This relationship is particularly apparent with GAS, the German’s most influential alias to date (of which there are too many to count). After a flurry of four notable album releases at the end of the 20th century, the entity seemingly ceased its public existence, spare a handful of singles for compilations on his founded label, Cologne-based Kompakt. Through its releases over twenty-plus years, Voigt’s modus operandi has been readily apparent, albeit indirectly. Artists often marry his trademark 4/4 drum beat and transparent melodicism with tasteful restraint.

The same could hardly be said for the tempering of any collective anticipation ahead of GAS’ audiovisual performance at the Art Institute of Chicago, a fitting venue for the only Midwest stop on Voigt’s first US tour in 9 years. Less than twelve months removed from his stunning comeback Narkopop, an ambitious concept album recreating the hallucinogenic wanderings through the forests in adolescence, the conspicuous lack of detail surrounding the show left much to the imagination. By the time that his all-black silhouette emerged from the periphery of the auditorium, the surrealism of Voigt’s presence and artform merged into one, leaving only the spectacle of his remarkable talent.

What followed was equal parts magisterial and difficult to comprehend. Narkopop played without a single utterance coming from the stage, nor a pause in the billowing swells of its ten sections. From the onset, the chromatic spread behind Voigt’s setup shifted and morphed into an arboreal masterpiece; each song grew out of indistinguishable colors and shapes into stooping branches and vivid flora. Meanwhile, the soundscapes crafted from a combination of synthesizer, programming module, and a Macbook left a figurative cloud stretching outward toward the audience, helped along by the ingeniously streamlined delivery of its low-end rhythm section.

With each seamless transition from track to track, a panning backdrop helped communicate the music’s awareness and sense of space: where one track’s flats and sharps created a sense of claustrophobia, the next hovered lightly in luminous delight. Further, the rotating color palette of a deciduous canopy pushed forward with an ever-present kick drum, prevented the possibility of the movement becoming stagnant.

In part due to its visionary composition, and in part due to favorable acoustics and sound engineering, momentum permeated the space from the front row to the top balcony. Elusiveness, whether by curiosity or impending doom, was a constant force for the entirety of the show’s eighty-odd minutes.

The physical experience of GAS’ return was both contiguous with and distinct from what can easily be considered an immaculate electronic recording. Layers and subtleties within the record appeared in starkness and grandeur; allusions to the natural world were domineering and imperious in their stature alongside the twists and turns of veering projections.

In the wake of the set’s final moments, the room exuded tangible nostalgia of the halcyon days from which Voigt’s inspiration was derived. As the final, kaleidoscopic visuals transformed, three letters emerged: G-A-S. Almost painfully direct, and with a quick wave to the crowd, the darkly dressed figure was gone, but the eminence of his creation remained. His work a marvel, and his stature immeasurable.

Pre-order GAS’ Narkopop follow-up, Rausch, out May 18th, and available for pre-order here. Get discounts on Torrid.com.

The post The Pulse: An Evening with GAS at the Art Institute of Chicago appeared first on KRUI Radio.

Speaking about it, but more broadly about his approach and process, he curtly opined “I think we’ll look back and realize that there has never been a point in history where we’ve taken art so seriously.”

The comment puzzled me for ways I couldn’t quite explain, so I pushed it to the back of my mind.

Only a short while spent with the music of Des Moines’ Extravision reveals a blunt reinforcement of Frahm’s belief, that nearly excessive attention to detail is the essence and lifeblood of streams of artists today.

For musicians like Ryan Stier, who fronts the group, it isn’t so much a choice as a requirement; an obligation to explore ideas all the way down to their most refined core.

The shadowy aesthetic of The Mill in Iowa City, in pairing with a crowd embracing the musical lovefest that is Mission Creek, refracted their acute awareness through a magnifying glass of accepting arms and ears.

A debut album title like “Waking Up”, released this February, does little to dispel the notion that Extravision is anything other than a serious band for serious times, whose musical ethos seeks awareness and understanding far beyond the surface level.

Their method of delivery, however, is far less consistent. Friday night’s show saw flirtations with a range of genres, sometimes even within the same song; opener “Still, Up in The Clouds”, floated majestically on the back of textured Stratocaster drenched in reverb and tremolo, in the same vein as Chicago shoegazers, Airiel.

The climax boasted equal fluidity and control as the five-piece climbed together, kickstarting a set as polished and well-composed as it was emotionally affecting.

In contrast to the initial extended jams, which felt buoyant and atmospheric around enveloping delay effects, Stier’s 12-string guitar strummings turned inward on the band’s collective meditations, which touched on mortality (“Moments of Clarity”), purpose, loss, and transition over the course of forty short minutes.

The shimmering sounds of the steel strings held up beautifully alongside guitar leads of increasing intensity and drive, and the occasional punch of overdrive or phaser.

In either case, whether raucous or subdued, balance is fully realized with keys, bass, and rhythm that refused to be overbearing, but rather an accessory to Stier’s psychedelic creations.

On “The Dark Where I Could Only Hear”, a true manifestation of the band’s sonic identity, acoustic textures were smartly woven with jabs of electric guitar touching higher octaves.

