Rinus van Alebeek

Last Update 1.august 2008: Upcoming Activities + Recent Releases

2008-01-27T04:45:00.001-08:00

hommaging luc ferrari in warsaw with janina mccormack,
picture by monika skwarcz

performing

7 August, Valentin Stüberl Neukölln, Berlin w/Adam Thomas

24 August, 1. festival für gegenwärtige musik und etc, Berlin w/De Drones

27 September, Alberto Ukebana w/Tomoko Sauvage

organizing
Berlin, various dates and places,
das kleine field recordings festival

composing
Coming Months:

Berlin Travelogue for Absurd (done)

Soundscape for Stichting Intro In Situ (done)

Reise ans andere Ende der Nacht
a radiophonic production in collaboration with Haarmann

5 Loops for Yokomono (Staalplaat Sound System)

All this is not possible without the help of friends.

Recent Archeology

2007-12-28T05:59:00.000-08:00

Here is a group picture of my newest release on cassette in a 3 C15-box called Musica per una ballerina a tre gambe. In it are Tape Only companions Marcel Türkowsky and Marco Lampis. The cassettes are 2x 7,5 minutes each. I haven't listened to the tapes yet. They are at Marco's houise here in Berlin. Now it is raining, tomorrow maybe not. I can tell you however that on my tape you can find over 20 compositions, following the same principle that holding your head underwater for 7 minutes might seem an eternity. Distribution at my shows or through palustre.

Enrique Vela of tronic disease recorded the dnasnow/mouseup show of 30 Novembre 2007 in Madrid directly from the mixer. Zan Hoffman (the other half of the duo) got the cdr in his postbox, listened to it and was convinced that this highly energetic hybrid of our show was worth a release. Those who were present that evening at our sold out show in La Casa de los Jacintos will hear a different story, as they might remember that an important part of our performance was distributed by the megaphone. For those interested in receiving this release a mail to ciaojazzclub at gmail dot com will lead you to further instructions. Short video's of the show can be seen here.

Meeting Giorgia (aka Metuo)- May 2007

2007-11-11T04:41:00.000-08:00

In the month May of 2007, Pati Oliva gave my address to a young girl from Puglia, who lived in Florence: her name Giorgia Angiuli, as an artist Metuo. She sent a mail in which she asked for help, as she wanted to come to Berlin and play some places.

One mail exchange lead to another, and at the end it was me who arrived at her house in Florence, before she got to the German capital. Since I had lived in Florence for quite some years at the beginning of the nineties, this visit was also a kind of come back. Giorgia lived in an apartment near Santa Croce, sharing it with Mateo the double bass player and Asia, whose smiles and laughters filled every room.

We didn't see too much of each other. I accompanied her one day to a studio outside town, and could witness that studio engineers might have a good sense of rhythm, but also know how to turn an enjoyable tune into sonic yoghurt. I teased Giorgia that going on like this she would end up at San Remo, the place on the Italian Riviera where the annual festival for light music is held, a heavily mediatic event that offers an insight on how to get a headache when listening to the Italian radio.

I stayed a few days, before travelling further to Spain. ( I took a ferry from Civitavecchia to Barcelona). In those days I enjoyed their kitchen with its sharp springtime light, I enjoyed walking around the old centre with its peculiar smell, that is a bit between Holy Water, cleaning liquid and a living room. I strolled along the Arno, where young couples still sit on walls and steal each others kisses. The cars passed slowly, bumping and hopping over the cobbled stones. I had wine and no ice cream in the evening, and walked the scarcely lit streets like I had done so many times.

My adagium is when you can talk with someone you can also play with someone. I found out that I could perfectly talk and not talk with Giorgia, and even not see her, while I was her guest. But it was sure to both of us that we could play together.

When she came to Berlin we played at Gelegenheiten, a small bar in Neukölln, and got so delighted with this that we walked straight to Wendel to ask if we could play again. We found some serious improvisers, who still had to play two sets. When we came back a few hours later, we noticed that three quarters of the audience had already gone. Nonetheless we played, but - alas- the drummer hadn't dismantled his drumkit, and joined us after ten minutes to fuck up the concert completely. When I finally had chased him away with some bad looks he shouted in my ear:"you call this music, listen to this, can't you hear how bad it is?" Which made me think why he joined us in the first place, maybe an act of terrorism?

picture by ninah pixie

Anyway, we got another chance to play together when Big City Orchestra hit Berlin. I had been exchanging mails with Ninah Pixie, and this got us the gig at the Zentrale Randlage as a support to them. Meeting Ninah, Melissa and the great dAS was a west coast exquisiteness, but playing with Giorgia at the Zentrale Randlage over a good speaker system was magic. We created a wall of sound, Giorgia got her rhytms and melodies in, and a incredible flow of songs unfolded themselves like big flowers. They landed on the lap of everyone in the audience: it was sheer happyness that made feet go tapatap, and lips curl into a smile. For sure one of the best concerts I did in 2007.

Grazie grande Monopolitana!

travelling to Florence - a short story in five episodes

2007-10-12T07:11:00.000-07:00

Last Stop Florence

There are many reasons to travel to Florence, one of them not being to play at the festival della creativita, 2007. On a wall in one of the many festival halls it was written: 'you are the medium, the medium is the message.' I always thought of the original Marshall McLuhan quote, in which the message is the medium, as rather apocalyptic. In the Florentine hybrid an evolution seemed to have come to an end.

What kind of end this was, I discovered when I played the enormous (1500sq.m) hall under the ground. That is, I had the intention to use the hall as an instrument, knowing that my noises would flow outside and mingle with the murmerings of the visiting public on the festival lands. It is not a new concept. Stockhausen has worked on it. The 'has been done before' argument has never impressed me. A hall is an instrument like any other. So off I went, volume at its maximum. After a little while I felt the presence of this volume leaving me. Going on with the concert was like giving a heart massage to a dead corpse. Then I turned down my volume and finished the concert.

Matteo Marangoni, the young artistic director of the 'experimental part' of the festival had its hands on the main PA, situated in the middle of a 6.1 surround system. He shared the space with the people from the bar. A co-existence that looked like 20.00-10.45 experimental, 10.45 -03.00 disco. Bar means attracting people and sell-> big space. Experimental means attracting people who listen -> little space. The space, as defined by the set up of the six loud speakers, could easily acomodate 400 people-> BIG, indeed.

