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Supersonic The Custard Factory Birmingham, England May 30-31, 2014
Supersonic is dedicated to the aural extremes of electronica and guitar music, perhaps gradually tipping its balance towards the latter during the festival's decade of existence. This year's manifestation took place around five months earlier than its customary time, and was a 'limited edition,' deliberately harking back to its more contained roots in the Custard Factory cultural encampment, where the fest began. Even though numbers might have been curtailed, Supersonic still had a substantial gathering of punters, not too overcrowded but still dense enough to whip up a heated atmosphere. Yes, Supersonic was sensibly sold out! It was also sensibly on time, given that most of the action was on two stages, in alternating fashion. The sound quality too, was sensibly sculpted, for maximum clarity, particularly when the electronics hit their low- and high-end optimums. With all that organizational sensible-ness taken care of, the platform was clear for the controlled chaos of the music, the sculpted anarchy that stands as the majority approach. If acts are making a hellish din, it helps if their loving attention to sonic distress is captured with all its warty textures intact, laid out for targeted cranial bombardment.
Birmingham promoters Capsule run a gig program all year long, but their refined curating abilities always reach their peak for Supersonic, where time is allowed for contrasts and combinations, a mulling of the aural swill. The Friday evening began with Anta, a new-ish five-piece from Bristol. Much of their language was in the metal tongue, but the presence of a keyboardist gave them a slightly disconcerting taste of prog rockery, even if their angular riff structures were gilded with more than the expected amount of pustulous clumps. After this rock'n'roll burst, the rest of the night slunk down the electronic alleyway. Jarringly, the Matmos duo from Baltimore (together for nigh on two decades) sported radically contrasting wardrobes, with M.C. Schmidt garbed in smart business suit and Drew Daniel adopting studded biker chic. Their set seemed short, but that was probably just because it sped by, filled with diverse tactics, extended pieces that boasted completely different orientations. Narrative content spilled towards a beat-driven juggernaut, looking and sounding as though it was assembled on the hoof, using a simple metronome as a starting point, with beats loaded up, no excess spared. The pair's hi-tech video gear had died, so they resorted to using a laptop camera to view the ticking 'nome.
As the bass weight steadily became monumental, Matmos proved itself the sweetest hi-fi experience of the weekend, brutally amplified, every minute detail limned for crisp bombast. The rafters of this converted factory space began to snow tiny flakes of peeled paint, quivered off by bass-wobble, and the metronome began to vibrate across the table, trying to escape the camera. This was the only gig in the history of the globe where a roadie was seen sticking gaffa tape onto a metronome to arrest its escape progress. Schmidt proved himself to be a sharp-witted, humourous host in between each piece. Next up came a Tibetan flavored piece, full of captured flute-breath and arcane hand gestures, but not before the guest-starring Jeff Carey played a set-within-a-set, standing at his micro-table console, leaning it towards the audience as he triggered his rubber gaming stick, looking to be on the brink of falling into the crowd, as he coaxed coarse electro-eruptions for his interlude. Matmos had already been made early contenders for position of triumphant combo of the weekend.
Very soon afterwards, the electronic wonderment continued with Felix Kubin's solo performance. This German keyboardist comes from the Kraftwerk school of deadpan roboticism, artfully poised between 1980s pop-kitsch and a genuinely spiky experimentation. We weren't sure whether to be stern twitchers or to smile helplessly, as he cut shapes in his striking zip-up suit, emboldened by its sweeping graphic curlicues. He switched between a vintage Korg MS-20 and a more conventional keyboard, partnering dinky retro trills with darkly brutal basslines of a more modernistic nature, almost combining dubstep with electro-pop. He played his ace-in-the-howl by brandishing a pair of cut-out lightning bolts at the climax of his dazzling set, striking further windswept poses as the synthi-anthem throbbed.
I love jazz because anything is possible; it has few rules and the best jazz breaks those ones. I prefer free improv because it doesn't really have any rules at all.
I was first exposed to jazz in my teens (in the late sixties).
The first jazz record I bought was Filles de Kilimanjaro by Miles Davis, shortly followed by Extrapolation by John McLaughlin.
My advice to new listeners is to listen as widely as possible and not to make snap judgments--stick with it.