Sometimes events occur that make one question the metaphysical makeup of the surrounding environment, the atmosphere, the strata. This may have been one of them. I am still unsure.
Upon entering the Gasometer at a reasonable hour, though one later than the advertised time for the opening act, I was greeted with an empty room. Empty except for a gentleman sitting cross-legged on stage, twiddling mixer knobs while playing records. There wasn’ even a door person. No-one. Empty. Tumbleweeds may as well have been rolling across the dancefloor, and if the DJ had played Morricone I would have thought it was a set up. He didn’. It wasn’. I was just early.
Speaking of the dancefloor, it was covered in beanbags. Apparently there was a call out to BYO beanbag, but several had been supplied. Melbournians aren’ renowned for dragging soft furnishings to the venue, so thankfully they didn’ multiply. Don’ get me wrong, I like a good beanbag as much as anyone, but unless psychedelics are included in the door charge I’m not certain of their relevance at a music venue. My reluctance to appreciate the virtues of a venue-beanbag was amplified tonight, although I am uncertain that the rest of the audience was sharing my headspace.
I will eventually get to speaking about music, but before we do allow me to float around in the ether like an electron gaining momentum. The room is empty, as mentioned, gear is set up on stage. Synthesisers. A laptop. Some samplers. Etc. I am unsure whether the DJ is the first act. He really loves twiddling those EQs on the mixer. There is nobody in the room. It makes we wonder if I am in a parallel universe, or just unusually early. Slowly, people start to fill the space. The DJ plays for a very long time. I am sure he must be the opening act. He isn’.
Eventually Glass Bricks, the sonic pseudonym of Melbourne artist David Mutch , gets up on stage and starts fiddling with a couple of samplers and an iphone. He pushes some buttons and we are greeted with a whoosh of dense, low fidelity sound. The murkiness must have been an aesthetic choice, and it suited the music well enough. It was very ambient and non-rhythmical, which would explain the addition of the beanbags at the front of stage. The sounds floated around like a dense weight, heavy but somewhat lifeless. The heaviness was more about feeling than frequency. There was never any bottom end depth to the ground the work, nor was there any high frequencies either. Not loud enough to be dominant, the drones swirled though phasers and petered out into a sample of something which I can’ remember. The impression of deep space settled in my mind, like being locked in the hull of a capsule hurtling though the ether of space, or of a transmission being partially intercepted but not having enough information to be interpreted.
Shortly after, Angel Eyes, aka Andrew Cowie, takes the stage. While staying somewhat within the realms of ambient drone, his beats pulsate and take the work to another level. Baritone vocals cut through occasionally, but work as another instrument as the lyrics cannot be interpreted. Again the mix was rather murky, and I was unsure whether it was as aesthetic choice for Angel Eyes. Certain tracks would really cut through, while others became muddy and more ambient, the beats sitting at the back of the mix. Cowie was happy to progress quickly though a plethora of compositions, all sitting somewhere between a nebulous disco and an underwater rave. The fidelity was certainly clearer and the combination of rhythm and bass frequency was a welcome sound. He shifted through phases at a sometimes breakneck pace, itching to move on to the next track. The dream world Angel Eyes creates definitely suits laying back on a beanbag, but to me that is easily done at home. Surely going out to a room full of people, with loud rhythmic music is designed to dance to?
Not in Melbourne. Well, not tonight at least. While the Gasometer is a decent venue, and I have seen people dancing in it before, I think the beanbagging of the dancefloor preempted the audiences interpretation of the music presented tonight. I realise that Elliott was here to play “ambient electronic’ but I’m still unconvinced about the beanbag idea. Maybe this should have been a late-night-all-night-dance-jam somewhere. Or in a cave. Or on Mars. Or at the Gasometer, but without beanbags. Many a gig I have been to where the audience is chastised for sitting on the ground. I think it is all my problem, and that I am out of touch. People want to relax at gigs, but where was the wizard bong?
I digress once again. “How was Imaginary Softwoods?†I hear you ask, well it was amazing. And if you are asking you really should have been there. I’m not sure who the second dude was, but it was definitely a dude-duo, in the “duuuuude†sense of the word. Backs to the audience, Elliott faced a rack of synthesiser modules while his buddy sat in front of Ableton Live. Sipping on coconuts, I kid you not, they launched into kosmische territory, combining pads and drones, elevating tones. The mix was nice and clear by this point of the night, and the auditory difference between analogue and digital becomes apparent, but that is another conversation. As the coconut kicked in (surely they were spiked with something) the rhythm slowly built up, microtonal hi hats clicking away became the main driving pulse before sweeping arpeggios morphed from the swirl of ambience.
[Should I mention Elliott’s tye-dyed t-shirt riding up and exposing his underpants to the audience for the duration of the set? Hmmm…. no.]
Elliott and friend twiddled the knobs, fingered the keyboards and sipped the coconuts as the rhythm built. The sound was still sparse, acid-like basslines undulated, the arpeggiated synths still rocketing along, but no further percussion kicked in, no 4/4 kick drum, no rimshots, Just space. And no dancing. Admittedly I had been sucked into the giant hyperdrive unit that was Imaginary Softwoods and was up the front, absorbing frequencies and having a little boogie. At one point I turned around to look at the crowd, and almost everyone was standing stock still, except for those in the beanbags, but they weren’ moving either. Maybe everyone went out for a dance afterwards. Maybe this audience just hates dancing. Who knows. What I do know though, is that I had a great time listening to Elliott and co. After pulsing through the stratosphere for sometime, they orbited near something huge and immense. Probably Jupiter. The rhythm subsided and we were left with a dense layer of noise. Occasional oscillations occurred as one of the orbiting satellites came close then swung past. Slowly the entire piece settled and we were back to earth. The audience clapped appreciatively. The DJ didn’ return to the decks. We were left milling in silence. People chatted. We all left.
Perhaps there was a time limit on sound due to neighbours, but Imaginary Softwoods really could have played for another 2 hours. I felt they were just warming up. The advertised timing for the other acts suggested an early night, and if it had been adhered to perhaps Imaginary Softwoods would have had another hour up their sleeve. Again, I am merely speculating. Kudos must go to A Colourful Storm for staging this great event. As mentioned earlier, I do like the Gasometer, but in my mind tonight’s entertainment would have been better suited to a late night dance venue. Again, maybe this is just me. Maybe everything was in perfect balance and my orbit was oscillating. Regardless, this was a great night.