In my case this co-existence was impossible: people from the bar came up to Matteo to complain about the volume, and even the security guards came up to him to complain. I don't want to know about all the hardship Matteo has gone through to have his 'alternative' section at this festival, but my impression is that he had to compromise so often that the only thing that was left from the original idea, was the original idea itself: indeed the message is the medium. In the newspapers the festival was presented as a big success. YOU had to be there.

But as much as I was supposed to be a medium at the big celebration of mainstream culture, just as much the different stops I made on my way down to Florence (coming from Wuppertal) turned out to be the real reason for this trip.

First Stop: Augsburg

In my latest hometown Berlin one tends to forget how firm the experimental music, including noise and field recordings, stands in a tradition. In the mid fifties, at the West German Radio a studio became available for the musicians who used electronic devices to produce sounds. This resulted in a weekly serial of emissions all evolving around radiophonic productions

One word for KarlHeinz Stockhausen, who is 5 days older as my father. I have overgrown generational conflicts a long time ago; a twisted form of astrological prejudice organized a sympathy for the composer. Apart from his merits on a musicological level, he should be honored for his comment on the twin tower attack that so solemnly blew the 21st century into existence. His words defined the act as the completion of an opera, that had to be judged as such. (Me opinionating again:)All the other comments lead up to a state of (political) mind that in late 2007 Germany brought the government to a point to introduce yet another anti-terror law that controls the who to who part of private phone calls and emails.

I have cursivated the former paragraph, because it could have been the theme of a broadcast that you receive over the Deutsche Welle somewhere where palm tree leaves fristle in a soft breeze. Radio is an other life. It is not computer. This one, when I took a break from writing, played 'die grenzlandarbeiter' (Gerald Fiebig/Mathias Huber). I heard sounds that were not made for clubs or galleries. I heard something that I would like to hear when I walk into the kitchen and put on the radio. They don't have to play the whole Cdr;I just want to be surprised by the randomness of the choice on that particular evening.

Gerald is one of the persons who offered to become a mini sponsor to my das kleine field recordings festival, and expressed his desire to come and play at the next edition. His gentle offer arrived after the festival had finished. I didn't need the money anymore. E-mails often contain additional information. His one had the magical quality to turn a simple word like 'Augsburg' into a geographical reality that I could actually enter with a 30 kilo bag dangling from my shoulders.

I had received loads of suggestions on what to do in Augsburg when on a holiday, but there was not much time for a touristic detour. We taxi-ed straight from the train station to the Kresslesmühle, where I was to perform that evening. The only sightseeing that I could do was by turning around anti-clockwise on my feet. It offered a 360° panoramic view that reminded of christmas, Walt Disney, glühwein, and women with red noses as a result of cold freezing weather. None of the like were there.

More imaginationing awaited me inside. Completely of wood, low ceiling, two different levels, stairs and numerous chairs, a by curtains darkened wall, the performing space transmitted the impression I had landed inside a ship. An impression that got helped by an older English gentlemen turned Augsburgian who was there for the technics, but for sure had been the last one to survive a ferocious sea battle against Algerian pirates some 200 years ago.

I was invited to play at the first edition of the Echokammer series of concerts that Gerald has planned to set up, all evolving around literature, radiophonica and field recordings. The atmosphere in the Kresslesmühle was close to perfect. It would have been perfect if twenty more people had turned up. But leaning on the comforting words by Mattin ("every attendance more then twelve has to be considered a succes"), with nearly thirty guests present, one should be satisfied.

The soft lightning, a nice little stage, a very good sound system and an attentive public submorphed themselves into one of the ideas that turn into a guiding light, once you start traveling beyond the green eye of the radio. Yes this was live radio. And Ho and Lo, you could wait for the desire to be expressed, to go and visit Halberstadt where they will play organ for 639 years on a row. Gerald had been there already to record the organ tune, and the town, and presented it on this evening in a 639 second piece. Nowhere to be heard on your FM radio soon. But then again, it would never be as intimate and evoking as during his performance.

The next day was grey and cold; it had a kind of birthday feel to it. It was on a day like this that a great dutch writer went to the park to feed the cakes to the ducks. My bag was still too heavy to have a nice stroll around town. I hadn't the faintest idea where to find the park. Moreover, me and my train had an appointment to meet each other shortly after midday. And it wasn't my birthday.

Second Stop: Tarcento

For those apostles of the global warming religion, headed by their holographic high priest Gore, a visit to Austria might bring some good old 20th centurybased common sense breezing into their brains. From Salzburg the traintrack winds southwards, slowly entering into the Alps. I came to see some horizontal as well as vertical landscapes, especcialy the latter quite spectacular, because it left me with the question how those railroadbuilders had ever succeeded to lay a track so high, that it seemed to be suspended. Winter had come in some parts of upper Austria, fresh snow covered the platforms, a bare strip amidst pinetrees. People got out, not dressed for winter; their whole body longing for the warm stove in the kitchen of their homes.

Italy awaited me at the other side of the white landscape, but it lay also on the dark side of anonymity. I got a free ride on a European train full of retired spies coming from Vienna that was heading for Venice, got off on the first town across the border, and found myself in desolation land as designed on computer. Concrete, closed doors, mirroring glass walls, brutal neon lights, monitors and a voice coming from loudspeakers, I hadn't the slightest idea where to find the entrance hall, let alone where to buy a ticket. Announcements were nowhere to be seen. Luckily there was someone on the platform who I could ask where my train would leave.

Some waiting to be done, then I got on the train. Also this one newly designed, as has happened so often over the last twenty years in Italy. Still it is hard to find a train that has comfortable seats. This one was no exception. A new feature was a yacoozi formed ensemble, consisting of two opposing half mooned benches. The lights were strong enough to put on sunglasses. Warnings were glued to the wall, promising a nice fine for those who travelled without a ticket. Why can't I give a fine to those instances who fail to give normal service?

Then a mechanical voice set in, repeating the warning, but also summing up the places where the train would stop. I ignored the fact I hadn't heard 'Tarcento'. This blissfull ignorance provided me with some time to finish reading the newspaper I had exchanged for vanilla tea back in Augsburg. Three stops before my final destination, after having finished also the local newspaper someone had left on the train, I was still fighting the impression to be on a mobile laboratory with hidden camera's that gave the possibility to some EC-employed scientist to study the moves and behaviours of people on a train who are exposed to 800 Watt of artificial light. What did I know? Maybe suicide rate was high in these parts of the world due to winter depressions.

