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What can I say, it's one of two things: either the heat of these days has definitively melted my last remaining neurons, leading me towards early senile dementia, or this gargantuan sultriness is making me see new possibilities; bizarre mental associations caused by suffering that, artaudianly, open windows where before I only saw white backdrops.
In this delirious/"enlightened" stasis, I have observed that the artistic parabola of Jim O'Rourke resembles, in some respects, that of Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev, a great Russian writer of the late 19th century.
Both are not the most original in their works (surpassed in innovation and depth by those of several of their contemporaries), yet they remain absolutely noteworthy if we focus on their stylistic imprint. What they have, and what constitutes the quid of their works, is the "touch".
Turgenev's prose was velvety, of pictorial sophistication; brushstrokes of unique chromaticism that made even a conversation between two obtuse Russian muziki interesting as they hooked up the shafts of a shabby troika.
O'Rourke's sound is fragrant, spiced; a touch that leaves a very peculiar scent in the air, a kind of fragrance that's still perceptible for some time after we've removed one of his records from the player.
"Disengage" is an album from the early Jim era, the one of sound experimentation where electronics played a prominent role; a mammoth work spread over two discs, each with a long track divided into multiple movements.
In the slow crescendo of the initial drone, a bustling of increasingly vivid and articulated details takes shape; a rich froth of overdubs materializing from the dream realm to become reality. It feels like observing a cherry branch from afar to gradually discover all the wonders notable only at close range; the grooves of the petals, the dark knots of the wood, a few bees flying among the pistils and green leaves nibbled here and there by passing swallows.
In the second movement, the atmosphere becomes unsettling and charged with tension. Something floats above us, creaking in search of a suitable frequency to materialize; it twists and writhes, then gradually thins out, leaving us alone with the pulsations of its artificial heart that vaguely recall those "mathematically" soporific climaxes characteristic of many works by Robert Rich.
A minimal ambient closes the piece; this something is ready to communicate with us and does so through the voice of a desolate trumpet and a poignant cello that, fading into the horizon, intertwine in a mournful, otherworldly dance.
A buzzing electronic drone opens the second piece, creating chiaroscuro light. The unfolding creates bizarre shapes; sketched drawings where a faint splashing enters into dissonance with the pinpoint signal of an onboard computer. Crazy coordinates and uncertain navigation, multiform pulsations that excite and disorient; it's possible that Emma Bovary had a similar sound in her head; I'm sure! A sound like this led her to the end of the ruinous spiral of her life.
And then an eternal flow, a dense and oppressive feeling of inevitability that accompanies us with the same solemnity as a procession. Strange background noises gradually appear; broken bottles, clattering fragments, debris frantically stirred. The mind wants to free itself from hypnosis and break the sound enchantment.
Crepuscular lines of violin will close the journey, leaving us with a bittersweet aftertaste, as if knowing they have tried to comfort what cannot be comforted.
Here, this is the touch of O'Rourke.
Now I retreat to my rooms, it's thirty-six degrees in the shade here!
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