SOLD OUT

Patrizia Oliva _ voce _ elettronica
Jason Williams _ elettronica

Nel 2006 Patrizia Oliva si trovava in tour in Inghilterra ed una delle date era a Eastbourne, dove ha registrato anche questa seduta in studio, con il musicista elettronico Jason Williams. Williams è un noiser estremo, saxofonista, produttore indipendente e promoter di concerti. La stessa Oliva, in quegli anni, era molto coinvolta nella scena noise internazionale - con una attitudine al rumore che non ha mai abbandonato - e questo disco ne è una chiara testimonianza. La distribuzione dell'audio, del balance sui due canali è anch'essa radicale, una scelta voluta e perseguita. L'album è certamente ostico e impegnativo ma riesce ciononostante a ritagliarsi momenti di grande rarefazione e lirismo.

"(...) This was recorded back in 2006 in the UK’s Eastbourne, and we all do knowwhat’s “born in the East”, don’t we? All tracks are allegedly ‘untitled’, hence the title, so why are they listed on the cover as six number series’: 07 10 | 04 39 | 18 19 | 13 33 | 05 09 | 13 11? Purportedly these are the durations of the tracks, or is this a code? A telephone number? A safe combination? Remote-viewing coordinates? There seems to be more numbers hidden in the cover art that was created by one of the duo, Jason Williams. Numbers in duo, a duo of players, and there’s? also a lot of difference happening on each of the stereo channel duo... The action starts with what sounds like the national anthem of some mutated in between nightmare and alien abduction country. Moves into lower astral disco. Machines gone wrong but right for this sp?here. Strong, consistent attack. No voice yet. Here comes 2 with voice. Electronics sonics psychotics. Caterpillars over rough magnets. Throbbing here, with crunchy underlay. Vague end of jazz. Cleo Laine revolving in a cube of damp mattresses. 3 now, torture chamber storm. It’s gone quiet, a set up. Pit and the Pendulum tension. Mr Spock on piano. Mellow yellow? with a vibrator in. Nice tired time. “Mummy, what’s that thing in the mirror?” A repeated cult chant rounds it off, with a breathing synth and buzzing klinkophone. Is this 4? Still minimal, worldview hum. Scratches rattle. Underwater table tennis sheen, or miked up ants carrying off a melting circuit board. The hum takes over, like a breaking possessed stereo. HAL’s trumpet farts. The lady maketh another language words. Come to bed whisper, unintelligible. Pleasing continue in circles escaping. Miss Abstaract rides the waves she is. Lullaby silk imparts drifting long light to the ears. Twilight sheers. Think it’s 5. Tape stretch. Rumbleon squawk?taps a handless clock round a roulette wheel on Alchemical Street. The radio is 4004EB 96? alive. Right repetition. Elysian loops. Henbane fuzz twister blast-augments the composition. Lady gone gnomic. UFO engine radiance. Her voice builds to hypnotic sideways. This must be 6. Still low not in your face, but an outer part of your mind. The speaking female trance as altered. “Who are you for?” The doorway vocalised. Sine waves saluting. Pitch shift polishing the Black M. What the fuck’s going on? Give me back my silhouette. Pixie robot atmosphere speeds. Then back down to be your friend in the dark. A threat? Or confession? Telephone in the cellar tone, with silvered interference. Something is rewinding. It ends abruptly, leaving me on a different planet. Untitled 1-6 is the borderlands, original mix of madness, coded, edgy. It exposes the fault lines of musical libertarianism with a curious energetic – things odd come out. You may not want to experience this too often, but at the right time it will sure hit the spot. Depends how much you’ve learned to listen." Mark Reeve, Ongoing Magazine 2013.

