Often times, compilation can be bewildering, overfacing, as labels pack artists in hard and deep to maximise coverage in a compilation. Plus, no-one likes to say no, meaning a lot of compilations feature bands that probably shouldn’t make the cut.
This compilation is different: with just half a dozen tracks from artists who explore space through expansive longform compositions, it’s a collection that gives both artist and listener time and room to breathe. This is largely the point, since ‘Touch’ is a lockdown / pandemic-themed compilation which explores the idea of non-physical touching, and where we spend time with the sic various artists ‘who grapple with the restriction of physical contact through sound. Our ability to touch is a means of survival, an essential and intimate way of living and communing with others. So when it is taken away for the same reason we possess it—for the sake of staying safe—how can it be replaced? What can stand in?’
Alexandra Spence’s contribution, which is first, is a cross between a spoken word piece and an ambient work that’s largely background, a combinations of chimes and rattles and random intrusions, albeit subtle ones. Spence’s delivery is sedate and measured, but frequently submerged beneath the waves of sound. Sometimes the waves are literal, as she collages found sounds and field recordings, and splashing, lapping sounds threaten to rub out her words. Myriam Van Imschoot’s ‘Human Measures’ is quite uncomfortable and, disturbing consisting primarily of human voice and dark, thunderous ricochets.
The fact that all bar one of the pieces is over ten minutes long mean this is not a short compilation, but merely one that isn’t overcrowded or overwhelming in density, and instead each track and each artist has space to explore the form and space of their choice.
|
There is a lot of space to explore, here, in fact. Children’s voices and dolorous tones are all over the drifting atmospherics of KMRU’s ‘it’s not a tangency’, while Melissa Pons’ ‘Three’ may be the shortest piece on the album but it’s also the most explosive, with crashing, thunderous waves of noise and ominous drones intersecting against birdsong and tremulous toppy whistles of feedback. The choice to conclude with Viv Corrigham’s quarter-hour dada-ist voice experiment works is a daring one. The track finds Corrigham narrate a walk – which may or many not be some psychogeographical exploration – in a figure of eight – around the city she knows but no longer knows, as well as particular in an interview.
The collection’s range is impressive, and while it really should not be something to mention, it’s pleasing to see female artists represented here, on what is, without question, as solid (and of course equally ephemeral and weightless) an album as you’re likely to hear all year.
|
