techno trance rap

wham bam thank you ma’am

Stillness is the wave of 2016. No wasted movements in the new year.

Mental. This sounds like doing cartwheels in a blizzard. Two months ago, that description would be the last thing I wanted in my life. Today I can’t get enough.

Have been pumping out weekly essays for TogetherBoston.com in anticipation of next month’s festival. These essays are focused on artists playing the festival who I also happen to adore. This week’s essay is focused on Andy Stott who I happen to adore about as much as anyone making music today. Pasted below for archival sake:

In an excellent recent interview with Resident Advisor, Andy Stott was pressed on his recent gigs and the dichotomy of presenting his music in a nightclub versus more refined venues. “At first it was really challenging because you don’t know what to do,” he told Will Lynch. “You’re used to playing absolutely tough tracks at three in the morning, and then your first gig in a museum is just like, “Awww shit, this ain’t gonna go down well.” But yeah, you adjust to it, it’s good.”

As someone who had the pleasure of catching Stott twice during his tour in support of his 2012 full-length Luxury Problems – once in a nightclub and again in a seated theater – I can attest to the fact that it most certainly is “good.”

My first opportunity to witness the Manchester producer live came in an overcrowded Brooklyn club where he was nestled on the bill alongside techno heavyweights like Peter Van Hoesen and Eric Cloutier. Despite opening in a contemplative state – moody swells, ambient pings – Stott was able to work his set and the mightily lubricated crowd into a frenzied lather. You’d be hard pressed to describe the general motion in the room as dancing, but there were quite a few bodily contortions and spasms throughout.

The next encounter came about a year later during Moog Fest, a weekend-long celebration of the eponymous modular savant in Asheville, North Carolina. This go-round took place in a darkened theater featuring cushy seats. The venue most commonly housed ballet performances, if I’m not mistaken. And while Stott’s set didn’t differ all that much from the Brooklyn performance – still tepidly ferocious – the audience’s reaction did, with nearly everyone remaining seated throughout. I say ‘nearly everyone’ because at one point I stood up in an attempt to throw a couple headbangs in time with the ratcheting momentum, and was met with audible hisses from those seated behind me.

And therein lies Stott’s most curious rub: he exists firmly perched upon that odd precipice dividing dance music and not dance music.

As that aforementioned interview illustrates, he’s well-spoken and cerebral with a sense of humor and a deep appreciation for the career he’s carved for himself to this point. But his art isn’t nearly as definable.

If pressed to pigeonhole him into an existing realm of music, one could argue techno and wouldn’t be wrong. The textures within his music bear a blackened hue we often associate with the genre. But there are so many layers and kinks to his music – hidden compartments that only reveal themselves after considered time – that it feels cheap to slap a simple tag on it.

The emotions he’s able to evoke are no less complex. I’ll forever stand by my decision to jump out of my seat in that Asheville theater like the holy spirit miraculously burrowed its way through my skull. But I also respect those who wished to sit back and immerse themselves in the undertones, free of my flailing. There’s an ornate beauty to Stott’s music that was only compounded by his decision to recruit opera singer Alison Skidmore into his haunting fold starting with Luxury Problems. Stott’s former piano teacher, Skidmore has become as integral to the formula as the soundscapes she claws across.

It’s Baroque malice, existing on a pedestal but remaining obtuse and forceful enough to defy definition. Which is partially why Stott has earned praise from pundits ranging from the New York Times to Pitchfork. This shit is as fun to dissect as it is to listen to.

All of which is my long-winded way of saying I’m elated that Stott will be joining us at Together, performing live at our very own Middlesex Lounge, one of the finer dance arenas the city has to offer. Once the music pries its way into your chest cavity, you’ll move. Your shoulders will lurch, your knees will buckle, and your head will most certainly bang.

Had the fortune of seeing Godspeed live about a year and a half ago. It was in an opening slot for Nine Inch Nails during their Hesitation Marks tour and despete never considering myself a fan of the Canadian collective, it wound up making for an exceptional double bill. Well, exceptional and confoudning, to be more precise. The show took place at the Boston Garden. As is common practice for the hallowed hollow arena, the venue left the house lights on for the opener's performance, allowing patrons to locate and file into their respective seats. This, in conjuncture with me sitting in the balcony and the band taking to an un-lit stage, meant it was approximately 15 minutes into their set before I realized anyone was even playing. Many in the audience seemingly never noticed, carrying on full-blown convos and calling for Trent throughout.

My first instinct was displeasure. A less than ideal setting to take in a band that demands undivided attention, surely. But the music continued to swell, pulling me into the music being created an entire basketball court away and canceling out the surrounding goth speak in the process. Never had even an inkling of how many people were on stage but it didn't matter; I was zoning.

"Peasantry or Light! Inside of Light" brought me back to that night. Instruments unfurl and recede by the bar until we're left engulfed in a surprisingly uplifting pack of horn blasts. It feels like the work of an entire orchestra, but it also wouldn't surprise me if it was done by one man and a 20-track recorder, simultaneously looping and losing his mind with every bass drum kick. It also makes me yearn for a Godspeed tour proper. Perhaps in a more appropriate venue this time around, though I'm not sure what that would even entail anymore.