"No, you have to get off at Such-and-such" was the answer of a train passenger. (The conductor hadn't shown up, much to my relief, because I was still ticketless). When I got off at Such-and-such, looking into the dark behind the platform, wondering where Such-and-such actually was, my first question to the head of the trainstation was if I could find a train to Tarcento here. "No," he exclaimed, his voice full of pity for the night traveller, "there is no train for Tarcento leaving anymore untill tomorrow" (Please note it was not even 19.30) "You have to get back on the train." The train was a few steps behind me, all signs leading into the direction that it would close its doors soon, and leave me here.

The conductor waved his hands, inviting me to take a seat close to the door behind which he disappeared every time after having blown his whistle. Two men in the nose of the train, looking into the lightcone that is moving over the tracks, sitting in the dark themselves; I can understand he didn't come out to control the tickets. He came out when the train stopped, and waved again in my direction. I stood up and followed, feeling a bit of a child's christmass feeling slowly creeping up my veins. I didn't give it much attention. Why should I believe in something that disappears once you believe in it?

The door slided open. I looked into a slightly familiar darkness. I bowed a bit and saw the sign 'Tarcento' above my head. I felt as happy as a kid, thanked the conductor once, twice and thrice. He hardly moved the crackles on his face. I realised I was very far away from the media-ised view one so easily can get from Italy, stepped out of the train and thought of heaven. Even though it was dark. I walked a few steps, as if to prove I was not about to fly off, then stopped and looked back at the train. I can tell you, it is a wonderful feeling to look at a train that has made a special stop for you.

The station is a bit out. A silvershining parkspace, a lonely car with someone in it smoking his cigarette, and a dark shaded horizon indicating that the mountains were not far away. Finally fresh air. I could do with a little walk. My mobile was out of function. Next stop had to be a phone boot.

An evening with friends in a warm rustic restaurant (wild boar with mushrooms, locally brewed grappa), and outside of an other restaurant (more homebrewn grappa) brought me to the eye-opening remark of Giulia on the next morning, when we were driving through an idyllic landscape towards Udine. As she said about the pope " Mammamia, I would never leave my child alone with him, not even for two minutes." Apart from a woman's heartfelt opinion about the leader of the catholics, it also flashed in my mind that the presence of the Church, its head office in Rome, its recruits everywhere in the social and political life, were the main reason that Italy was so isolated from the rest of Europe. Maybe it is a good move to welcome Turkey in the EU, and shift the religious centre towards Istanbul.

Giulia and Francesco, her friend, belong to Hybridaspace, once an ex factory that had turned into a centre of creative forces with studio's and ateliers, where concerts took place, that had become a significant venue for (inter)national artists. Unlike many other places in Italy, where organisers fear to loose their face, and therefore not risk to book an unknown act that hasn't been recommended by twenty friends at least, Hybridaspace evolved into an international acclaimed place, and drew public from as far as Ljubljana. Being set up with the help of European money the situation changed when the local elections were won by rightwing parties. This resulted in a administrative war against Hybrida and the final closing down. How the sons of those rightwing rulers have tempted to redecorate the place can be seen here. Nowadays Hybrida is a nomadic organisation. It has to knock on doors to find lodgings

Third Stop: Arcore

The main attraction of Arcore is only to be reached in a blinded car or by helicopter. The man that can be held responsible for the cultural taste of the average Italian (and from a not too big distance every Italian looks average) has built his Mausoleum here. He is not dead yet. But I am sure he has already chosen the composer of his requiem.

To indicate the democratic level of this town, situated some kilometers north of Milan, it has an Arci amongst its locals. Arci means organised, financed, set up and run by communists. It also means that interior decoration is limited to the basic, and that is quite a relief, because it avoids the presence of the kind of Italian that moves on two communication levels, one of them being observing others from the tail of their eye in order to find out how these others value their appearance. Quite tiresome, I must say.

One of the components of the growing number of cultural refugees in Berlin is held to be responsible for my appearance in Arcore, or should I say in Matteo Uggeri's life. This young man has been blessed with a mother who liked the music of The Anti-Group. When I discovered the name of this group in the wall of Cd-'s at his home once again my friend of all times Margriet's report entered my mind. Somewhere at the end of the eighties she told me about a visit to a concert by Curtis Mayfield in Paradiso in Amsterdam. She had been there with some other sixty people, and I wonder up to the present day why I wasn't among them. Her eye-sparkling account of the supporting act broke my heart with desire and remorse, as she exclaimed how much I would have liked their performance. In the months after I bought every vinyl of The Anti Group that I could lay my hands on.

I guess there is an another factor that played a part in Matteo's upbringing: A fysical repugnance of Vittorio Sgarbi. Let's cursive another time. If you have made it up to here, you won't mind me taking a little detour again.

At the beginning of the nineties Vittorio Sgarbi, a politician and an art-historian , was one of the icons of Italian commercial television. He appeared at everybody's dining table , because television never sleeps in Italy. Masqueraded as a post-modern exercise on the sign language as to be deducted from newspaper articles his programme sprayed agitprop into every day life, not often using faintly hysterical rhetorics .
Hooray for post modernism!
Post modernism claimes to have undermined universal thruths and ideologies by their use of irony and ecclecticism, two qualities that I don't think can be defined as typical for any historical period. Criticism, just the same, is of all times. One can wonder where those post modernists are now, in a time that the - with universal truth overloaden - denomination 'democracy' is used to install and defend leadership all over the world. Post modernists have since long changed themselves into the defenders of the neo-liberal lifestyle. The methods of post-modernism were always close to those of gossip and slander. Irony and waving away arguments with single
adjectives as 'moralistic' were an expression of narrow-mindedness and boredom. Their now since long forgotten comments rised and fell with the rhythm of the then current events, were in fact a prolonged column in a newspaper. The post modern movement died as a result of an editorial operation. The current, as boring answer to post modernism is the trash culture. Good for television, and good for a yawn or two.

Back in Arcore most of the tables were occupied by elderly men who were watching AC Milan - Shaktar Donetsk on a big screen. I followed the match with half an eye. Milan is not my team. But the half eye attention I gladly offered to Clarence Seedorf, Kaka. Another trio blocked the view on the screen suddenly: I was looking at the companions Matteo had found for me this evening: Carlo, Paolo and Sandro. " Hi, we play with you, what did you have in mind?"

Actually I hadn't anything at all in mind, not knowing how the evening was set up. Matteo? He was somewhere else. Musicians want to play, and I didn't feel like playing solo while they were waiting, so I decided to play together with them right from the beginning. But first we sat on a long table, and everyone involved, plus those who were also involved in some other way, were talking to each other as the dishes went from hand to hand. In fact we talked all through the match, the responsible of the place, the one hardcore communist exposing himself as the anti-christ of soccer (subquoting Marx::"soccer is opium for the people."), with his back to the big screen.

