1. We've long moved on to another location. However, this site has gotten out of control, so I've cleaned it up a bit. A few upload requests have been honored for the last time, the design has been tweaked, and spam has been cut down (drastically).

    Below are the links to the active iterations of KILLED in CARS. Please visit those!

    KILLED in CARS (main site)

    Facebook
    Tumblr (current iteration of blog)
    Twitter (for downloads)
    RYM (for album ratings)
    8tracks (mixes)
    Mixlr (DJ broadcasts)
    SoundCloud
    Last.fm
    YouTube
    Vimeo
    This Is My Jam

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    Given the impressive size of his back catalogue (measured both in depth and breadth), it is easy to approach a new Evan Parker album with trepidation. This reaction is understandable; it seems almost natural to expect that after decades of output, an artist or band must begin churning out steaming turds -- with age it all comes undone, or something like that. So then Mr. Parker's forty-odd (fifty?) year tenure should make him an octogenarian, or at least someone who you would not like to see behind an automobile. Yet Whitstable Solo, along with Evan Parker's other recent releases -- like Relevance, out this year with Dave Liebman and Tony Bianco, on Red Toucan --, stand up alongside the classics in this free jazz elder statesman's discography.

    Psi records (see comments section for historical details) has made a name for itself (partly) by reissuing old and out of print free improv records, many on which Parker played. Whitstable Solo, on the other hand, is a collection of eight songs performed in 2008 at Whistable, UK -- seven of which were live and in front of an audience, while the remaining track was squeaked out before the crowd had arrived.

    The jams start in typical Parker fashion, with a cyclic squall of soprano sax nonsense lasting nearly twenty minutes. This is definitive Parker, pioneered way back on Saxophone Solos, and now, to my ears, one of the most easily recognizable styles in jazz. The haze brought on by Parker's relentless upper register recedes in the midsections of this album, revealing a tender and uncharacteristically gossamer sound. The sixth solo is, dare I say, almost melodic! But purist shouldn't fret, for Evan Parker's shrill saxophone reemerges in the final two tracks, obliterating any lingering sense that this gent is softening.

    Each passage may have antecedent within Parker's own catalogue. In the solo setting, it may be too much to expect truly unique and new material; however, in collaboration, Evan is still redefining the boundaries of his instrument (see 2009's C-Section, with John Wiese). Even so, this album is a delight; I would love as many "derivative" solo albums from Evan Parker as possible.
    3

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    Here's another from docperkins (and I strongly recommend it):

    Some people believe that a photograph captures the soul and fend-off a camera as if the essence of their being is about to be abducted at the imminence of a click. Ablinger atonal works operate along the same capturing principle, extracting the music of celebrities’ speeches, concomitantly to the celebrities uttering that speech. The phantasmatic Other of the utterance acquire shape, inasmuch as the meaning that fulfilled the utterance is discarded on behalf of a structure that dispenses with inner meaning, given that it is a derived musical form. And then some.

    In 1968 Michel Foucault and Roland Barthes pronounced the author dead. The two Latino poststructuralist thinkers demonstrated that it was about time to stop considering authors as almighty producer of meanings and unique sources of signification. Along these lines authors should not bear the ultimate interpretations of works of art in general, not even of their own artistic productions. The death of the author proclaimed by Foucault and Barthes became a cornerstone for a radical understanding of modern aesthetical production and consumption of art.

    I could see this radical des-authorisation coming in music. If one takes a close glimpse into the recent history of serialisms, one can perceive that the trend had been pulsating in-between the lines and as palimpsests in outrageously insightful works, e.g., Luigi Nono, Luciano Berio and Salvatore Sciarrino, these illustrious offspring of Anton Webern. However, no one had stared in the eyes of the issue as Ablinger is hereby doing.

