Energy Flash: A Journey Through Rave Music and Dance Culture (65 page)
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Authors: Simon Reynolds
BOOK: Energy Flash: A Journey Through Rave Music and Dance Culture
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Slaved to the Rhythm
Critiques of digital music usually focus on the fact that, despite the rhetoric of ‘infinite possibilities’ that surrounds it, most music made on computers sounds awful samey. Some of the acutest criticisms have come from Brian Eno. Although he pioneered many of the techniques taken up by sampladelia – loops, found sounds, the obsession with timbre, the creation of ‘fictional psycho-acoustic space’ – Eno is disenchanted with almost all the music currently made using computer technology. Speaking to
Wired
magazine, he complained that digital, sequenced music had merely resurrected many of the inherent limitations of classical orchestral music, with its hierarchical ranking of instruments in the mix, its rigid sense of pitch and its locked rhythms tied to the conductor/timekeeper. ‘Classical music is music without Africa,’ he complained, adding later, ‘the problem with computers is that there is not enough Africa in them . . . A nerd is a human being without enough Africa in him or her.’
Wired
magazine, he complained that digital, sequenced music had merely resurrected many of the inherent limitations of classical orchestral music, with its hierarchical ranking of instruments in the mix, its rigid sense of pitch and its locked rhythms tied to the conductor/timekeeper. ‘Classical music is music without Africa,’ he complained, adding later, ‘the problem with computers is that there is not enough Africa in them . . . A nerd is a human being without enough Africa in him or her.’
In a later interview with
Request
, Eno looked to African percussion music – which is based not just around polyrhythm, as is much rock and dance music, but around multi-tiered metres that coexist in a sort of loose interdependence – as a model of liberation. ‘I like different layers to be going on simultaneously and not to necessarily be locked . . . what I like is when they sometimes lock, so there’s this dramatic moment when all of those things suddenly come together, then they drift again.’ Africa’s poly-metric perversity has a utopian, democratic charge for Eno. By comparison, house and techno producers are ‘slaves to their machines, just as most of us are slaves to [the machines we use] . . . This is a music that’s particularly enslaved . . .’
Request
, Eno looked to African percussion music – which is based not just around polyrhythm, as is much rock and dance music, but around multi-tiered metres that coexist in a sort of loose interdependence – as a model of liberation. ‘I like different layers to be going on simultaneously and not to necessarily be locked . . . what I like is when they sometimes lock, so there’s this dramatic moment when all of those things suddenly come together, then they drift again.’ Africa’s poly-metric perversity has a utopian, democratic charge for Eno. By comparison, house and techno producers are ‘slaves to their machines, just as most of us are slaves to [the machines we use] . . . This is a music that’s particularly enslaved . . .’
This politically charged analogy – Africa versus slavery – is ironic, since it is part of the terminology of computer-based music, where instruments are ‘slaved’ to MIDI (Musical Instrument Digital Interface), the timekeeper machine which triggers all the different sequences and keeps them in synch. As pop culture theorist Andrew Goodwin has pointed out, this sort of critique of musical standardization echoes the notions of anti-capitalist thinkers like Theodor Adorno, who characterized the products of the pop culture industry in terms of ‘part-interchangeability’ and ‘pseudo-individuation’: superficial novelty within rigid formats (in pop terms, think 4/4 metre and verse/chorus/ middle-eight structure). MIDI and other digital technologies promise infinite potential for individual expression, but only within the parameters of a rigidly structured matrix for organizing sound.
‘Part-inter changeability’ certainly applies to the bulk of dance music, in so far as most producers operate rather like the car-freaks who cannibalize auto parts, hot-rod their engines, and customize the vehicle’s body in order to personalize the mass-produced. Similarly, dance producers build souped-up rhythm-engines using an often rather restricted repertoire of components, derived from sample CDs or sound-modules which contain hundreds of breakbeats, a cappellas, synth-patches, etc. Although the sampler does indeed offer ‘infinite possibilities’ for resequencing and warping these samples, most dance producers are constrained by the funktionalist criteria of their specific genre. Tracks are designed as material for the DJ to
work
into a set, and so must conform in tempo and mood. Creativity in dance music involves a balancing act between making your tracks both ‘music
and
mixable’ (as Goldie put it). Simon Frith points out that one of the defining qualities of digital music is the sense that this music ‘is never finished and . . . never really integrated’ as a composition. It is precisely this ‘unfinished’ aspect – the sockets, as it were – that enable the DJ to plug tracks into the mix-scape.