The set was awkward for its choice of instruments: an electric bass, a double bass and a VJ, and Matteo who I caught off shore with my proposal, who played my walkman and cassettes. In this way I had the liberty to be a happy visitor to my own concert as well. In a way our concert was an extension of the dinner, the same variety of dishes, the same floating discussions, the changing of the topics, the oneliners, the hardliners and the skyliners, the moments of silence, some moments of domestic chaos, but always the turning point of great respect that at the same time became a vanishing point, and the signalling point that a new bottle of wine was about to arive; Sandro had changed the Meazza Stadium in something more danceable; but though I was facing the screen, I have missed most of the projections, except for the naked girls.

Fourth Stop Milan

When I left Matteo the next day with the mastodontic building that housed various science faculties and an even bigger variety of skeletons, I had a little park, a grey day and some hours of walking before me. Now Milan never puts me off; there is something frivolous and optimistic about the city, that gives sense to the polycoloured postcards from the sixties, when streets were empty and the future was clear. This future has gone for a long time now, but the condominions still stand in the same proud expectative way.

I went for a touristic walk, but as the kind of tourist that has an eye for culture. Without waving my white panama hat I passed the apartments, and looked at them f they were pieces in a museum. And got quite tired after two hours, randomnly following a left right righ left pattern, which brought me to a bigger park. I had also in mind to do some recordings. Traffic was everywhere. In those moments I think of Yehlin Lee telling me that after two years in Europe he hadn't encountered one interesting sound ( and talked about lightning that set of all the car alarms in the Chinese towns he knew of, or habitants shouting form their windows in a huge apartment block to find out which comrade had rotting white cabbage on his balcony.) I sat down near a fountain, another hyperlinked pose, since it was Aristotle who brought tinnitus sufferers to a well.

I had ended in the park with the natural history museum of science, the place where Matteo's predecessors got stuffed. I knew the museum from many years ago. Then it was a sunny day and M. was still the wandering girl in my life; a car bomb exploded the next day in a street next to the park; I talked T. into a Turkish holiday; A. hadn't decided yet to move to Paris; I bought twenty postcards with butterflies or a dinosaur egg on it; it was still interesting to see a Joseph Beuyss exhibition; I must have left the park at some gate, but I couldn't recall which one. This time I disappeared under the arch.

Lucio is a Doubleganger. That is the name of his group. He himself was waiting for me at the end of one of the many metro lines that spaghetti-ise the underworld of Milan. I was too late, but I found Lucio at the gates by pointing my finger at him, to which he kind of surprised/anxiounised reacted, as if it was not my finger but a James Bondian weapon I had aimed at him. But my finger changed into a hand to be shaked, and everything was allright.

Now never tell me things that fuel my imagination. And this one thing came after I had seen his apartment. He presented it as his fathers. But his father didn't live there anymore. In fact he kind of lived in a silver framed photograph as a young man with long hair back in a world that was still naivly black and white with a lot of sunlight. He played the guitar in various groups, beat groups I presume.With a little flower power touch. The furniture that he had left to his son was even more ancient, more grandmother like, the kind of heavy wooden furniture that waits for its dustification, and while doing so silently floats away from time behind closed curtains. Hard to imagine life in it.

Lucio told me a little anecdote, how he returned home one day beaming with joy, and said to his father he had served as an altar boy, to which the immediate response was that he got wacked in the face. The gesture concluded the anecdote. Lucio was still beaming with joy, now some thirty years later. From the many talks we had I could easily imagine a world before and after that educational editing. Part of his spiritual fantasy was still floating in those pre wacked childhood days. Maybe his regular holidays to India helped him in preserving this christian attitude to life: the one that talks about caring for your neighbour and stuff.

It was funny and exciting to see how both his house and the bar he owned together with his girlfriend Pat (also she a doubleganger) had evolved into a monumental hybrid of styles, that like geological layers, gave an insight in the development of taste over the last thirty years, say from hippy, neon hippy to post hippy with some touches of imaginary vagabondical beatnikism. Ah, just go there. Was it really in the periferia of Milan, a street that got coloured by the fog and the coming winter that you could almost scratch from the houses; in this street to nowhere that had grown pale and familiar to unfamiliarity? No wonder the shutters were down all evening.

Pat, was her name in real life Monica? - I get so confused by all the Monica's in my life - felt a bit ill, but she was there all the same. She wanted to sing along with us. Lucio had invited a guitar friend. After I had laughed all the way through a dvd by Einstürzende Neubauten, it was time to make some sincere noise. Marco sat down and we started a two hour session to provide the clientele with a sound track for that evening. It was pretty packed. Our sounds created a sonic decorum. Lucio ran on and of with the excellent Belgian or/and biological beers and it was when Pat sat down with us and sang/spoke, reading her lyrics from a paper that all pieces fell into one. This was fifteen minutes of bliss. It provoked some applause as well, and the comment by a heartachingly beautiful girl who imagined us playing together since eight years or so, expressing her desire to see us perform again. Yeah, wouldn't that be nice.

At the end of the evening my hands became an altar, and with those gifts I headed southward the next day to visit old friends and travel further on to Florence to give it another try. Well, in fact to sit and eat with friends at the market of Sant'Ambrogio, that Baccala Livornese was not bad at all.

video by indieeye

Diktat in Breda - September 29-30, 2007

2007-09-19T04:25:00.000-07:00

Something between something to do when there is something to do the rest of your life,considering that something can be done while you are not at home, and something else could be fullfilled when you are away, travelling.

I still have to find out this special zeppelinesque kind of life that comes with the french mother tongue. Other words, other birds, like ideas, leaves, unwritten feuilles de papier.

This is all about what happens in the inbetween lines, when you don't expect it. It is the hidden zone, so clear, so unawaiting, that lies just one footstep away from the road in front of you. It is about abandonement, and then returning, carrying somebody else's memories.

It is about a book,
dictating
words

writing
reading

coming home while travelling away

and then listen again.

Slow Noise Movement in Berlin

2007-09-17T05:00:00.000-07:00

It all started way back in the fifties when some pupils of the musique concrete master Pierre Schaefer decided to commence for themselves, reason being that the application of only tapes as a musical resource was too restrictive. The then founded slow noise movement manifested itself from 1956 untill 1967, though there was never an official announcement to state that the movement had seized to exist.

Through their manifesto's, most of them xerox publications, some of them existing in its one copy typewriter form, they set rules that opened up the musical spectre ever more, finishing with the statement that a musical intercourse (sic) started at the moment of conscious listening. Of course this statement got countered by the notion that unconscious listening had opened the era of psychedelic music.

