"Always far more contentious than his constructed forest and ocean soundscapes, López's clear-cased "untitled" works also tend to be vastly more rewarding. These "absolute concrète music" pieces dissolve the margi between background and foreground listening, expressing a silvery sort of anti-music defined by gradations so subtle that they can seem obstinate and all-but-imperceptible. #89 plays against López's infamous timbres-of-silence reputation. It is, instead, very much kin to his notoriously assaultive liv performances. The nature of the sonic beast that is #89, an advancing, expanding, voracious vacuum-like erasure that gains in strength while consuming its own nothingness - presents a paradox to confound physicists and philosophers alike. Beware this dangerous disc. López steadily turns (and tunes) the air within your ears against you, creating a sensation of internal pressure so overwhelming and unbearable that you read the 41:25 counter on the CD player with the sheer terror of knowing that 17 minutes of mounting, temple-splitting agony remain. Just when it seems that untitled #89's could/should have been qualified as a deadly weapon, the piece plummets to barely stirred quiet of exquisite, palliative tenderness. But the damage is done , the stilled roar still growing and growling within your head at an excruciating volume. You'll be amazed (and not just a little relieved) not to find blood dribbling from your ears. untitled #89 probably won't kill you, but it will make you wary of sonicists who come bearing the gifts of "silence". Phenomenal." (DUTCH EAST INDIA)
Francisco López "Untitled #89" (CD Or, UK, 1999)
For the uninitiated, Francisco López is a sound artist who has released records on more than 50 labels world-wide. His electro-acoustic compositions are intended "to reach an absolute ideal of absolute concrete music." For this, he has made field recordings on four continents in nearly 30 countries. Of the several CD's I've heard of his, Untitled #89 sticks pretty close to what's become an aesthetic; silence merges almost imperceptibly into unrecognizable sound which then segues again as the volume increases and the tones transform and evolve. The glacier paced crescendo builds to an almost unbearable climax; in this way López forces the listener to confront the relation of time to sound and perceptual awareness-or simply bail. Imagine the inner workings of a steel mill as Boeing 767 backs in the side door and you begin to get an idea of what Untitled #89 sounds like. But, then, that's not quite it. This is minimal, sonic sculpture that'll fire your synapses as it crumples your spine. (Your Flesh Magazine #44) (2001)
Francisco López "Untitled #89" (CD Or, UK, 1999)
Creating more than 90 recordings of his uniquely personal electro-acoustic soundworlds during the past 18 years, Francisco López has long been known to utilize silence as part of his aural constructions. Silence and near-silence, as well as intensely powerful walls of noise, are part of Untitled #89 which presents almost one hour of unknowable sonic presences which evolve... very gradually.
With a barely perceptible crawl in from silence, softly mechanical drones begin to appear, rippling with a radiant, ever-building hum. Resounding like distant plane engines (with perhaps a grinder or two in operation), the texture thickens and strengthens, small details becoming clearer though never gaining full focus. Various rings, pings, insectoid chatter and/or faraway train horns seem to (maybe) appear and disappear, miragelike amid the undeniable, droning vortex.
By the 28-minute mark, the endlessly churning mass thrums like a drastically overworked transformer ready to explode in a tornado-stricken industrial zone. The relentless stream slooowly grows louder and louder still, consuming all with its abrasive force... the ears shudder at the imensity of this unrestrained blast until, at 41:25... it suddenly stops.
But, no... as ears adjust... ever-so-faintly, a residual microdrone continues to steadily waver in near-silence. These almost invisible rays of sound bask in their own time and space, reminding us that the power is still there, until even they fade away.