Combined with an expressively coherent vocal delivery that aptly filled narrow gaps in the arrangement, it was hard not to be reminded of fellow-Iowan Dick Prall’s voice but washed over with a backing of modulated effects and decay.

The full-blown instrumental push over multiple minutes was carried out with reckless abandon, at least as much as could be mustered for a group with such care and focus. Few groups warrant as direct a comparison to Philadelphia rockers The War on Drugs, and the drone squeezed out in the final seconds of the track confirmed why.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gf0r9TjlzU4

For as unabashedly as Extravision resides in the vapor trail of post-Woodstock Americana and psychedelia, make no mistake- they aren’t ripping anybody off. Stier’s pensive songwriting and honest delivery boast uniqueness that can only be fully understood in front of one’s own eyes.

Led by curious minds and ears, and a clear sense of direction, whatever this group is searching for, I’d bet that they’ll find it.

The post Mission Creek Festival: Extravision @ The Mill 4/6/18 appeared first on KRUI Radio.

The cosmic music of Jon Hopkins creates living, breathing, and luminous worlds, unequivocally removed from our own, and existing beyond time and space. Illusive in the way that it defies simple classification, there’s consistency in the attention to detail in each of his works, whether they be his painfully infrequent solo works or more visible collaborations, like those with Brian Eno, friend and composer Leo Abrahams, and Coldplay (ever heard of Viva la Vida?). 

This transportation isn’t a mere consequence of a process, but rather the heart of its purpose, as well as the benchmark of its success. The further removed from reality, and the more entrenched in the resulting meditative trance, the better.

This creative profile is little changed over a seventeen year period, but the form of its final product certainly has evolved. A debut LP, 2001’s Opalescent, resided in the space dust of 90s minimal electronica (think Global Communication or Seefeel), while the sweeps of synthesizer littered throughout Contact Note added a new layer of depth to his atmospherics. By the time Immunity, Hopkins’ most thoughtful and vibrant material yet, released in 2013, the amorphous tendencies of his C.V. were trending toward traits increasingly cinematic, danceable, and indubitably extraterrestrial.

In this vein, “Emerald Rush”, the first single from the recently announced Singularity, is an immense, immersive experience. The track unfolds like a lucid dream, providing ample space to acclimate to an environment woven around a teasing opening line and an unspooling of light keystrokes.

Peripheral textures soon evolve and disintegrate like a chromatic algal bloom, leaving behind a four on the floor bassline and an immovable sense of urgency. Carried forward by a satisfyingly melodic and techno-leaning riff, the collective mass creates a feedback loop of momentum that begs for a freedom from restraint.

At the four-and-a-half minute mark, the song bursts at its seams and ignites into a soaring freefall. Hopkins, a synesthetic savant, throws electric greens and blues into the mixture. The ensuing climax solidifies a transformation from scampering staccato to the most blissfully menacing dancefloor track in his discography. Full of flair in both its composition and delivery, the surprisingly lack of subtlety remains introspective in a way that only he can muster.

The only flaw in the journey passed is that it didn’t last longer; it begs for the context of a full album, which, per its press release, “is intended to be listened to in one sitting, as a complete body of work.” For a microcosm of a larger venture into one’s inner consciousness, “Emerald Rush” is a sparkling, well-produced gem of escape, or release, whichever you prefer.

Singularity is due out on May 4th on Domino Recording and is available for preorder here.

The post The Pulse: Jon Hopkins’ “Emerald Rush” is a deeply satisfying voyage into the unknown. appeared first on KRUI Radio.

Less than two minutes in, the anticipatory flutters in my chest were replaced by quakes of uneasiness. An intro featuring a slow build of haloed chimes quickly gave way to a fuzzed out bassline, and Mark Gardner’s voice signaled the start of the first verse. But something felt off. The sound was conspicuously simple in a way that lacked depth, straightforward in a way that bordered on predictable.

Gone was the effusive pairing of crafty songwriting and sweetly sung vocals. Even their climb toward crunchier guitar and trademark walls of sound lacked the punch that came standard with its original run, and was recreated with moderate success on comeback LP Weather Diaries. When the song faded out on the heels of a half-hearted climax, all that permeated an enveloping silence in the room was a lingering reverberation of the final lyrics in my mind: “We’ve come so far, we’ve come so far.” Feeling let down, the words rang regrettably true.

Prior to that November afternoon I had never considered the possibility that listening to Ride, or any of my favorite bands for that matter, would end in disappointment. Or could end in disappointment. But today, three months later, there isn’t a more appropriate way to describe the visceral feelings that remain after enduring three runs through Tomorrow’s Shore, a four-track, Pulsar-featuring EP that bears little resemblance to the monumental sounds and soaring heights for which this foursome has been consistently lauded.

Where Ride of yesteryear strode the line between force and beauty, the 2018 version trips over it. As difficult a pill as that may be to swallow, it isn’t because I expected a surprise mini-album to recreate the band’s flirtations with perfection. More importantly, and egregiously, I took the quality of their music for granted.