Reinventing the Machinework
into a set, and so must conform in tempo and mood. Creativity in dance music involves a balancing act between making your tracks both ‘music
and
mixable’ (as Goldie put it). Simon Frith points out that one of the defining qualities of digital music is the sense that this music ‘is never finished and . . . never really integrated’ as a composition. It is precisely this ‘unfinished’ aspect – the sockets, as it were – that enable the DJ to plug tracks into the mix-scape.
‘The street tries to find its own uses for things.’
– William Gibson,
Count Zero
Count Zero
More than in any other genre, electronic musicians articulate what they do in terms of their tools. Ironically, despite this technophile rhetoric, the most radical electronic dance music is often made with relatively low-level equipment and outmoded machinery; the Roland TB 303, source of the acid-house bass, and Roland’s 808 and 909 drum machines are prime examples of the way in which techno musicians find new possibilities in obsolete and discontinued gear. State-of-the-art, top-of-the-range equipment is more likely to be found in expensive recording studios, where it’s used in the production of conventional-sounding pop and rock. Indeed, the most widespread use of sampling is pretty prosaic: it’s a means of cutting corners and costs, a way of procuring ‘authentic’ instrumental colours without hiring session musicians or of ‘saving’ a good sound without having to go through the bother of, say, repeatedly miking up the drums in a particular way. Generally, there’s more space-age technology involved in the making of MOR shlock like Celine Dion than in tracks by avowed futurists like Jeff Mills.
The picture is further complicated by the fact that techno artists sometimes have a confused idea of what constitutes ‘progress’ for electronic music. Too often, this is conceived in terms of ‘musicality’. Within the terms of genres like house or jungle, ‘innovation’ or ‘maturity’ for the genre can involve steps that, from an external avant-garde perspective, seem regressive: a move away from noise-and-rhythm minimalism towards greater harmonic/melodic complexity; ‘organic’, quasi-acoustic textures; highly finessed arrangements and the incorporation of ‘live’ vocals or ‘real’ musicianship.
Self-consciously ‘progressive’ dance music has an unfortunate tendency to repeat the mistakes of progressive rockers like ELP, Genesis, Jethro Tull et al, who sought to legitimate rock by aping the grandiosity of nineteenth-century classical music. The results, in both prog rock and prog dance, are bloated song-cycles and concept albums, ostentatious musicianship, a prissy obsession with production values. Just as the truly ‘progressive’ bands of the late sixties and early seventies had more in common with twentieth-century avant-classical composers (electro-acoustic,
musique concrète
, the New York school of drone-minimalism), similarly the truly radical sampladelic artists are engaged in
expanding
our notions of what ‘music’ can be. This involves the exploration of timbre, chromatics and ‘noise-sound’, the prioritizing of rhythm and repetition over melodic/harmonic development, and the elaboration of virtual space using the studio-as-instrument.
musique concrète
, the New York school of drone-minimalism), similarly the truly radical sampladelic artists are engaged in
expanding
our notions of what ‘music’ can be. This involves the exploration of timbre, chromatics and ‘noise-sound’, the prioritizing of rhythm and repetition over melodic/harmonic development, and the elaboration of virtual space using the studio-as-instrument.
How does this project relate to technology? I believe that this music’s cutting edge
is
tied to its technological underpinnings. Firstly, it’s about finding out what a new piece of equipment facilitates that wasn’t previously possible or even thinkable. This involves locating and exploiting potentials in the new machines that the manufacturers never intended. A frequent claim that you hear from techno producers is that the first thing they do when they’ve acquired a new machine is to throw away the manual and start messing around, blithely indifferent to the manufacturer’s helpful hints. Above all, the truly progressive edge in electronic music involves doing things that can’t be physically achieved by human beings manipulating instruments in real-time. Rather than using techniques like step-writing to mimic traditional ideas of musicianship (frilly arpeggios, solo-istic meanderings), it’s about inventing a new kind of posthuman virtuosity. A prime example is the way jungle producers use sampling and sequencing software to create fantastically complex breakbeat rhythms that are too fast and convoluted for a human drummer to achieve, yet still retain an eerie ‘feel’.
