Thirty minute letters in audio, between two friends across London. Two hours of music and the odd bit of wittering on.
Half hour segments kicked off by Elliott with ambient delights, checking in with Talk Talk, Haruomi Hosono, Jefre Cantu-Ledesma and The Beach Boys, and finishing with 2 sets of 2 long pieces chosen in pairs featuring Lowtec and An Trinse.
Two hours, broken into quarters, by two friends, across two distant North London suburbs.
Thirty minute messages featuring postcards from Hiroshi Yoshimura, balearica from Ennio Morricone, incantations from Joanna Brouk and interpretations from Robert Wyatt, and much more.
Whispering and weirdness. Repetition and rhythm.
The Whole declared, “You’ll never know the sum of all My parts, so stop your foolish figuring, and mend your broken hearts.”
“My piece Invocation is a 16-part canon on one note, and the note is the kind of drone the Tibetan monks use,” he explains. “That piece suggests the dead are speaking to the living, or perhaps it’s a conversation between the living of this galaxy and the living of some other galaxy. Thought is faster than light, it’s instantaneous over trillions of light years. Another piece, The Cosmicode, shows the infrastructure of the universe. It proves that contraction must precede expansion, it proves the two-directionality of time, and it proves cause-effect inversion. Can you imagine that?” [Source]
Moondog invented a number of instruments which he performed his music on (such as the oo, hüs, trimba, dragons teeth and ooo-ya-tsu) and wrote his compositions in Braille. To create a new language, a new music, a “snake rhythm” as he called it: new tools must be used. Trying to understand the work of Moondog without standing on Sixth Avenue, without sight, and listening to the accompaniment of the 1970s streets leaves half the performance unresolved. The closest remaining echo is manifest in his friend Stefan Lakatos, to whom Moondog entrusted his original Trimba.
The complete picture of his music died with Moondog himself, but so it goes.
An hour of roughly fifteen minute sections, broken apart by a ringing chime and about an hour and a half’s trudging journey (on a cool, clear day) around the north circular.
Songs about fathers and being a father. About Japanese musicians (inevitably) and psychedelic percussion. Mythological identities and unlikely spies.
“As you begin to realise that every different type of music, everybody’s individual music, has its own rhythm, life, language and heritage, you realise how life changes, and you learn how to be more open and adaptive to what is around us.”
Fifteen odd years of passing music to each other on shiny plastic discs of varying sizes, spooling cassettes and digital digits have led to a relatively solid understanding of each others tastes. You might like some of the things we tend to dig out for each other to enjoy to so we thought we’d share.