And so on.

During my travels in France I came across the documents, and thought it would be a good idea to restore the slow noise movement. This happened in August 2007.

Slow noise movement # 1

Convince the musical partner that there is no concert going on.

played at total artspace in Berlin Neukölln with Jeff Gburek on acoustic turntable.

Not documented.

Slow noise movement # 2

Play two concerts simultaneously

played at total artspace with Marta Coletti on Cello

picture by Wolfgang Dorninger

Slow Noise Movement # 3

There are sounds before and after radiation

played with Seiji Morimoto at Studio Aporee

picture by Udo Noll

Slow Noise Movement # 4

be spontaneous, go visit other people's childhood memories

jonna and xavier in studio aporee

picture by magnus schaefer

Slow Noise Movement # 5

Turn away from words as a source for music and go beyond,

pic by udo noll

played with Seiji Morimoto,
and Momus

documentation

slow noise movement #6 documentation will follow soon

Lissabon

2007-07-07T07:56:00.000-07:00

Enthousiasm easily wears out. Chocolate turns pale. Flowers loose their petals. And then the wind comes, a wiping hand or the next day. My stay at Lissabon could have easily gone sinking. But it didn't.

One thing is that memories always wait for you. They grow like an invisible skin to the streets you walked, the houses you looked at, the perfumes you smelled. It even covers the sunlight on the roofs, the blossoming trees, or the man at the other side of the street who appeared in his window, long ago to water the geraniums. On a little screen in his room under the roof I could see red shirts, a game by Benfica.

I walked streets with Luis Costa, that I had walked years before with M. The experience was quite different. The little angels of love had wandered to another country; one of their feathers still causing me to sneeze.

We had some firm conversations Luis and I. One of those rare occasions that I didn't find intelectualism boring, but discovered them to be a fine way to pass the afternoon. We found the Ganges, and of course talked about Pessao, and maybe the highlight being the firewater we had in a bar in this shadowy street.

Which is not the street on the picture. This is somebody else's memory: Texas Bar

St. Anthony's spell

absence of human breath in Lisbon, Texas

Mr Holzer live at Tesla, Berlin 6. july 2007

2007-06-03T13:45:00.000-07:00

The Klosterstrasse in Berlin is somehow situated in a Dutch backyard. Rem Koolhaas' creation that resulted in the Embassy to the Royal House of the Netherlands blocks the view to the Spree. But that is alright. According to international standards in the world of architecture the building is wellworth a visit. The area is Dutch enough to provide it with a feeling of homecoming, and immediately linked to that a soothing, almost romantic sense of expatriotism. Translated in radio language the Embassy could be considered a transmitter; I picked up waves, and transformed them into images.

The building where Tesla is to be found looks very noble. A flight of stairs lead to a small bordess. In this way the original habitants upon leaving their home maintained their elevated position, before descending on street level. In fact street level music is hard to be found once you have entered the building. But we like to be civilised every once and a while. This particular evenining Tesla promised to catapult me up into space.

Whoever built the Tesla building must have done it in a moment of Hallelujah. As soon as you open the big wooden doors there lies a shiny field in front of you,that makes one control the dark side of his shoes first. Then looking up from the poo-less zone an almost transparent hall promises to transcend the visitor. Earthly life vanishes, and celestial waves of silk dresses reach the ears. That's what Jesus felt shortly before he tripped of on his ascension.

Little would He have known that two mileniums later Mr. Holzer would have taken his place. Because there he was surrounded by little radio's that sung like dogs waiting for supper. I had come to see him perform. I am allowed to say " Hi Derek" to him, and so I did. Derek welcomed me back in Berlin. After some chitchatting I left him with the waining radio's. A few hours later I saw him perform in the cosy club space

I had seen Mr. Holzer perform at the first and second edition of the das kleine field recordings festival in Berlin. There his set up was little more than a laptop and a black box with buttons. The visual aspect of such a laptop performance was Derek handling those buttons while looking deep into the computer screen. What did he see beyond the sounds we heard? On some moments he completely relaxed and looked over the heads of the audience,scrutinising a far away horizon that only in his imagination must have had appeared behind our ears. At one point he looked intensely satisfied. I am sure he had heard some voices.

picture by carsten stabenow

It needs radio knowledge to understand the attraction of distant voices that travel on waves invisible for us mortals. The set up in Tesla filled a table for four. From the last soundchecking echoos on I understood that I was about to enter a different sonic environment. Low frequencies he asked, and while the technician went for the low frequencies I observed the loudspeakers in each corner. Small loudspeakers with low frequencies are like tiny girls with big boobs, one tends to forget about loudspeakers once they come in sight.

Then the concert started: the artist very concentrated on his sounds, long wavey low sounds appeared out of a deep rumbling. I thought of the stretched version of the fifth of Beethoven: and heard the stretched out bimbomming of church bells. I liked the image, and was ready to flow with it. A wooden church in North American light in the midst of a green immaculate world. But no. Other equipment asked for attention, and Derek went tripping over it: crackling sounds filled the air. Such is the boy's dream of the secret world of radio: some times those crackles and whistles could make sense: a voice might call out from the very heart of it

The whole concert through the sounds meandered between one story and an other. I listened with a longing heart, wanted to hear theimage of the summer morning church bells again. For the firsttime since long I regretted that a concert finished. To be continued, I guess.

Eskilstuna - Picturebook Soundroom Days in May 2007

2007-05-27T08:37:00.001-07:00

These days I am reflecting on silence. I try to listen through all the noises I hear when walking around. Light and landscape help me, and so does my skin, because there is a feel to every place on earth; it is not caused by global warming which immediate result made me shiver so much a few days ago. This silence doesn't mean the abscence of sounds. It is the moment that all those sounds compose calm, or peace. At that point the setting for a story is perfect. I like the silence of a kitchen or the silence between lovers. It is silence that makes images and memories come alive: it is silence that turns the youngest moment into a memory.

But there is no silence if there is not a place where it can be heard or experienced. In the old days, before merchandising turned the expressions into a slogan, one could talk about peace and love. But these words are so big, that they crumble down to nothingness if they are used in a superficial way. Just keep on listening, then hear, and then realise where you are. And then take care of that moment. And start again. And please forget about John Cage.

picture one

Anders Ostberg on the left, me on the right, picture by Bjorn Eriksson on the day I left Eskilstuna. Anders I knew through the chain-tape-collective, an online group of recorders/composers who produce cdr-'s on different themes. Anders was also a contributor to my festival-to-go version of das kleine field recordings festival. When I asked him for some addresses to perform in Sweden, he proposed me to Jennie Andersson. She invited me to set up a soundroom. I do not like sound installations. So this was a good chance to find out why.

