Keith Fullerton Whitman
Recorded in Lisbon

A LONG (TOO LONG!!!) PROLOGUE (IN TWO PARTS, NO LESS) ESSENTIAL BUT USELESS, TO A REVIEW THAT DOESN'T EXIST.

PROLOGUE

Part 1: stereophony/stereophobia.
It is said (an old friend used to say this about women, but I don't think it’s a gender issue) that some people's heads serve only to separate their ears, implying the alleged uselessness or inactivity of what's contained in the designated space within the skull.
I am one of those people. I am, that is, very pleased with this stereo system that I have had at my disposal for as long as I can remember, still in decent condition.
And with the fact that the distance between one auditory receptor and the other is ensured by the presence of a vaguely spherical container of synapses. Often kept at a minimal level of functionality (since, generally, when I exert myself too much, I just create trouble).
It's a system I'm used to, I don't even notice I'm carrying it around, it activates automatically and has a receptivity that seems to respect the average standards.
It requires minimal maintenance, which I willingly dedicate to it with some pleasure (what a strange sensation water in the ears is).
And it rarely causes me discomfort.
Sometimes, however, it seems to suffer from excessive stimuli: too much auditory information, too many stimuli. Involvements of areas of the overlying twisted chewing gum it must transmit them to, generating not just sensations but echoes of feelings!!!
And who asked for them? Not me, for sure!
In short, the sounds arrive, from both sides of the noggin, bringing with them all their array of echoes, emotional citations, shreds of memories, bargain-basement poetry, intertwined impulses…
At certain times, such grace causes me discomfort, it irritates me: I don't want it!
In those cases, it’s a form of rejection that for convenience I will probably call, perhaps with an inappropriate term, stereophobia.

Part 2: give it to me / take it back
But of course, who has never succumbed to that vaguely idiotic expression, an involuntary imitation of other pleasures that hit us with defenses (and belt) loosened, under the angelically diabolical effect of that progression of chords? And those voices that seem to have invented, right then and there, just for you, just for me, the mysterious sonic circle of words we won't get rid of, despite awkward exorcisms consisting of our humming: in the closed-off space while driving to work and then even there, under the pitying gazes of other humans. They too, at other times, caught in the same beatitude. But not today, today they can look at us like that, they haven't heard, them, that cursed song!
It’s the subtle and ruthless power of melody.
You can dress it in all guises, mask it, bury it under noise, chop it into pieces so it arrives with a delayed surprise effect, disguise it with the proverbial “extreme” treatments - Parenthesis, I take this opportunity: that term, so overused in “review” lexicon, gives me hives. Parenthesis closed - you can do whatever you like with it, but ultimately that's what it’s about. When it’s in action, and in good form, you're screwed.
If it doesn't work, if it's lackluster, too “constructed” or lacks magic, you can let your mind wander, you're free.
Its other companion, rhythm, almost always lends it a hand: under the effect of those two, properly combined, the expression I mentioned, you know how many times...
And it's quite a mystery: you can't explain why some yes and some no, why those that catch you straight away and seem so easy, simple, have taken a few thousand years and perhaps an unknown kid trying out in a garage on the other side of the world to reach, on any given afternoon, right into your suddenly hyper-receptive eardrums...
Well, having said this (and I stop because I'm beginning to enjoy myself, but I've decided not to exceed 20,000 characters) having said that I am a poor, naive, weak mobile receptacle of mischievous melodies, like you, like everyone (like, especially, the warriors of the “extreme”: spy on them, when they think they are alone...), I go back a bit.

Another thing that happens to these two fleshy shells is the perception of sound: not organized, not expected, generated accidentally, mechanically, organically, from all that is, always.
In the beginning was the word, yes. But I think it was a sound, what do you say?
He too, bearer of something. He too, associated with images and sensations: that door creaking, your nails on the blackboard, the vibration of your damn cell phone on the table surface (did you read only your cock's vibrations and imagined a mechanical prosthesis, didn't you? Me too, on rereading it) the breath of a stranger next to you, at the cinema (why does it sound like panting? It’s a family film...) the spectacular rhythm of those gears from that lock, 18 years ago, next to the rented house, in the Ligurian inland...
He too, abused (that creaking door has really taken on grotesque tones, now enough, a little grease and find some other effect, please) and stereotyped, for sure.
But sometimes, when you don't want all the trappings that rhythm and melody and harmony (yes, I know, we didn't talk about her, but turn a blind eye. It's not an academy, we're just babbling) bring with them when you can't take any more of meaning, of sensitivity and refined emotional writing, of personal poetic visions of existence, of happiness in 4/4, of so much blessing (and there comes a time when you don't want it anymore, when you need to create a void, right? I had called it stereophobia, improperly, I think) then you can decline the offer.
Had you said give it to me in front of the tempting package? Well, now you can say: take it back.
And plunge into a sound.

THE REVIEW THAT DOESN'T EXIST

Not long ago, among the comments on my little page, a very kind User suggested a musician, of whom I knew, and still know, almost nothing (give me time, Qzerty, I need time: too many damned records, too many sirens everywhere): Alvin Lucier.
But this will be the topic of the next “review” in 12 chapters and 4 prologues (kidding: the chapters are only 9 - :-) Anyway, while searching for information on Lucier, I stumbled upon another name, and shortly after, the latest record by this other name.
The name is Keith Fullerton Whitman, the record is titled “Recorded in Lisbon”.
It’s a single track, recorded “live” in Lisbon, on October 4, 2005.
It’s the latest in a series of works that Whitman dedicates to his own exploration of sound, based on a declared admiration for Alvin’s record “I’m Sitting In A Room”.
The process consists of the production of sound through manipulations, achieved by deploying an impressive amount of devices, electronic sounds, electric guitars and synths, and who knows what else, I didn’t understand. The sound layers and moves, also adding what is captured by the microphones scattered in the space where the performance takes place.
It's 41 minutes where what happens is the sound, and you’re there, inside its body.
It’s a physical experience.
It’s an extremely “conceptual” work, built around algorithms and organized like a scientific exploration but, paradoxically, to appreciate its nature all you need to do is not think, not try to understand, abandon yourself to a primordial listening: a neo Neanderthal in the cave of sound.
And it’s a record that I found beautiful.
But that I can only listen to when, caught by “stereophony”, I agree to surrender to a sort of “stereophilia” (I don't know if it exists, but it seems to work, said here), to enter “inside a soundscape and dwell in its magnified texture, like a microbe in an interstellar space corresponding to an infinitesimal surface of your t-shirt” (I copied this from an old comment of mine on another review. It seems very appropriate and besides, I don't like to waste, I don't throw anything away)
In short, when avoiding language, I rely on its skeleton.
I don't know, it's as if what enters through the ears also ends up in the "empty" space between skull and brain, indeed, mostly there, making the liquid pouch in which that mysterious matter is immersed sway and vibrate (gosh, what strange stuff we are) without invoking it through the usual paths.
Let’s be clear, because then misunderstandings always arise and life is already so complicated.
I am not talking about a masterpiece.
It’s not this (music as experiment, conceptual approach, refusal of melody) against that (music as melodic and harmonic tradition, the joy of listening, the “ease”, the “rock”, the songs)
And this is not, of course, a review: but I had said it, it’s even written in the title.

A nice and exhaustive review can be found here: http://www.musiconair.net/forum/viewtopic.php?&t=1884
A bit emphatic, in the closure, but very detailed and rich in information.
I only put down a handful of samples.
And I bid you farewell, exhausted reader, with a minimal nod (I don't like to dwell in chatter :-)
Send me to hell, I understand you.
But be kind, do it loudly. :))