It seems to me that Philippe Petit‘s mission in his artistic existence is to make us re-appraise the way that we listen to music, sound, noise, however you wish to describe it, and to try and rewrite the rules, using sounds and forms that are so outside of the general sound world that they feel like transmissions from another planet. It is as if he has tapped into a source of sound production that is from beyond and he is showing us what we are missing out on.
With the aid of Michael Schaffer, the four tracks here run the gamut of sounds and textures that take us far from home, but are somehow imbued with little hints, little reminders of the similarities or echoes of similarities that we might find if we ever found ourselves stranded in the unknown. Squeals and squelches cover a drifting miasma of a drone. It is coated in little particles, emissions from distant stars or people with no knowledge of how we produce music. It is continually evolving, with as I said a hint of familiarity here and there, but is it really us telling ourselves we recognise it or not? Something akin to the BBC Light Programme weaves in and out, its pastoral tone at odds with the other more jarring interjections, as if they have been repurposed in a new way. Even the birdsong and insect noise is alien.
The flutter and deep purr of unknown machines, the disconcerting wails of unfamiliar bodies assail us as dust settles over a new horizon. Things grow more lively, but there is still a feeling of nature in the surroundings. I keep thinking of that scene in The Man Who Fell To Earth of Newton and his family making their way across the dustbowl planet; but there is an ecstatic element in parts, as if places of worship were the centres of these sound productions. The image of being transported to these new centres is an evocative one. The sounds turn tighter, as if created in a vacuum, and there is a touch of a beat here, a spiralling increase in the ecstatic feeling appearing for a different reason. Changes in the broadcast channels, quick flicks from one to another. The incessant repetition reveals less patience, as if searching for answers, a decoding of the source material, breaking it down to its building blocks. The appearance of what sounds like a church organ, captured and refracted, is swollen and sublime.The purr of a Geiger counter is ever-present through the darker, shadowier final section. The ominous creeping is glassy as it stalks the listener. A distended Hawaiian guitar is just discernible through the haze and plays against the inexorable approach. Other sounds shimmer and scatter, but to no avail. The oncoming is relentless, throwing everything in its path to halt the progress. Diffuse and distorted, a repeated harsh note and ugly synth line overwhelm the plucked guitar and fuzz of the aural detritus, until it is chased into the aether and this very alien journey is over.
Philippe and Michael have accomplished something quite out of the ordinary here; so if you fancy having your conceptions changed, this could be for you.-Mr Olivetti-
