Terrazoku: an Earth tribe of the future brought into being by the climate apocalypse of the late twenty-first century; a ragbag of survivors for whom life on Earth is a very different experience from those of their predecessors.
Will Glaser, along with a host of fellow travellers and musical explorers, has produced an imaginary soundtrack for those people, considering their re-learning of musical form, constructing instruments from the everyday detritus of abandoned civilisations and incorporating found sounds both remembered and actual. Spread over two cassettes, it takes the listener on a journey into sound that could be the most prescient thing you are likely to hear.
The impression is that life may re-emerge from the ghosts of jungles, communication by rhythmic percussion constructed from the leftovers of lives discarded and forgotten. A reversion to some sort of historical significance, with the groan of ghosts forcing a direction. There is something in the sky but what is it? There are people here for whom air travel is a thing of myth and the echoes of jets hang in the ears of the elders. Sounds of frustration echo through the canopy, but this is a coming together of different approaches and different discoveries. Drifting ambience against forceful rhythm, vibrant and threatening then drifting again. Different landscapes are described by the different tribes assembled.
There is the sense of distance and time melting away, a feeling of loneliness in those tribes rendered remote or abandoned by various disasters. There is the sound of a bass, plangent and lulling in unison with a voice that drifts untethered. It moves gently, drifting like a balloon while chattering sounds gather, attracted by this opportunity as previously unheard birds reappear. Isolated percussive sounds twist and deliberate; a guitar is uncovered and plundered, awkward rhythms and hidden chords bridging gaps. It is a Tom Waits-ian swagger, like some half-remembered shadows or rumours of bluesy jazz. Is anyone left who recalls this old music that erupts boiling and shuddering? Elsewhere, bells and percussion atop hidden irradiated mountains call out, the incessant drizzle of acid leaving a tang in the air. It is difficult to concentrate up here where an insistent clarinet circles. The sky is beginning to clear and it is possible to see through to what is left of the stars. We wouldn’t recognise the moon’s position; but as other instruments gather, rhythmic metallic interaction shimmers like deep starlight. A wild horn-led freakout with resonant cymbal and gong travails eventually settle into a Zen-like, bird-filled calm. The return of the birds gives hope and the tranquillity of this spot puts things into perspective.There is a rhythmic tribal hoedown like some gathering of the clans. This is the time to work out how to proceed. A kind of percussive elegance hints at a togetherness, a search for unity with a distant drone joining the hubbub, heralding the arrival of some sort of change. Insects have survived and are drawn to the gathering, while a drum’n’bass transmission from some forgotten outpost is distorted and distended; an insistent beat disturbed by the rattle and clang of long-forgotten machinery. Can it be re-purposed somehow in this different sort of gathering, one that is darker, the urban survivors drawn from underpasses and forlorn estates, the people worn down by the constant grind as a hum moves through rotting pylons, a dislocated electronic scurf and junkyard percussion accompanying the sweet sound of birds.
Over a drone the distant sound of movement on rails is a promise of movement, but the discovery of the state of the water prompts howls of anguish and despair. A tumult that comes deep from within. It is a dangerous beat-ridden cacophony, highlighting the realisation of the work that needs to be done to undo such neglect. The sound of water usually settles, but here it is infected; you make it to the ocean only to find pollution and death. A siren’s lament repels you back the the rainforests. It is more bearable here, where at least there is life; although the lumbering, clattering rhythm gives the impression that there is death even amongst this sanctuary. Finally a cello grinds a lament against an ambience broken by the ambiguous soulful words of a Japanese poet. They hold hope deep in the heart, but don’t pretend to have all the answers as the voice drifts, finally giving way to a wordlessness that better embodies hope.The assorted throng of players (Ruth Goller, Agathe Max, Tara Cunningham, James Allsopp, Jem Doulton, Alex Bonney, Ed Dudley, Lauren Kinsella and Kirke Gross) have doe a glorious job of bringing to life Will’s vision. It is a suite that due to its liberating complexity gives up something fresh with every listen and hopefully makes the listener ponder over their attitude towards the Earth. With the cassette format, Not Applicable has done a glorious job on its packaging, with art from Karolina Burlikowska and Djoina Amrani, if anything is the perfect encapsulation of what the label stands for. This is absolutely essential.
-Mr Olivetti-