is
tied to its technological underpinnings. Firstly, it’s about finding out what a new piece of equipment facilitates that wasn’t previously possible or even thinkable. This involves locating and exploiting potentials in the new machines that the manufacturers never intended. A frequent claim that you hear from techno producers is that the first thing they do when they’ve acquired a new machine is to throw away the manual and start messing around, blithely indifferent to the manufacturer’s helpful hints. Above all, the truly progressive edge in electronic music involves doing things that can’t be physically achieved by human beings manipulating instruments in real-time. Rather than using techniques like step-writing to mimic traditional ideas of musicianship (frilly arpeggios, solo-istic meanderings), it’s about inventing a new kind of posthuman virtuosity. A prime example is the way jungle producers use sampling and sequencing software to create fantastically complex breakbeat rhythms that are too fast and convoluted for a human drummer to achieve, yet still retain an eerie ‘feel’.
Techno-phobes often argue that electronic dance music rapidly becomes dated because it is so tied to the state-of-the-art technology of the day, making ‘timeless art’ an impossible goal. But rock and pop are equally susceptible to being trapped in time, because of the vogues for particular production styles and effects. These ‘period sounds’ are often alluring precisely for their nostalgic charm or the way they capture a specific pop Zeitgeist. At various points in rock history, the leading edge of music involves a strategic retreat from the state-of-the-art towards more limited technological set-ups. Examples include 1968’s retreat from 1967’s psychedelic studio excesses to a more gritty, blues-and-country influenced sound; grunge’s rejection of eighties rock’s crystal-clear production in favour of the muddy naturalism of early seventies heavy rock; lo-fi’s fetish for four track recording and distortion. As techno has become more self-conscious about its own history, it has staged periodic returns to period sounds, like the Roland 303, or electro’s gauchely futuristic textures and stiff, geometric drum machine beats.
Songs Versus SoundscapesJust as they are sometimes overdeferential towards conventional notions of musicality, techno artists often talk about what they do in the seemingly inappropriate language of traditional humanist art – ‘expression’, ‘soul’, ‘authenticity’, ‘depth’. This ‘false consciousness’ can be attributed partly to timelag (discourse failing to keep pace with technology), partly to the industry/media’s need for singular auteur-geniuses (as opposed to the collective creativity of scenes, with their anonymous flows of ideas), and partly as an attempt to contradict those critics who denigrate techno as cold, inhuman machine-music.
The truth lies somewhere between these two poles of expressive subjectivity and objective functionalism. Even when s/he is trying to express feelings, rather than simply make something (some
thing
) that works on the dancefloor, the techno auteur is not present in the art work in the way that the singer/songwriter can be said to be present in rock. For rock critics, the Song is a mini-novel, a story (either personal confession or character study). As instrumental music, techno is closer to the plastic arts or architecture than literature, in that it involves the creation of an imaginary environment.
thing
) that works on the dancefloor, the techno auteur is not present in the art work in the way that the singer/songwriter can be said to be present in rock. For rock critics, the Song is a mini-novel, a story (either personal confession or character study). As instrumental music, techno is closer to the plastic arts or architecture than literature, in that it involves the creation of an imaginary environment.
The material with which the techno auteur works – timbre/texture, rhythm and space – are precisely those elements that rock criticism ignores in favour of meaning, which is extracted almost exclusively from close study of lyrics and persona. Rock critics use techniques borrowed from literary criticism or sociology to
interpret
rock in terms of the singer’s biography/neurosis, or the music’s social relevance. Devoid of text, dance music and ambient are better understood using metaphors from the visual arts: ‘the soundscape’, ‘aural decor’, ‘a soundtrack for an imaginary movie’, ‘audio-sculpture’.
interpret
rock in terms of the singer’s biography/neurosis, or the music’s social relevance. Devoid of text, dance music and ambient are better understood using metaphors from the visual arts: ‘the soundscape’, ‘aural decor’, ‘a soundtrack for an imaginary movie’, ‘audio-sculpture’.