To be sure, not everyone will appreciate Francisco López' sonic foray into this blend of extremes... but for those into texural drones, Untitled #89 is a must-have masterwork. I personally can appreciate it to a buzzing 8.3... (Spiderbytes, USA - March 2001)
"Untitled #89" is next part of ongoing series of untitled albums, started from "silent" Drone Records EP. This one is more atmospheric, and starts after 1.5 minute pause. Very minimal, but intense "natural" noise, evolving from silence to peak and then back from peak to silence. This work have strong hypnotic quality - if you're able to listen carefully and attentively, you'll find yourself in the state of flux. Currently López is very prolific composer - watch for his new works released via Staalplaat and Linea Alternativa. www.chat.ru/~svalemor/l_.htm#3
Francisco López "Untitled #89" (CD, Or - UK)
"Always far more contentious than his constructed forest and ocean soundscapes, López's clear-cased "untitled" works also tend to be vastly more rewarding. These "absolute concrète music" pieces dissolve the margi between background and foreground listening, expressing a silvery sort of anti-music defined by gradations so subtle that they can seem obstinate and all-but-imperceptible. #89 plays against López's infamous timbres-of-silence reputation. It is, instead, very much kin to his notoriously assaultive liv performances. The nature of the sonic beast that is #89, an advancing, expanding, voracious vacuum-like erasure that gains in strength while consuming its own nothingness - presents a paradox to confound physicists and philosophers alike. Beware this dangerous disc. López steadily turns (and tunes) the air within your ears against you, creating a sensation of internal pressure so overwhelming and unbearable that you read the 41:25 counter on the CD player with the sheer terror of knowing that 17 minutes of mounting, temple-splitting agony remain. Just when it seems that untitled #89's could/should have been qualified as a deadly weapon, the piece plummets to barely stirred quiet of exquisite, palliative tenderness. But the damage is done , the stilled roar still growing and growling within your head at an excruciating volume. You'll be amazed (and not just a little relieved) not to find blood dribbling from your ears. untitled #89 probably won't kill you, but it will make you wary of sonicists who come bearing the gifts of "silence". Phenomenal." (DUTCH EAST INDIA)
Francisco López "Untitled #89" (CD Or, UK, 1999)
For the uninitiated, Francisco López is a sound artist who has released records on more than 50 labels world-wide. His electro-acoustic compositions are intended "to reach an absolute ideal of absolute concrete music." For this, he has made field recordings on four continents in nearly 30 countries. Of the several CD's I've heard of his, Untitled #89 sticks pretty close to what's become an aesthetic; silence merges almost imperceptibly into unrecognizable sound which then segues again as the volume increases and the tones transform and evolve. The glacier paced crescendo builds to an almost unbearable climax; in this way López forces the listener to confront the relation of time to sound and perceptual awareness-or simply bail. Imagine the inner workings of a steel mill as Boeing 767 backs in the side door and you begin to get an idea of what Untitled #89 sounds like. But, then, that's not quite it. This is minimal, sonic sculpture that'll fire your synapses as it crumples your spine. (Your Flesh Magazine #44) (2001)
Francisco López "Untitled #89" (CD Or, UK, 1999)
Creating more than 90 recordings of his uniquely personal electro-acoustic soundworlds during the past 18 years, Francisco López has long been known to utilize silence as part of his aural constructions. Silence and near-silence, as well as intensely powerful walls of noise, are part of Untitled #89 which presents almost one hour of unknowable sonic presences which evolve... very gradually.
With a barely perceptible crawl in from silence, softly mechanical drones begin to appear, rippling with a radiant, ever-building hum. Resounding like distant plane engines (with perhaps a grinder or two in operation), the texture thickens and strengthens, small details becoming clearer though never gaining full focus. Various rings, pings, insectoid chatter and/or faraway train horns seem to (maybe) appear and disappear, miragelike amid the undeniable, droning vortex.
By the 28-minute mark, the endlessly churning mass thrums like a drastically overworked transformer ready to explode in a tornado-stricken industrial zone. The relentless stream slooowly grows louder and louder still, consuming all with its abrasive force... the ears shudder at the imensity of this unrestrained blast until, at 41:25... it suddenly stops.
But, no... as ears adjust... ever-so-faintly, a residual microdrone continues to steadily waver in near-silence. These almost invisible rays of sound bask in their own time and space, reminding us that the power is still there, until even they fade away.
To be sure, not everyone will appreciate Francisco López' sonic foray into this blend of extremes... but for those into texural drones, Untitled #89 is a must-have masterwork. I personally can appreciate it to a buzzing 8.3... (Spiderbytes, USA - March 2001)