Take 1
This is a story of presence. Of the being-there-ness of sitting in a dimly lit room with a bunch of listeners. Of the perfectly timed car horn or gunshot or train whistle blending with the music from the gym/church/whatever it was next door to the Carrack (a gallery whose absence I still feel). Of the clatter and hum of the ice maker behind the bar interspersed with the murmurations of a tarot reading or not-so-hushed conversation of a group of Wiccans at Arcana (a bar whose absence I hope is only just temporary). Of the endlessly varied idiosyncrasies of whatever space we happen to be inhabiting on a given day. Of the known unknowns, the unexpected detours, and the totally bonkers surprises that come from playing with musicians we know and love. Of the unencumbered journey to anvil, hammer, stirrup. Of the spontaneous. Of the present. Of the living.
Take 2
This is a story of absence. Where being there means being here and only here. Where the inexorable delay of a Zoom call means you can’t even clap at the same time no matter how hard you try. Where you’ve spent more time with the birds and chipmunks and rabbits and cats who actually live your yard than your best friends. Where being in the same room and vibrating with the same air as someone else could be a death sentence. Where eyes don’t meet and ears don’t converse. Where you’re at the mercy of the weakest mic and an overloaded stream of electrons—that stubbornly only seem to carry tiktoks and movies and videos from the latest entries in the endless list of unconscionable police brutality against black people (arrest the cops who murdered Breonna Taylor already!)—and that extraneous but necessary vibrating membrane on the outside of your ear. Where it’s hard to escape the uncanny valley of a simulated presence. Where however hard you try, you just can’t really connect. Where all we can hope to do is summon forth the echoes of the living.
Take 3
This is a story of presence and absence. To create presence through absence, in spite of absence, to spite absence. To conjure forth something approaching the experience of making sounds in a single room with other people without actually making sounds in a single room with other people. Each piece here was built in layers by individual musicians playing wherever they happen to be, with each person adding a new stratum in a single take, no overdubs. Each piece was done when there were four layers. The first person may have played alone, but the fourth has a virtual band to navigate around and through, a synthetic community built through accretion. Like a live performance, none of us knew what was coming before we started. And the results go places different from anywhere we would have if we were playing together in one space. It’s almost like we’re still alive.
—Dan Ruccia, Durham, NC, July 2020
credits
released August 7, 2020
Jeb Bishop, trombone, guitar, noises (2, 4, 5, 7)
Jason Bivins, electric guitar (1, 3, 5, 6, 7)
Jil Christensen, Moog One (3, 5)
Laurent Estoppey, saxophones, electronics (2, 3, 6, 7, 8)
Shawn Galvin, drums, percussion, vibraphone (4, 5, 6, 8)
Michael Thomas Jackson, clarinet, percussion (1, 3, 4, 8)
David Menestres, double bass, noises (1, 2, 7, 8)
Dan Ruccia, viola, electric viola (1, 2, 4, 6)
Mixed and Mastered by Andrew Weathers
Cover Art by Nyssa Collins
Design by Dan Ruccia
supported by 7 fans who also own “Birdsongs of the Necromancer”
Actually, I still don't know how to say anything about this record. It's one of the most challenging listens I've had. David Menestres doesn't give you anything for free, but when you dive into that endless ocean of sonic mercury, it kicks as hell. jiristepan