Birthed from the hysteria of Alan McGee-helmed Creation Records, Ride initially latched on to the delirious shoegaze of label mates My Bloody Valentine, Swervedriver, and Slowdive to create their own brand of distortion-laden guitar music. After blowing out the expectations that a self-titled EP carries, two cutting-edge full lengths landed the band smack in the middle of the Beatles/Velvet Underground spectrum.

Nowhere in 1990 marked a furious channeling of iconic Jesus and Mary Chain’s experiments of volume, and the acidic pop songs of Going Blank Again less than two years later dissolved expectations of post-Nevermind grunge. Explorative in a way that preemptively outpaced Britpop, the only quality missing from its early dynamism was longevity.

Despite residing in a place both distinctive and at the heart of British new wave rock music, the beginning was the end for these Oxford chart-toppers. McGee’s fiendish obsession with promoting his label’s signings landed the operation effectively bankrupt, and a combination of relentless touring and creative differences strained the relationship between Gardner and fellow guitarist Andy Bell beyond repair. Cohesiveness quickly dwindled as the two were left writing songs in isolation, and they split in the midst of recording Tarantula in 1995.

Still in their twenties, and left with a similarly short-lived fate as their peers, label, and the genre at large, Ride’s triumphant burst was poised to be fossilized, a relic to be remembered fondly if not briefly. But the passage of time was an unforeseen balm that both preserved the lore of a fruitful period and attracted a delayed cult following, offering an entry point to younger demographics intrigued by the music of shoegaze’s offspring. Rather than etched in stone, the most efficacious releases of the day were crystallized as sparkling reference points for those looking to ring gut-wrenching emotion out of pristine production and billowing layers of delay and reverb.

I was all too aware of these contexts when I read the press release for Tomorrow’s Shore, and couldn’t hold back my frustration as I digested the supposedly revitalized group spit out uninspired lyrics and unimaginative structure. On “Keep It Surreal”, Gardners vocals frankly aren’t good enough to merit a place so high in the mix, and the backing instrumental transformation sounds so bloated that they make the three minute duration feel like it’s overstaying its welcome.

The cringeworthy-titled “Cold Water People” inexplicably interjects acoustic guitar before Bell’s pedal board offers a moment of reprieve for an utterly forgettable track. “Catch You Dreaming”, weaved together with patches of synthesizer and subtle percussion, is heavy in its electronics touches and light almost everywhere else; like the song before it, an unbearable chorus- complete with porously poppy “nah-nah-nahs” echoing behind it- renders the outro a welcomed break.

This gratuitous bundle hardly seemed a reason for me to call into question the stability of artists that changed the way I interacted with music, but here I was, reeling. I scoured the band’s latest material for clues of an imminent decline, and came back empty-handed. Sure, “All I Want” went a bit overboard in its vocal processing, and I suppose “White Sands” capped off the new album flatly for my liking.

But the album’s namesake “Weather Diaries” did truly capture the tenderness that rose beneath all of the glorious noise I had grown to love; “Charm Assault”’s guitar counterpoint fit like a Tetris-block in between a lively and rejuvenated tone. The writing wasn’t on the wall, and I struggled to reconcile with the small-batch dud left ringing in my ears.

But everything changed a few hours later when I queued up “Leave Them All Behind”, undoubtedly my all-time-favorite Ride song. As the opener to its breakthrough second album, it had everything that challenged my preconceived notions: immaculately mastered, precariously heavy on overdrive, and dizzying length for a single. Now, reconsidering recordings I had previously taken as gospel, I nervously readied myself to hear them under significantly less stable conditions.

And to my delight, not only this song but the entire stream of Going Blank Again’s tracklist sounded better than I had ever remembered. In this new light I felt the remarkable balance of their nonconformity. This record wasn’t misrepresented, it was a landmark, a monument of innumerable influences that, suddenly, was never guaranteed to be.

In time I’ve come to understand that the music wasn’t of higher quality now than it had been the day it came out more than a quarter-century ago. Rather, I needed a catalyst to shake the illusion that great music and great musicians were inevitable somehow.

Unbeknownst to me, it was a release of such stark underachievement that ultimately didn’t tarnish the relationships I had formed with one of my most cherished band’s output, and instead forged an appreciation I couldn’t have held before. The second I felt the fragility of my idealistic impressions, I clung tighter to the shining instances of stylistic invention and bravery that stimulated my own creative ambitions.

Tomorrow’s Shore is an isolated case at the same time that it acts as a reminder that any artist can misfire. The records that define eras, Ride’s included, are a product of magical circumstance, not least of which is a concerted effort not to fear failure. “You just had to create a wash of noise and suddenly you weren’t afraid anymore,” drummer Loz Colbert said of its early successes to The Guardian in 2015.

The boldness that left a wince on my face was the same kind that first left me thinking they could do no wrong. Glorifying and idolizing, however tempting, only perpetuates the infallible stature that isn’t warranted and eventually yields disappointment. On the other hand, listening honestly, fearlessly, and without slipping into corners of comfort opens doors and only adds satisfaction. Even a compilation of throwaways can offer something rewarding.

The post The Pulse: A Lesson in Disappointment from Ride appeared first on KRUI Radio.