While in Eskilstuna I was hosted by Anders and taken care of in the best way one can imagine.

Mälardalens Högskola was the name of the university that hosted me. Mälardalen is the name of the lake that is to be found on a good fifty minutes walk from Eskilstuna's centre. But during my stay I saw the light of the setting sun on the vanilla coloured houses along the water when walking back to Anders apartment with the selection of Cronenbergs movies, and I saw the same houses again, and some others in the morning light and the old church on my way to the school in the morning. I never made it to the lake; and when I walked out one afternoon, it started to rain...

picture by jennie andersson

This is not a scene from one of Cronenbergs movies. It is Malena Larsson. One of the two helpers that volunteered months ago. The other girl is in the picture below.

picture by jennie andersson

Before I came to Eskilstuna I tried to ban thoughts on what kind of sound to install as much as possible. I was amused by the fact that two 'helpers' were appointed to me: Why should I need helpers? What for? Of course I was trapped by my fantasy and couldn't help reflecting on what to do. It proved so very wrong when I arived. In my imagination also the room itself was included: I had in view a nice wooden house with some green around it, windows, a place where I could live when in Sweden. I never had been to Sweden before.

The first sight of the rooms destroyed every plan I had. But the first encounter with Jennie, Anders, Malena and Camilla made me realise how lucky I had been. In the days following luck changed into happyness. As Anders said:"you made the girls work like slaves." Not completely true, but they did work as much as I did.

On Anders Ostbergs blop there is some pictures of my soundroom in action. Also on the pictures here of Malena and me, and Camilla Lännström and her mobile phone (in fact she was texting in shorthand writing the essential words of my lecture) you can see little shiny things pending. The one in Camilla's ear was not included. All those little shiny things were made and hung against a black curtain by the girls. The whole setting was by their hands. When I saw the result for the first time in the minimal red light, I was totally taken away: Everything was just like I had imagined it.

Well, not eveything. I never could have imagined how fullfilling working with Camilla and Malena could be. Jennie came to see us as much as possible, (also because she had 'more important' business to attend to). Malena could only help during the preparations; she had to go on wednesday. So I decided to have the premiere just before she would leave.

The premiere of what? The premiere of what I thought would be the perfect listening environment on that particular place during those days.

Once everything was set up, I decided that my soundroom contribution would be a bit like the old circus days. Three shows a day. Anders archived every minute of it for this and coming generations. On the last day we had a lunchtalk without lunch. I don't recall what I said, but Björn Eriksson has everything recorded, and maybe it will become available some day. For this occasion Ms. Judith Moldenhauer (on the right on picture two) was invited, and she had some interesting words on composing one's own reality; an appoach very close to my way of working.

picture two

On Saturday Jennie had promised me that the school would be dead. A good opportunity to turn to Second Life. Björn came over from his house on the north pole. We installed a surround speaker system in one of the computer rooms, put up two beamers, and entered into the virtual Haidplatz in Regensburg.Much fun to look at. I will certainly try to make a field recordings festival in Second Life one of the features of the coming das kleine field recordings festival in Berlin, next august. I have to put up a link to the pomodoros from bolzano who helped us with realising this concert.

And ah. The three old men spent a good evening of psychedelic sounds, when Anders went through his record selection of very odd psychedelic music and d.jayed for more then four hours. He also made us listen to the record that changed his view on music completely, and made him decide to turn to phonography etcetera. Also these hours got recorded and might be heard one day on adrian shephards and my Radio On.

On the last day of the Soundroom days I was in Stockholm. There I walked around the Royal Island and recorded some boats and birds on a very grey and chilly day. Meanwhile in Eskilstuna: the recordings of Anders were played. And I hope the room was left on its own, unattended, in complete darkness, only visited by us, I mean by our memories. Camilla mailed me some days later that the room got dismantled. But that happened in some other life, of course.

26th of May, Backstage in Vincennes, near Paris

2007-05-25T08:17:00.000-07:00

pictures from stills of a video by flexrex

As a guest to TG and Enrique and the girlfriend( krypton?),I performed in an old factory in Vincennes. It was a last minute location due to an internal war at La Générale where the evening was planned. More groups were playing in what was a practice room when we entered it, and a kind of sauna when we left it for the last time. In fact, during one of the acts, when I was engaged in some talking and beerdrinking in the bar together with Flexrex, a girl in a lovely summers dress stormed in, bare feeted, leaned against the wall, and pushed her black underwear down her legs. It was soaked for more then one reason, judging from the smile on the boyfriend's face.

We never got back to the steaming room after we saw the grandson of Eric Satie conducting an orchestra of drums and guitars and one keyboard. He had a gesturist language of his own. The first minutes it looked like he was building up to something, like some ecstatic vulcanic dance. But he kept conducting right to the end. I thought smearing make up on his face with every gesture (nobody could see it, because he was with his back to the audience), then choose a moment where the orchestra would play for their own sake, like some mechanical puppets, to start an uncontrolled springfever dance, would be the perfect act, but no.

The real circus act came back stage where a little girl dressed in black did some acrobaticisms with two hoolahoops. Flexrex put them on video, one, two After it she turned our place next to the sauna door into a real backstage place. We talked about sinking ships and melting ice; we discussed geographical and scientific problems. We had some thougts on vertical hoolahooping, which she found enchanting, because she thought of hanging down from ropes by hand and feet, to be held by strong men. And of course we talked about linguistic problems caused by demographical determinism. We also recited some poems. And to keep it all nice and anonymous we never introduced ourselves to each other: alors fille au cercau, a la prochain fois, avec plus d'espace!

Lilac - a short story of springtime surprises

2007-05-25T05:53:00.000-07:00

picture by Giulia Spanghero, Tarcento

These weeks I have done some travelling. It is not playing only that breaks the time ; I also do some walking, being a tourist with a cause. In springtime there is flowers everywhere. But the lilac and its sweet smell I encountered from Ljubljana way up to Malmö.

My father worked in the coalmines. He worked at the frontline deep down in the earth. No wonder that once back in the sun he went out for long walks. When I was still young enough to believe in miracles, but old enough to figure out that I was witnessing some ritual, I was enchanted one day by the vision of a bunch of Lilac in a vase on the table.

This triggered my memorie. And I suddenly realised, that my father brought lilac to my mother, every year at springtime. He never told where he found it. But the lilac was a yearly announcement that spring had arived.

