AMM
Newfoundland

It was a bit sad to see that, on the vast site where I write, there was not a (I mean, ONE) review of the leading group in electroacoustic improvisation. That is, AMM. A historical group (founded in 1966), whose lineup has undergone numerous changes, and saw the involvement of Keith Rowe, Lou Gare, Cornelius Cardew, Lawrence Sheaff, Christopher Hobbs, and currently (2010) Eddie Prévost and John Tilbury.

In short, people who went hand in hand with experimental music. However, it was a very strict ensemble, far from the influences of free jazz à la Ornette Coleman, who was making a name for himself at the time. AMM has a precise, personal, and unique sound. This is one of the reasons why their collaborations were limited to a few episodes. Even the jazz musician Steve Lacy (who collaborated on some works by the Italian group Area) was invited not to play during one of their performances due to a lack of stylistic cohesion. An AMM concert, therefore, is not even a "jam session," like John Coltrane's "Ascension." The individualism of jazz is entirely absent, for the same reason it is difficult to align AMM with the work of the solo Fred Frith.

After understanding what AMM is not, I'd like to try to describe what they aim to represent when playing. First of all, instrumentation: it ranges from Rowe's prepared guitar, to Gare's saxophone, to Prévost's percussion. Sheaff was on bass, while the composer Cardew alternated between piano and cello. Tilbury (piano) joined a now disbanded group in 1980, with only Rowe and Prévost remaining. On one hand, the history of AMM itself heavily influenced the atmosphere of their concerts: the continual defections determined by the Maoist duo Cardew/Rowe often made the stage atmosphere comparable to a battlefield, where performers organize assaults and retreats. However, it is the approach to performance that represents the most inhuman thing one can imagine: by an internal rule of the group, nothing is prepared before the concert, and everything is entrusted to the sensitivity with which the members fill the empty spaces left by others; at the end of the performance, the final result is never discussed. The feeling an attentive listener has is one of spasmodic and spontaneous tension; a pessimistic reading of human nature; music made to fill or leave volumes exposed; slow transitions between one landscape and the next.

Finally moving on to the album in question, "Newfoundland" is the only, eponymous track on the album, lasting 76 minutes. Yes, for those who love oddities, I believe it is among the longest tracks in the history of compact discs. During this hour and a quarter, at least as far as I'm concerned, you become absolutely captivated. The Rowe/Tilbury/Prévost trio recorded this work in Canada, on the icy island of Newfoundland (just a few hundred kilometers from Greenland), on July 2, 1992. I can't help but believe that the three brought to the stage a twilight image of the cliffs plunging into the Atlantic Ocean. From the outset, the notes and noises convey the vision of a leaden sky, a cold and sunless afternoon spent walking along the rocky coasts. The only sounds are those of footsteps and gusts of wind, which occasionally break through the blanket of clouds. As you advance, alone, you happen to hear an old creaking window, and that lament enters your head, merging with the roll of nervous waves: there will be a storm tonight. The walk continues, and naturally, thoughts of ghosts, closed doors... the anxieties of every evening return to be felt.

From here on, the journey is all internal, divided between melancholy and an inexplicable monologue of delicate creaks, rubbings, murmurs. Fifty minutes have now passed since the walk began, and something changes; the sound becomes nocturnal. The meditation now continues in a house, a human refuge made of thin walls, electric lights, radio waves... barely sufficient to protect us from the fury of the elements, which we continue to gaze at in astonishment through the window. The cold of the night is felt, but some tonal piano chords, like woolen blankets, still manage to bring warmth. The noise of the storm outside is almost a pleasant diversion, and it blends with human chaos, which finally dulls the senses, exhausts ardors, pierces doubts with a drill, and grants merciful oblivion.