"(...) What fun, what jolly japes. An hour or so of Brighton improv and some Italian noise with an Eastbourne filling thats the common link courtesy of Jason [to give him his full name] Williams. Or as I call him the six foot nine inch length of peripatetic noise thats more likely as not to be found on a bus or a train or cramped uncomfortably in the back of a car trailing halfway across the country on the off chance of deafening a few people in a room above a pub. He’s been ‘at it’ for as long as I’ve been writing this drivel but never have I seen anything appear with his given name on it before now. I suspect a maturing, a growing of sensibilities, a chance to put his name to something. Literarily. Having abused guitars and noise boxes for years it seems only natural that he should bring these forms to his involvement with Brighton improv duo The Black Neck Band of the Common Loon who when not grubbing around in Hectors House and various other houses of Brighton ill repute are chilling with Unky Thurst and doing their best to keep improv alive in the land of salad and cock rings. The collaboration with the Italian vocal improvisor Patrizia Oliva on the other hand harks back to Williams earlier days as noise provocateur when making a racket was all that counted and bugger the aftermath. After what turns out to be probably the worst first track of a release I’ve ever heard, anywhere, by anybody here now and in all likelihood, the future too there does appear to be something of worth lurking within but bugger me if it didn’t labour in revealing itself. Oliva’s voice is a gentle thing, a child singing nursery rhymes or a dreamy Japanese schoolgirl absentmindedly moaning the lines of a J-Pop song whilst staring out of the school window. An ethereal presence that when left alone is a very strange thing to listen to indeed but when slathered in Williams own brand no-fi noise gubbins becomes a so far out there what-the-fuck moment you have to wonder whether this was all one big joke on the Wire magazine or a genuine attempt to reconfigure whatever clash of genres this actually is. Oliva’s vocal moments are few and far between alas. I’d have liked to have heard more but when calm does descend, to a level of barely heard buzzes and shuffling, we’re left with too much of Williams glitch dub noise and too little of Oliva. A curious release and one that's had me baffled for quite a while now. I’m either so far off the pace these days I don’t even know my own arse or this is the new dogs bollocks. Someone else decide for me please." Idwal Fisher - an antimacassar for the hearing, 2013.

"(…) Ho perso il conto degli album solisti o in cordata con altri di Patrizia Oliva. Ma ogni volta che sento un lavoro inb cui c'è lei coinvolta a qualche titolo, mi stupisco sempre per la netta riconoscibilità del suo tocco, che con gli anni si sta facendo sempre più prezioso, come nell'abusata metafora del buon vino. Improv-elettronica calata in vuoto estroso e vaticinante, con voce che dilaga o si posa appena sulla superficie, plasmando lo svolgersi degli eventi. Idealmente collocabile le text-sound composition di Ake Hodell e gli esperimenti recenti Kyriakides." Loris Zecchin, Solar Ipse, 2013.

01 _ Untitled 01 07:10
02 _ Untitled 02 04:39
03 _ Untitled 03 18:19
04 _ Untitled 04 13:33
05 _ Untitled 05 05:09
06 _ Untitled 06 13:11

(C) + (P) 2013

SOLD OUT

Patrizia Oliva _ voice _ electronics
Jason Williams _ electronics

In 2006 Patrizia Oliva was on tour in England and one of her gigs was in Eastbourne where she also made a recording session in the studio, along with electronic musician Jason Williams (extreme noiser, 'noisician', saxophonist, producer and concert promoter). The same Oliva, in those years, was very involved in the extreme noise culture - an attitude that she has never completely abandoned - and this record is a clear testimony of this. So the album is radical, all devoted to extreme noise, but nevertheless manages to carve out moments of great lyricism and rarefaction. Also the audio distribution on the two channels is extreme, and it is pursued as a deliberate choice.

"(...) This was recorded back in 2006 in the UK’s Eastbourne, and we all do knowwhat’s “born in the East”, don’t we? All tracks are allegedly ‘untitled’, hence the title, so why are they listed on the cover as six number series’: 07 10 | 04 39 | 18 19 | 13 33 | 05 09 | 13 11? Purportedly these are the durations of the tracks, or is this a code? A telephone number? A safe combination? Remote-viewing coordinates? There seems to be more numbers hidden in the cover art that was created by one of the duo, Jason Williams. Numbers in duo, a duo of players, and there’s? also a lot of difference happening on each of the stereo channel duo... The action starts with what sounds like the national anthem of some mutated in between nightmare and alien abduction country. Moves into lower astral disco. Machines gone wrong but right for this sp?here. Strong, consistent attack. No voice yet. Here comes 2 with voice. Electronics sonics psychotics. Caterpillars over rough magnets. Throbbing here, with crunchy underlay. Vague end of jazz. Cleo Laine revolving in a cube of damp mattresses. 3 now, torture chamber storm. It’s gone quiet, a set up. Pit and the Pendulum tension. Mr Spock on piano. Mellow yellow? with a vibrator in. Nice tired time. “Mummy, what’s that thing in the mirror?” A repeated cult chant rounds it off, with a breathing synth and buzzing klinkophone. Is this 4? Still minimal, worldview hum. Scratches rattle. Underwater table tennis sheen, or miked up ants carrying off a melting circuit board. The hum takes over, like a breaking possessed stereo. HAL’s trumpet farts. The lady maketh another language words. Come to bed whisper, unintelligible. Pleasing continue in circles escaping. Miss Abstaract rides the waves she is. Lullaby silk imparts drifting long light to the ears. Twilight sheers. Think it’s 5. Tape stretch. Rumbleon squawk?taps a handless clock round a roulette wheel on Alchemical Street. The radio is 4004EB 96? alive. Right repetition. Elysian loops. Henbane fuzz twister blast-augments the composition. Lady gone gnomic. UFO engine radiance. Her voice builds to hypnotic sideways. This must be 6. Still low not in your face, but an outer part of your mind. The speaking female trance as altered. “Who are you for?” The doorway vocalised. Sine waves saluting. Pitch shift polishing the Black M. What the fuck’s going on? Give me back my silhouette. Pixie robot atmosphere speeds. Then back down to be your friend in the dark. A threat? Or confession? Telephone in the cellar tone, with silvered interference. Something is rewinding. It ends abruptly, leaving me on a different planet. Untitled 1-6 is the borderlands, original mix of madness, coded, edgy. It exposes the fault lines of musical libertarianism with a curious energetic – things odd come out. You may not want to experience this too often, but at the right time it will sure hit the spot. Depends how much you’ve learned to listen." Mark Reeve, Ongoing Magazine 2013.