But these metaphors aren’t really satisfactory either, since they tend towards the static (fine for ambient, but not for dance music). Dance music happens through time (it
moves
) and it’s kinaesthetic (it makes
you
move). Dance tracks are less about ‘communication’ in the rock sense and more like engines for ‘the programming of sensations’ (Susan Sontag). Triggering motor/muscular reflexes and recalibrating your body, the rhythms and textures of jungle, trance, garage, etc., each make you move through the world in a different way.
moves
) and it’s kinaesthetic (it makes
you
move). Dance tracks are less about ‘communication’ in the rock sense and more like engines for ‘the programming of sensations’ (Susan Sontag). Triggering motor/muscular reflexes and recalibrating your body, the rhythms and textures of jungle, trance, garage, etc., each make you move through the world in a different way.
Of course, rock is also rich with non-verbal elements; a hefty proportion of its pleasure and power reside in the sound, the groove, the riff. Nonetheless, critics continue to discuss rock as a series of stories or statements. Because it isn’t figurative (it gets rid of both the singer and the persona/character in the song), dance music intensifies the non-referential but deeply evocative/provocative aspects at work in all forms of music – the very stuff that criticism can’t
handle
(in both senses of the word). From the text-biased vantage of rock criticism, dance music is troubling precisely because it seems to be all materiality and no meaning. Entirely an appeal to the body and the senses, it offers no food for thought. Mere ear-candy, it gives you an ‘empty’ sugar-rush.
handle
(in both senses of the word). From the text-biased vantage of rock criticism, dance music is troubling precisely because it seems to be all materiality and no meaning. Entirely an appeal to the body and the senses, it offers no food for thought. Mere ear-candy, it gives you an ‘empty’ sugar-rush.
In this respect, techno and house exacerbate the original sins of disco, which was dissed by rock fans and crits as superficial and lyrically trite. Rave music completes the trajectory began by disco when it depersonalized the vocal mannerisms of funk and soul. In techno and house, vocals are either eliminated or survive mostly as soul-diva samples, which are diced, processed, and moulded like some ectoplasmic substance. Rave music doesn’t so much abolish ‘soul’ as disperse it across the entire field of sound. This is music that’s all erogenous surface and no depth, ‘skin’ without ‘heart’.
The ImagineerSampladelic dance music also problematizes standard notions about creativity and authorship in pop music. Not only is the Romantic figure of the Creator displaced by the less glamorous curator (the DJ-TURNED-PRODUCER), but the lines between art and craft, inspiration and technique, are blurred. Once, it was possible to distinguish between music and its production, between the song and the recording tricks with which it’s embellished. But with dance tracks, the music
is
the production. Increasingly, the figure of the producer blurs with the engineer, traditionally regarded as a mere technician who facilitates the sonic ideas and aspirations of band and producer. In most dance music, though, it’s the timbre and penetration of a bass-tone, the sensuous feel of a sample-texture, the gait of a drum-loop, that’s the real hook, not the sequence of notes that constitutes ‘the melody’.
is
the production. Increasingly, the figure of the producer blurs with the engineer, traditionally regarded as a mere technician who facilitates the sonic ideas and aspirations of band and producer. In most dance music, though, it’s the timbre and penetration of a bass-tone, the sensuous feel of a sample-texture, the gait of a drum-loop, that’s the real hook, not the sequence of notes that constitutes ‘the melody’.
All this has ignited a hotbed of fiercely contested questions about publishing credits and payment. Where do you draw the line between producer/engineer and composer? The rise of figures like Rob Playford (Goldie’s partner), Howie B, Nico Sykes of No U Turn, is proof that we need to start thinking of the engineer as poet, as weaver-of-dreams. Once ‘creativity’ and ‘composition’ have been reconceptualized in this way, the history of rock suddenly looks different. Why does the law say that you can’t copyright a beat or a sound? Why did Mick Jagger and Keith Richards get the publishing credit and royalties for ‘Satisfaction’, when it’s Charlie Watts’s drum part that provides the song’s killer hook? We might start to rethink James Brown as simultaneously the CEO and the public trademark of a funk corporation, an early seventies polyrhythm-factory churning out breakbeats, B-lines, horn-stabs and rhythm-guitar tics – quality components of such machine-tooled durability they’re still being cannabilized by engineer/producers in rap and jungle today. Instead of J. B.’s ponderous ballads and portentous Soul Statesmanship, we might consider his greatest contribution to
this
legacy to be his sex-machine repertoire of hyper-syncopated vocal grunts and gasps.
this
legacy to be his sex-machine repertoire of hyper-syncopated vocal grunts and gasps.
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