WTF Album: childoid in surrealienland
Country: Argentina
Timeline: 2012 -
WTF Quality: Heavily manipulated samples that don't sound like samples, except when they do
Tags: experimental, sound art, collage, noise, surreal
Links: http://archive.org/details/HadoNavarro-ChildoidInSurrealienland
In tribute to this surrealien piece of WTF expression, the following comments will attempt to not only verbalize the nature, structure, form, and emotional content of the music, but if and where possible, some clues or hints into something that might not be visible immediately... maybe not exactly any kind of coherent meaning, but perhaps some sort of vision, or link to a realm that is not this ... The music itself, being the contorted fractured non-entinity that it is, guides me as such.
resurrection's requiem
we open in a heavy sheen of magnetic aura
a breathy, hard sliding glow of spectral flare, solid and steady, gradual glides and inflections within the meta-stasis
ending in a pulse,
silence,
regular periodic buzzing clicks.
Welcome back?
Goodbye home?
Any-how,
In
dictatorship of the children
tyewriters, incessantly pounding, resonating within a small steel box, from the side, from above, in a flow of water, through a tangle of wires, a thousand metallic claws hammering down on computerized machinery
ending with a collage of video games, voices, 8bit spaceships and nintendo
those fucking kids will get what they want.
immortals kamikazes war
frantic activity, one bot in a room, downloading, switching, gobbling waves, input, transmitting, computing, booting, hacking, receiving, re-launching, redirecting traffic, searching and logging, traveling through some corridors, drains, flipping switches, attack, launch, prepare, liquid metal sounds with a few spotted incoming receptions from the airwaves, cutting through styrofoam to achieve the desired shape to fit the key to the next passage. Unendingly dying and returning, one voice, sometimes two, texture overlap with static frequency, high overtones and reverberant decay, tube flush, a hollow explosion and tattered broken remnants, all too many wires and electrical shorts, dancing particles in a processor spinning blades, no harmony ever reached, continual destruction but never apocalyptic
finally, a vision of supremacy, an anthem to the great leaders of mayhem and the infinite destroyers
psychophonic echolocation
a whisper. crumbled into a digital howl where the sample is crushed and grated, shredded, mashed, chopped and sliced, ground to bits, sawed in pieces, duplicated and lent to further grinding. The title is again a clue. Someone is spitting out a message, a wave of information into the ether, awaiting the bounce back from the far side, a one way communication mapping the shape of the void with a caustic hiss, a burbling purr, many voices, one voice, not heard through the ears but lapped by the tongue. Further down the line it's getting more desperate, struggling, at last pondersome and nonchalant.
Age of time paradox
continuing in the vein of "psychophonic echolocation," jumbled voice samples sear through the static. This time, it is possible to hear the transition from "sample recognized as voice" into "electric garble" and further into "completely abstract claws scratching computerized machinery." Still the rhythm, cadence, and flow of a drone of voiced human chatter can be recognized, and these dystopian automatonic beings that emerge in the parallel world that emerges gradually develop a language clearly distinguishable by the end of the piece as not so far from where we came from.
surrealiens
Cat!
a true to real sample of rain and thunder recorded from within a room, without much ado into the leaky breaker room glitch surveillance system phenomena. I may be enticed to think that this frozen sand splitting is in the rhythm of raindrops pattering from the gutter onto the patio. Or I may as well accept that I am now lost in a surreal landscape, frozen, with no idea where this crunching silence that surrounds me is from or what substance it's composed of. Here Hado Navarro is now penetrating subtle far-end hard to reach realms of the fractalized synapse-mind of wtf imagination trajectories. The funny feeling that grips me is that with a few tiny adjustments to the tone of this, what ever kind of noise you would call it is, I feel like I'm right there on the floor, inside the machine, or a little animal or spirit visitor right there with the musical creator, creeping around wires or into catacomb micro-passageways. With a few more tweaks, I'm lost again, or just no longer conscious that what is happening to me is really sound at all... as with all tracts of time it ends ...
bigbangcore!
http://vimeo.com/36586127
I feel like I'm waiting for something now. Because although casual listening of this album is encouraged, with headphones on and feeling the thrust of the music to this point, and knowing the title of this one, there must be some kind of surreal gag, an unveiling, or at any rate the expectation of something unexpected. Not in a bombastic left-field carpet pulled from under my feet kind of way, but ... something unexpressably delicate or occult, something visible but lacking substance.
Again I feel like robot aliens are talking to me, futilely. Is this the surrealienland's mantra of elusive inanity?
Yet it does harken me back into the beginning of time, when words had weight much like a stone lifted from the earth has weight. When sounds were forms, when life was pure impulse only, no convolution, plasma in a hermetic receptacle unbound by motion of time. It's like the echo of that. I don't feel particularly close to human-ness at this point, but I know I've not escaped it.
We leave on a train.
Rewix eyervitnhg
Fuck yeah! Destroy! Break it! Don't even think about it.
wait. Huh? Petri dish?
typewriters!
Cat! . . . (Or ...?)
Never mind. No thought. When you reach the unique fathom of inter-reality as presented in the Surrealienland, in is sometimes out, and never is usually always, but from and until meet at the cusp of extreme and stillness. Many textures enter and retreat, you at the point of stasis will internalize come and go as sometimes motion, sometimes rest, or stasis within activity and the immobility of dance. Voices will call and earthly sounds will fall and enter your awareness. Draped over this is the stained glass of heavy sample manipulation and ultimately a sign pointing to the question, WTF is this?
-Jeemobon
