According to his own autobiography, when he was about
seven, Chris Clark used to quantify his emotions in
percentage. He was soon fed up of the whole thing and,
from that moment on, hated maths. From the top of his
twenty-one years of wondering what not to do like everybody
else, he has turned his back on a perfectly acceptable
musical education to compile every single noise he’s
ever heard into half-an-hour of total chaos. Clarence
Park is the new Play School.
OK, his mum wanted him to play the harp, his drum teacher
despaired of his actual musical talent, and, nowadays,
young Clark is too preoccupied to sound like Prince
to actually sound like anything at all, but is it a
reason to brand him as immature. Yes! And too right
it is too. After all, nobody ever complained about the
childish musical attitude of Mr.
James, Paradinas
and al, did they? Chris Clark is the most recent member
of the irrational school of music, and he his proud
of it. What if there is no proper thread guiding the
visitors through Clarence Park? Maybe there
was not supposed to be any! What if it was for everyone
to make whatever they want of it? Clarence Park
is a playful record, constantly changing direction,
from the disorderly Bricks to the melodic Lord
Of The Dance and the icy Caveman Lament.
There is no logic to be found here. However, there is
a certain consistency all the way through, in the way
that distressed sounds are randomly dropped like little
bombs. The piano heard at the beginning of Pleen
1930s is soon swiped under the nonsensical twiddles
of The Dogs and the cardiovascular electro-trance
of Proper Lo-Fi. And it is the same all over
with Oaklands or EmW. And whatever
happened to the harpsichord on Fossil Paste.
Better not ask, the wise listener thinks. This is in
fact the key to the gates of Clarence Park.
No questions asked, no answers given. Chris Clark is
a sort of Alice, with his homegrown Wonderland, running
after God knows what, talking some utter gibberish to
imaginary characters. And after all, who cares. Not
him. Just because he is locked-up in an adult body doesn’t
mean he can’t do whatever he wants. And fuck the consequences!
As far from the clean, geometric pointillism of the
IDM elite as possible, Chris Clark builds up his own
world, follows his own rules, and doesn’t ask for anyone’s
attention. A good enough reason not to ignore him, and
give Clarence Park a good place on your play
list.
4/5 |