    The matter was not to aestheticise the death of the author in the best ‘middle-class tradition’ of celebrating losses with phoney messes, but rather to take the death of the author as a template for aesthetic practice and criticism. The word of order would be, therefore, to extract music from the supply of meanings that in modernity had been monopolised by the Author through spoken and written narratives. The point is that there is music in that monopoly; words in sequence can only come to being meaningfully in music. So, how this music would sound like if played side by side with the narrative, seemed to be an exciting working programme, which Ablinger takes up while killing the author, akin to Foucault agenda. The latter is radical: by killing the author playing music without a composer it displays, by the same token, the ontological limits of improvisation in music.

    Come to think of it, how can music derived from spoken discourses be considered improvised if its structure is given by the author’s eagerness to make sense (to ‘make meaning’)? Furthermore, how can music derived from eagerness to make sense not be improvised, given that the authors of those discourses had no intentions to make music while talking sense? Improvisation in music, proves Ablinger, is the worshiping of an unsung god, or counting on help from an unknown, invisible hero. There will always be a hidden structure somewhere in the unconscious making sure that that which was deemed improvised is pure symptom. And what is a symptom but a field- marshal of desire, and what is desire but the ontological grammar of a subjectivity, and what is a discourse but an attempt to rationalise that symptom, and what is Ablinger’s aesthetics but the sound of the symptom?

    Ablinger says that “actually the piano part is the analysis of the voice. Music analyses reality”. I beg to differ, and will hereby engage the same principle he, unbeknownst to himself, used, which is the one of the death of the author. Ablinger shall not have the ultimate interpretation claim over his achievement. He appears to be perfectly aware of what he did, but not at all of what he did does. The music is not analysing reality. The music at stake is the Real or, in other words, the unconscious non-symbolised counterpart of the reality of the discourses. Therefore, music could not analyse reality. What it does instead is to promise that without music ideas can neither be produced nor conveyed in spoken form. Consequently, the fear of this kind of music is the fear of making sense, and to stop making sense is the inability to perceive music.

    Foucault asserts that once the death of the author is properly carried out “all discourses, whatever their status, form, value, and whatever the treatment to which they will be subjected, would then develop in the anonymity of murmur”. Ablinger brings up this funeral murmur to irreverent, mesmerising music. Let us rejoice, finally a modern requiem was composed to mourn the death of the Author and celebrate the re-birth of meaning. The requiem, alas, is atonal.
    7

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    Rdeča Raketa is a Vienna-based duo comprised of Maja Osojnik and Matija Scdellander, whose 2010 collaborative cassette, “Old Girl, Old Boy,” combines their admirable and respective training in electronic and improvised music composition. “Old Girl, Old Boy” is a contextual and exploratory digital/acoustic collage that demands: 1) literally putting yourself on the electronic device table to comprehend (or not) the complex fusion of these often abrasive, wacky, yet tremendously skillful sounds; and 2) freeing yourself to be a part of whatever adventure on which the entire 37-minute track might take you. In other words, like the composed improvisation itself, the listening experience simultaneously demands intensive focus as much as it does an ability to go with it, wherever the heck that might be.

    The first half or so of this cassette appears to be a cry for help, but I don’t mean this in the sense that anyone or anything needs help. The abstract sounds created by the sub-bass recorder, e-bass, and a mish-mash of indistinguishable electronic trinkets appear to emerge from a deserted electro-acoustic island of sorts. The clicks, bumps, loops, drones, human voices, and bass tones, all underscored for the first ten minutes by a constant state of electronic panic, never seem to reach any grounding or final destination. The first half, in sum, is an uncertain and sparse call composed of choppy SOS signals (sometimes human, sometimes not, but always nature-culture). The first part of the latter half (“half” here is defined simply by time; the piece itself has no obvious starts or stops, never mind halves, quarters, etc.), however, sees these sounds reaching the mainland for the first time, a dark, somewhat hopeful, ambient land/soundscape where the panic subsides, even if temporarily, before a sense of uncertainty takes over again around the 25-minute mark, or around the time when a human joins us again for a few seconds, only to disappear rather unsettlingly.