Last summer, while working outdoors six-days a week, I fell out of touch with new music. Without my requisite hour-a-day to scan blogs/bootleg sites/promos I was rendered out the loop/scared/alone. I'd never had a job that didn't afford me the privilege of plopping at a computer and zoning out with headphones on. As a crutch, I developed the habit of visiting nahright.com once a week, searching specific rappers' names, downloading whatever they had to offer on audiomack, and loading it onto my iphone for requisite aux cord bangage. As time wore on though, and I faced the ever-growing realization that rap music is trapped in this oddly stagnant position where there's only a handful of artists dictating every noteworthy sound in the modern landscape, this practice devolved into me only searching for new Young Thug songs once a week. But it was glorious. Summer 2014 was ideal for absolute Thugger allegiance because he had a veritable chokehold on the game, forcing even artists who would never succumb to the obtuse fuckery he stands for to enter his collaborative terror dome -- Trae Tha Truth and T.I., most effectively. The rules for monstrous anthems were being re-written on the fly and if a slurry and effeminate Atlantan was to be my sole gatekeeper to new music, I couldn't complain.

Now that I've receded back to my natural hermit state, fluctuating between whatever freelance opportunity floats across my plate and boredom, I haven't given up on this practice. Last week's efforts led me to "Free Gucci", the latest joint from Thug's long-in-the-works collaboration with producer Metro Boomin. And for a track that uses the synonym "diamonds wet as a coochie," it's wonderfully affecting. Over Metro's aerial smattering of blight drums and celestial hums, Thug crafts a dissociative tribute to his once-inseparable, now-incarcerated life-partner. Thug's recent siding with Birdman and Cash Money has led some to speculate about his allegiance to Gucci Mane, peppering in the always inevitable claims of beef. But as someone who thinks about Guwop at least once a day, it warms my heart to learn that Thug is still riding for Brick Squad.

My surprise of this early year comes from Seattle producer Best Available Technology. I recall receiving a promo of his Further Records debut a couple years back and wanting to write about the album but feeling like there was something not quite whole about it. Like he was hitting a lot of cues I search out -- amorphous and uneasy beats that don't adhere to genre-definition, mainly -- but he wasn't hitting them with enough of a force to make any substantial indent. Form and Void, arriving back in January on the always-venerated/always-confounding Opal Tapes imprint, aims to right my gripes by upping the menace. Most notable is the sheer sense of momentum he's able to draw from the seven album cuts, all while still managing to keep things nauseously unpredictable. It's all akin to the feeling of tripping and falling down the stairs. Except when you get to the bottom you don't stop. Rather, you roll right out the door, across your neighbors yard, down the street, and wind up two towns over, dazed and not quite sure how you got there. It's a sensation coaxed from an orchestra's worth of sounds, randomly dropped in and harshly melded together, sometimes even bleeding across multiple tracks. Below is the only song from the release I could find on youtube. It's pretty indicative of that momentum I referenced though, with aerial bleeps splattered over an untuned guitar riff to the point of submission, jerking a demented groove from the chaos.

On the heels of last Saturday's Dilla Day, I've spent a lot of time this week thinking about and listening to Jay Dee. Tracing samples and smacking my forehead in wonder. There's a reason he was and still is so revered. He was simply able to do things that no one else could, plucking and cobbling sounds from all over the place, mashing them into a product so soothing that it's straight up therapeutic.

This song is like the opposite of therapeutic. But it's still rap music which is why rap music is the fucking best.

A few reasons why I chose this song to launch this half-baked and self-explanatory writing endeavor:

1) Ezra Koenig not only raps, but raps the phrase "shmoney dancing with some goth teens."

2) I like Makonnen. A lot. If you've driven in my car over the past six months, you realize this. According to my iTunes' Top 25, I've listened to "Sarah" and "Meant To Be", both off his exceptional self-titled EP, a combined 146 times over that span. And while those songs are my unequivocal jams, I've begun to notice a pattern surrounding the ATLien's more recent output: his gaseous delivery actually works best when packaged alongside a more blunt counterpart. His best cuts have been of the posse'd variety, where his airy register is tethered by the more substantial threats of others, whether it's Father instructing us to look at his wrist or Riff Raff ever-reminding us what he keeps in his soda. A counterbalance to his imbalance. And while Ezra and Despot are about as gruff as Milli Vanilli, they do afford some needed reprieve from Makonnen's bookending croon. Considering the recent news that his forthcoming debut full-length will feature some high profile guests in the form of Rihanna, Snoop, and Drake, it's a theory I look forward to further exploring in the near future.

3) Thirdly, speaking on a more personal level, I've been down for quite some time myself. Haven't written on a consistent basis in close to eight months. I work a job I adore but realize isn't sustainable, both from a physical and mental standpoint. And I spend a large portion of my days off applying for jobs that surely would drive me even further up a wall I don't ever care to be on. In an effort to quell this monotony, I figured I'd revert back to doing something I love which happens to be writing about stuff I love. It's framed here in the context of a new-ish song, but I'm likely not going to limit myself to just music writing as I've been watching a lot of recent television and movies I love as well. Ideally, my semi-regular writing will prove mutually beneficial. Firstly, it'll allow me to sharpen my skills to the level they were on prior to my self-imposed sabbatical, hopefully affording me some freelance work in the process. And secondly, if you chose to submit yourself to my ramblings, perhaps you'll glean some suggestions amidst the stream of bleh. Just don't say I didn't warn you.