On the picture you can recognize two colors, the orange of the orange, and the lilac of the lilac.

Tapemosphere # 9 and # 12 ; April 4th in Cologne, and May 22nd in Hamburg

2007-05-11T06:44:00.000-07:00

flyerdesign by Balz Isler

Last tuesday, late May, 2007 in Hamburg saw the birth of a new release - six c10 cassettes each with a part of the performances by Balz Isler and me, and a DVD of it all to cream off your birthday party. The performances itself offered an intriguing use of found words by Balz that resulted in a radiophonic production, worth of red ears glued to the good old lampenradio. My performance was a cruel contrast to his, due to the fysical approach to sound by yours sincerely. It made the audience suffer in some moments, because of the anti-concert like initial composition and its very loud peaks. My sincere apologies go out to the one victim who had to see the docter the day after, because of a knall-trauma.

A more friendly image of me you can find in this short movie shot in Cologne, where I brought a sound that can be regarded as a little homage to the early years of Kraftwerk. (Who are from nearby rival city Düsseldorf).

Both performances were part of the tapemosphere series. More to come!

Popular Culture : Soundroom Days in Eskilstuna, May 2007

2007-05-11T05:57:00.000-07:00

picture by anders östberg

Preparing

picture by anders östberg

Testing the Britney Spears Bed

picture by anders östberg

Listening

Paris Retouched Some More - April 2007

2007-05-10T08:13:00.001-07:00

picture by harold schellinx

I travelled with Pati from her hometown to Montreuil near Paris. I arived together with the pope in Vigevano. But I never got to see him. You had to pay 70 Euro to see him in concert. He didnot sell all the tickets. Spring was blasting like summer. It was pleasure to cycle around town through empty streets.

Streets were full of cars when we started hitchhiking and arived in Marseille just in time to do our concert in front of five people. Luckily I could put them all to sleep. Then we crossed the Central Massive the next day. Pati saw her hospital and I recorded the first view of the Eifel tower. We arived at Pigalle before all the others.

Saturday without a gig, we went to have a rest at Père Lachaise to spend the day with the death and the tourists. I recorded two east european girls taking gothic pictures of each other. There is a pair of them on every graveyard. Pati found Eric Piaff and Max Ernst, and I spend half an hour to find the grave of Stendhal, only to run into Prousts grave.

The picture shows Madame P. at La Générale. The background projection stems from a collection of recycled traffic instruction diagrammes, heavenly consumed by wheather and is the property of Mr. Houzier. These and other treasures he safeguards in a heavy barricaded room in his house.

Pati and I left eachother on a sunny day.

Paris Retouched - April 2007

2007-05-10T00:39:00.000-07:00

video by Rébus

Once again in Paris, in the Pigalle neighbourhood. Walking those streets is always a pleasure. There is so much to see, so many pretty girls, flowers, café's, people drinking their coffee, the walkings and the longings, and always the distant echoos of springtime that are so near.

We played in a cave as you should do when you are in Paris. And the next sunday we were on one of the floors of the La Générale in around the corner from little Chinatown in Belleville. It was all about recycling. There were lots of friends playing or catching sounds that haven't been heard for quite a while. Here I saw Pati doing her concert in Paris; I played with Jean Bordé; Diktat translated into sound what a quiet peacefull day feels like, and kept the doors to the backyard wide open, because that is were the real mystery starts, and poems don't need to be written.

Sleepy Time Gorilla's in Tarcento, 14th of April 2007

2007-04-25T03:26:00.000-07:00

picture by Giulia S. @ Hybrida, Tarcento

When in Tarcento, I went out for a walk to see the town that advertises itself as the pearl of the Friuli. Friuli is the Italian region in the very north east of Italy, close to the Austrian and Slovenian borders. Being pictoresque and remote in Italy results very often in e very regional policy, that emphasises on the local food and wine and warheroes to make clear their position in Italian culture. To those people the rest of the world is a picture in a glossy magazine or a holiday destination. On the piazza of Tarcento to some of those locals the rest of the world starts at about two kilometers from center, at the trainstation.

Hybrida is an organisation that must be known in some very remote corners of our globe. Their spirit, enthousiasm and expertise have made Tarcento one of the places in Europe where visiting groups or artists from the other side of the ocean find a welcoming home and a stage to present their work. Sleepy Time Gorilla Museum is a group from the westcoast of the United States. They played in Paris and in the very prestigious Bimhuis in Amsterdam on their recent tour, but also somewhere in the north-east of Italy, where trains arive three times a day.

But also where more then a few of the inhabitants have big houses with big gardens and a big dog in it. All together they have composed this sad story . It is in Italian. It will tell you how an initiative financed by the European Community resulted in a breeding place for artists and artigians. The abandoned caserna that they chose to run their activities hosted also a hostel and a restaurant, a museum and Hybrida itself, whose staff organises seminars, concerts, conferences and so on.

It was financed by the European Community, because Europe is a bit bigger then the north-east of Italy. And when you lift your nose from the map, you will see that Tarcento holds a unique position in the south middle east of Europe. To some of us travelling troubadours it is a portal to the former Jugoslavian countries and even further south to Istanbul. Also Graz, Vienna and Budapest are on the same trail. One doesn't have to explain that in this constellation even small places like Tarcento start to shine like big stars.

The local government will close the place. To the people of Hybrida this might result in a small diaspora. The good news is that their activities have inspired other people in the region to start organising shows regularly. Small venues come into existence. Thanks Francesco, Alessandro, Giulia, I am sure we will meet again. And I am sure it will happen in this life and not in another one.

Meanwhile sleepy time gorilla museum had their show when I played in Tarcento. Progrock their music is called. It referred to a kind of music that I learned to hate when I was in my teens. It was just too complicated, mostly made by musicians who were at least seven years older. In the early years of the seventees, those seven years covered a lifetime. And the gap was canyonlike. The then progressive rock music sounded more like the end of an era. With every intelligent rif the access to the past got locked. And then these musicians became accountants or so, and they disappeared into oblivion.

This resulted in lots of memories when I was watching the concert, and when the concert was done I was rather confused. How could such nice people play such a boring music? But then I started to relisten and found lots of catchy melodies. I was singing one of them when I was clearing my table. I definitely have to hear them again, and hopefully I will meet them when they come to Europe next time.

However greetings to all of you, it was really nice meeting you. Carla must have dreamed of it, ever sínce she knew that she was going to Italy: She stood in one of the big windows of the concert hall, played her violin, while looking at a tiny village and the mountains that rose behind it. Down below a small river washed away the sounds.