    “Old Girl, Old Boy” is brilliantly disconcerting, and, admittedly, will take a few more listens before I really get what might be going on. Spending more time with this album may or may not be a good thing, though, because those big jungle birds sound really fucking creepy.

    Christopher Canning
    5

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    A Moraine is a geological phenomena; the accumulation of unconsolidated debris, soil and rocks compacted under glacial drifts. Over time these assemblages of loose matter form topographic features gradually exposed to the surface world by retreating glaciers.

    Govrins' work evokes this process. Particles of sound are held in a state of suspension, encapsulated by frosty ambiance. Gradual drifts transform his soundscape, tracing subtle patterns of force and revealing contours over time. The naming of the tracks illustrates the variety of forces found in the formation of Moraine, thus mapping distinct processes of geological change; Ground, Push, Lateral, Terminal, Medial, Recessional.

    Drawing on a sonic palette of processed cello and violin alongside digital sound synthesis, Govrin has created a work that feels compacted, cold and timeless. Through listening we participate in the process of glacial compression; to be buried deep beneath moving mountains of ice. There are moments that are stark, crystalline and beautiful as in Ground, where cello and violin weave elegiac tones through waves of distortion, and Medial which presents a world of crackling drones punctuated by ghostly and transitory string harmonics.

    Comparisons can be drawn with Hildur Gudnadottir's Without Sinking, which is built around a similarly frosty, bleak and expansive use of cello and signal processing. At times reminiscent of the electro-acoustic music of Iannis Xenakis, Govrin engages in a comparable attempt to map features of the natural world through composed sound. Well produced and based on an engaging premise, this is a novel work that succeeds in subsuming our imaginations in geological phenomena.

    Fíacha O' Dúbhda
    3

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    If the universe operated in accordance with my own personal whims and motives, then KiC would phase out this whole avant-classical thing it's gotten itself entrenched in and start posting really great jazz records again. I'm going to try to get the ball rolling with what in my eyes is at least a very good one. First Impressions made - at the risk of sounding like a complete ass - a truly great first impression. Shamek Farrah makes a kind of modal jazz, occassionally slipping into free territory, that at first glance reminded me a bit of the great Astigmatic. That comparison only really applies to the first and last tracks here however, as what falls in between is a bit more funky and soulful. The album starts off with something that may end up being added to my list of favorite jazz tunes ever, "Meteorologicly Inclined." If Madlib ever gets ahold of the track immediately following it, "Watch What Happens Now," some serious shit is gonna go down. The rest of the album doesn't quite live up to "Meteorologicly Inclined," but it is still a very solid listen. Hell, that opinion may even change fairly soon, as this record has been continuously growing on me since I first listened to it earlier in the week. First impressions are often correct, but time can make the heart grow fonder - or something like that... whatever.

    21

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    Things fade in and out a lot on Jesse Somfay's A Catch in the Voice.

    The Canadian producer's latest album is split across two discs, with the first containing ambient compositions and the second being more minimal techno-based. The title of one of the first disc's highlights, "Hypnogogii", stands as a pretty good representative of the territory we're in: the term appears to signify people occupying the "borderland state" between sleep and wakefulness, and by extension the surreal, quasi-hallucinatory imagery generated by the hypnagogic mind, a realm of rushing, humming sound and hyperreal patterns of colour and light (also reported by meditators, prisoners who spend extended periods in the dark, and partakers in hallucinogenic drugs). The music embodies its name: as gorgeous extended synth pads cocoon the edges, sporadic percussion lines weaves in and out of the middle, guiding the track, building to a head and then receding, morphing slowly as they go.