"(...) What fun, what jolly japes. An hour or so of Brighton improv and some Italian noise with an Eastbourne filling thats the common link courtesy of Jason [to give him his full name] Williams. Or as I call him the six foot nine inch length of peripatetic noise thats more likely as not to be found on a bus or a train or cramped uncomfortably in the back of a car trailing halfway across the country on the off chance of deafening a few people in a room above a pub. He’s been ‘at it’ for as long as I’ve been writing this drivel but never have I seen anything appear with his given name on it before now. I suspect a maturing, a growing of sensibilities, a chance to put his name to something. Literarily. Having abused guitars and noise boxes for years it seems only natural that he should bring these forms to his involvement with Brighton improv duo The Black Neck Band of the Common Loon who when not grubbing around in Hectors House and various other houses of Brighton ill repute are chilling with Unky Thurst and doing their best to keep improv alive in the land of salad and cock rings. The collaboration with the Italian vocal improvisor Patrizia Oliva on the other hand harks back to Williams earlier days as noise provocateur when making a racket was all that counted and bugger the aftermath. After what turns out to be probably the worst first track of a release I’ve ever heard, anywhere, by anybody here now and in all likelihood, the future too there does appear to be something of worth lurking within but bugger me if it didn’t labour in revealing itself. Oliva’s voice is a gentle thing, a child singing nursery rhymes or a dreamy Japanese schoolgirl absentmindedly moaning the lines of a J-Pop song whilst staring out of the school window. An ethereal presence that when left alone is a very strange thing to listen to indeed but when slathered in Williams own brand no-fi noise gubbins becomes a so far out there what-the-fuck moment you have to wonder whether this was all one big joke on the Wire magazine or a genuine attempt to reconfigure whatever clash of genres this actually is. Oliva’s vocal moments are few and far between alas. I’d have liked to have heard more but when calm does descend, to a level of barely heard buzzes and shuffling, we’re left with too much of Williams glitch dub noise and too little of Oliva. A curious release and one that's had me baffled for quite a while now. I’m either so far off the pace these days I don’t even know my own arse or this is the new dogs bollocks. Someone else decide for me please." Idwal Fisher - an antimacassar for the hearing, 2013.

"(…) Ho perso il conto degli album solisti o in cordata con altri di Patrizia Oliva. Ma ogni volta che sento un lavoro inb cui c'è lei coinvolta a qualche titolo, mi stupisco sempre per la netta riconoscibilità del suo tocco, che con gli anni si sta facendo sempre più prezioso, come nell'abusata metafora del buon vino. Improv-elettronica calata in vuoto estroso e vaticinante, con voce che dilaga o si posa appena sulla superficie, plasmando lo svolgersi degli eventi. Idealmente collocabile le text-sound composition di Ake Hodell e gli esperimenti recenti Kyriakides." Loris Zecchin, Solar Ipse, 2013.

01 _ Untitled 01 07:10
02 _ Untitled 02 04:39
03 _ Untitled 03 18:19
04 _ Untitled 04 13:33
05 _ Untitled 05 05:09
06 _ Untitled 06 13:11

(C) + (P) 2013