Time for a Commercial Break

2007-04-24T07:34:00.000-07:00

picture by Magnus Schaefer

First read this fifty/fifty

The box you see on the picture is the confection of the cassette. We (Harold Schellinx and me) sold it to Magnus Schaefer for fifty minutes of recording. We made this special price, because the box came without the cassette player. Magnus promised to buy one, and to record this adventure on cassette.

Now the tape is ready. He has bought a walkman (see picture above) on the fleemarket at the mauerpark in Berlin; it costed him 3 euro. It functions as well, though sometimes it doesn't. The inbuilt microphone is okay, but the recordbutton doesn't work. It is twice as big as a normal walkman, therefore doesn't fit in the box. A special feature is a deep hum that appears when the walkman is without his cassette. The frequency and intensity can be changed with the volume.

The recordings of the acquisition were made with a 30-years old "standard radio company"-cassetterecorder, very big, very heavy, a bit kaputt. The microphone was outside the bag, and the recording device in the bag on the luggage carrier of his bicycle.

The tape starts of with his failed attempt to buy a walkman on the fleemarket in schlesischen strasse, corner cuvrystrasse in kreuzberg. His attempt failed, because the fleemarket doesn't exist anymore. Then we will hear his bicycleride through kreuzberg, goerlitzer park and wrangelkiez.

A day later he takes the u-bahn to prenzlauer berg, records this trip and also his walk to the mauerpark, and then the actual walking around surrounded by voices speaking different languages. And then he encounters the walkman and buys it.

Total running time: 50 minutes.

Markus Schaefer writes for Vital Weekly.

Sunday 29 April in Paris/ Dimanche 29 Avril en Paris

2007-04-18T04:11:00.000-07:00

Cologne, 4th of April - Tapemosphere number 9

2007-04-13T07:38:00.000-07:00

picture by michael peters

Imagine a big L-shaped room with high windows, a courtyard that could be anywhere, a wooden floor like you see on this picture, a small table at the right shoulder side of the photographer, where Harold and Béla, Balz and I had our extended breakfast. Imagine this room at night, and me waking up in a dream. I found myself lying on the floor, next to my matress and saw the shadowing figures of Béla and Balz. They were whispering words I couldn't hear.

Tarcento 15th April 2007, very early morning

2007-04-01T09:58:00.000-07:00

Picture by Giulia S. at Hybrida, Tarcento

There is something about being on tour. I left Wuppertal at the gates of dawn, to arrive in Ljubljana in the evening. Then I slept twelve hours and was back to normal again. But in Tarcento all got mixed up again. The green liquid in front of me is a special grappa with a rosmarine taste. Grappa is one of the good things that comes from the very north east of Italy. Good grappa will be served to you only by good people. That night I slept three hours. But that made for some good hallucinations the day after.

Radio On on Radio RGB, Clergy Paris, 16 April

2007-03-26T15:09:00.000-07:00

The program

_la pointe de l'iceberg (the tip of the iceberg) _

will be broadcasted

between 8 and 10 pm (paris time) on monday the 16th of april .

There is a live stream on radiorgb,

all the archives can be found on lapointedeliceberg

and there's a podcast here

pour notre ami(es) francophoniques:

"Au programme de ce lundi une introduction toute en douceur
puis une émission dans l’émission – la 24^e heure de Radio-on depuis Berlin
enregistrée en français spécialement pour nous-
avant d’atterrir sous un tonnerre d’applaudissement
sur une piste qui ne peut être qu’asiatique…
Pour vous donner un avant gout
vous pouvez écouter les 23 heures précédente de Radio-on là,
une chanson improbable là,
une compilation Asian spa dans un bain moussant
ou bien très simplement profiter de la nouvelle perceuse à percussion de votre voisin.
.
Pour écouter l’émission en direct allumez votre radio à 20h sur 99.2 Fm à Cergy
et dans les alentours ou connectez votre ordinateur
ou que vous soyez grâce au streaming disponible sur le site de la radio.
Si vous êtes malheureusement indisponible ce soir l
a vous pourrez toujours vous rattraper
en écoutant l’enregistrement sur le site de l’émission
dans quelques jours tout en y consultant la playlist
et les nombreux liens qui l’accompagne.
.
N’oubliez pas que l’émission est maintenant disponible
en podcast à l’adresse suivante :
http://feeds.feedburner.com/lapointedeliceberg
qu’il vous suffit de copier coller dans un lecteur adapté
(
comme itunes par exemple
)
pour recevoir l’émission à domicile.
Si vous voulez un peu plus d’infos sur la manip cliquez là.
.
D’où je vous écris il neige...
Doux printemps,
Stefan Gorki"

Paris, 27 April / Projet 101/ Paris, 27 Avril

2007-03-24T12:16:00.000-07:00

An evening at Pigalle with the Ladies and Gentlemen you can see on this picture. The man with the hat is Harold Schellinx, the man with the hands is Raphael Raccuia, the Ladie with the helmet is Madame P, and the ladie dressed in black is Mademoiselle Z.

En Francais:

"Ladies and Gentlemen"vendredi 27 avril 2007 au Project 101 ...Une soirée pleine de chants, avec deux Dames et trois Messieurs(et peut-être avec Vicky)

...Madame P est l'incarnation musicale la plus récente de l'artisteitalienne Patrizia Oliva.

Avec une longue série de concerts,

Madame P.s'est établie comme une des acts féminines

des plus prometteuses de la scène italienne d'aujourd'hui.

En live, Madame P. étonne par l'ampleurde ses techniques vocales, pur, comme modifié électroniquement.

madame p

Rinus van Alebeek est un romancier néerlandais devenu 'sonicien'

...Rinus a remplacé sa plume par des cassettes audio,

enregistrées au cours desespériples dans les divers pays d'Europe,

et les fait chanter et hurlerdansdes performances

entre trash noise et poésie pure

moi

Raphael Raccuia, guitariste suisse, est la moité du duo suisse BlindeKinder

où il manipule des mangnétophones vintages,

des tournedisques, des micros et des objets dans la création

d'une plunderphonie originale et dynamique.

Raphael actuellement réside à Paris.

Raphael

Mme. Z est chanteuse classique, mezzo-soprano lyrique,

spécialisée dans la musique lyrique

des dix-neuvième

et vingtième siécles

et le cabaret.

HarS est musicien et improvisateur d'origine néerlandaise,

installé à Paris mais toujours avec un pied ferme à Amsterdam,

qui depuis près de trente ans

est à la recherche

de la cassette

parfaite

....

Harold