    Indeed, much of the imagery here seems concerned with light and space, both inner and outer. A quick browse of the titles reveals the likes of "Good Morning Strange Light", "Folding Ghosts Into Origami Stars", "Borrealis", "Ex Astris, Ad Astra". "Amo Alucinor", from the second disc, translates roughly from Latin as "I love to daydream", the latter word being the root of the English "hallucinate". "Averroes" may well be a tribute to the 12th-century Muslim celestial philosopher of the same name. It's hard to say whether Somfay names these tracks after what the music suggests or conversely uses the titles as templates for the musical ideas, but either way, the two keep pace with one another as a coherent, otherworldly whole.

    Some of the shorter tracks benefit from the added focus of constraint. "Folding Ghosts into Origami Stars", for example, layers subtle, buzzing, almost MBV-esque backdrops behind a pretty lead melody and comes off like the kind of atmospheric mini-epic Stars of the Lid do so well. "Brave Late Fade"'s bassy drone is occasionally joined by a choir seemingly heard from a distant dream. Some parts, like the start of "Cuckoo Spit", resemble the murky, primal noises you hear on the kind of medical albums doctors buy to learn the sounds of irregular heartbeats, or the woozy pulsing of an ultrasound scan. And "Irradian Irradiant"'s varispeed arpeggios occasionally even conjure up the unpleasant spectre of Rick Wakeman (not often, though, thankfully).

    For my money, the ambient side is the better one, although in practice the two are not often fully separated (see: the beats on the first disc's "Good Morning Strange Light" or "Ex Astris, Ad Astra", the lush drumless flotation tank that is disc 2's "Averroes", or BoC-esque close "NotR"). "Scotia", all looming bassline and fractures of distant melody, and the almost trancey skitter of "Algonquin", are highlights of the second disc.

    At nearly two hours total – five of the tracks exceed ten minutes, another three top nine minutes – A Catch in the Voice can perhaps be a little overwhelming to digest in one session. It's not intended as an insult to suggest that your concentration may sometimes also drift in and out of focus: for these field recordings from a land between sleep and wakefulness, there's nothing more appropriate.
    6

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    Continuing with our series of "What's So Great About Modernity?" is this wonderful collection of Vinko Globokar compositions. Those who are familiar with Globokar likely are thinking, "wait a minute here;" I ask these readers to indeed wait as I provide a snippet of Vinko's background. Mr. Globokar is both an accomplished trombonist, premiering works by many 20th century heavyweights, and a card carrying modernist -- working both with Stockhausen and at IRCAM in the 60's and 70's. But in addition to these composer credentials, Vinko founded the free improv group New Phonic Art (see comments section). Thus leading to the inclusion of Hallo, Do You Hear Me? in this "series." Herein Vinko synthesizes high modernity with aleatoric techniques, interspersing the composed with the improvised. These third-stream compositions are beyond modernity -- in that, unlike post-modernism, they are a progression past, not a counterpoint to, post-WWII composition. Maybe some would say post-post-modernism, but I reserve that word for mudslinging.

    Comparisons? This compilation could easily have been released by Ambiances Magnétiques and/or have been of Paul Dolden's doing. Yet never does Globokar come off as academic as the aforementioned label, which, considering Globokar's academy roots, only adds to the utter surreality of this affair.

    9

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    RYM (Cage)
    RYM (Tenney)







    When an ensemble dedicates itself to performing and recording the music of other composers it’s often tricky to balance the intentions of the composer with the musical identities of the performers. One hopes that they will realize the composer’s intentions to the fullest of their abilities but at the same time inject the music with new ideas or energy. That is to say, in an ideal performance the identities of the composer and performers are given the proper balance. This is essentially the definition of “interpretation” in notated Western music. A performance of a famous piece of music is always in danger of repeating the past or straying too far from the composer’s intentions, especially when playing music with any level of indeterminacy.

