Petals – where textus became textus, and how I operated within

petals cover photo wggfdtb where textus became textus, and how I operate within

Petals – where textus became textus, and how I operated within

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The track begins with a short, steep incline.  What follows appears at first to be a plateau but soon reveals its own subtle gradients.  All is crescendo here.  We battle through an increasingly bosky thicket as unseen wildlife twitters nervously, sensing that we are traipsing in a dangerous direction.  Eventually, shockingly, we come to a clearing and are met with the fizzing, crackling clatter of an angry troll testing the electrified fence that is keeping him captive.  Kev busies himself with the stuff he had us lug up the hill – it turns out to be some kind of troll monitoring equipment.  The monster, now knackered and scorched but amused by our presence, sits down and listens to the amplified findings of the machinery along with the rest of us.  Really great.
Radio Free Midwich –

I don’t know whether anyone else has experienced that delusional (or revelatory?) process of listening so intently within a particular space – a generator room or a forest, for example – that one starts to uncover a hidden music and harmony that exists between its unique and fortuitous congregation of sounds. A series of separate noises from all directions start to congeal and communicate; negotiating frequency bands between them, constructing a composition out of natural sounds and sonic by-products. The opening throws of Where Textus Became Textus seems to mimic this experience: radiator hum and gently whirring motors peel back to reveal the tonality resonating through their inners, sounding somewhat hollow in the raspy sound of industry but possessive of some mysterious inkling of life and spirit.

Even as the 40-minute piece drifts away from its initial station, the landscapes to follow continue to be characterised by a ghost of music concealed within a relentless factory din; tiny morsels of mutual understanding in amongst massive, white noise gushes of indistinction. Petals’ sources aren’t revealed, one gets the sense that old mediums (vinyl? tape?) gift the record its archival hiss and crackle; in all it’s like some EVP equivalent for the previous or hidden lives of machinery, complete with a slight nod to spiralling, deep-space sci-fi in the writhing synth arpeggiation of its closing few minutes.
Jack Chuter – ATTN:Magazine –


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