    I first encountered the Arditti String Quartet’s massive discography of 20th century music as a teenager in music school and was instantly enamored. The Arditti Quartet are clearly one of the most skilled and important interpreters of modern chamber music but at a certain point the uniformity of their approach begins to overtake the music. Their virtuosity, commitment, and approach to most music is impeccable; however, when playing more subtle and restrained music like that of Feldman or Luigi Nono, their razor sharp accuracy and intensity can make the music seem “too Arditti”. Knowing this, I approached the first two installments of Zeitkratzer’s “Old School” recording series - each album is dedicated to a different famous composer of the late 20th century - with an exciting but also somewhat guarded interest.

    Given that Zeitkratzer’s output over the past few years prominently features chamber ensemble re-workings of electronic and non-academic/non-Western music, it seems obvious that their new Old School series (dedicated to the most well-documented composers of the post-WWII avant-garde) is an attempt to breathe new life into music where the performance practice is already seemingly codified. Skilled, imaginative and vital interpreters that they are, suffice to say that Zeitkratzer is successful in this goal but the results can be a mixed bag.

    The Cage disc includes three pieces from Cage’s final creative period, most commonly referred to as “the number pieces”. I have always loved the number pieces. With his final work Cage finally struck the perfect balance between indeterminacy and control, truly achieving his stated goal of both imitating nature and “letting the sounds be themselves”. That said, Zeitkratzer’s performances of “Four6” and “Five” sound a bit too much like Zeitkratzer for my taste. Allowing very little space for silence, these recordings showcase Zeitkratzer’s now familiar arresting intensity that achieves greatness in most situations but in the context of John Cage’s gentle, tender approach to sound seems forced into the Zeitkratzer ideology. The recording of “Hymnkus”, on the other hand, is astonishing; a surprisingly complex piece composed just a few years before Cage’s death, the piece proceeds intently but not too forcefully.

    Perhaps because James Tenney’s music is not reliant on indeterminacy, the Tenney Old School disc fares much better. While still a well-known and respected composer, James Tenney’s exploration of several kinds of experimental music, and most notably his work with alternate tunings, has yet to receive the kind of affection and documentation that seems to benefit Cage and other well-known composers of the era. This disc is a welcome addition to the somewhat more limited availability of recordings of Tenney’s music, including one premiere recording (the stunning “Harmonium #2” from 1976) and new interpretations of two more well-known pieces. The disc concludes with one of Tenney’s most well-known pieces, the aptly titled arch piece, “Having Never Written a Note for Percussion” which is finally given a definitive, masterful recording by percussionist Maurice de Martin. While the instrumentation of this single-note piece is left to the performer, the piece is most commonly performed on a large tam-tam because of the tam-tam’s endlessly rich timbre and breathtaking dynamic range (much credit is due here to the recording engineer - only on Michael Pisaro’s Hearing Metal has a tam-tam ever sounded so good). It’s a stunning, controlled performance that transcends both performer and instrument, and is the perfect end to what is the finest document of Tenney’s music I’ve heard on a single CD.
    8

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    1) I'm just going to get this out of the way: You are not able to download this album here. Erstwhile is a distributor, and they don't take kindly to our types robbing them of a fistful of dollars (dollars they actually deserve, as opposed to say EMI). Also, this record came out just last year. Go buy it. It's worth it.

    2) This post is my response to Taylor's Tatsuya Nakatani post, located just south of here. Like Green Report 12, Let's Fall in Love! is a solo percussion record. I hear one big difference between this and Green Report and that is this: Let's Fall in Love! is actually a good record. Whereas Nakatani is content to wander from instrument to instrument and noodle a bit at each one, Carlsson creates gorgeous (and occasionally frightening) textures out of a handful at a time, slowly developing a piece to feel like a well-rounded composition rather than an off-the-cuff improvisation (this record is improvised, mind you). "My Heart was Screaming Like a Cow" is one of my favorite solo percussion tracks ever, mostly for what appears to be the use of a snare drum to generate a sympathetic buzz juxtaposed to a bowed god-knows-what, creating the illusion of a distorted signal. That kind of trickery is something I truly swoon over, and it is my hope that some of you may find yourselves swooning over Let's Fall in Love! as well.

    9

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