The
works of Whitman have veered from minimalist compositions
that are reminiscent of the dampened sounds of the Arctic
gale to the dark, unfettered thrashings of Krautrock.
This document stands out from past efforts for the simple
fact that, rather than following his tendency to rework
compositions until every element is polished and impeccable,
here he allows the original effort stand on its own,
blemishes and all.
This having been said, Lisbon is a far cry
from being muddled and rudimentary. To the contrary,
this single forty-minute piece demonstrates a careful
build from smooth, serene sine-waves, high stinging
tones - sounding not unlike the shrill chirp of newborn
birds - and long-held organ chords to metallic scraping
noises, erratic single note guitar lines that pulse
like blood, and delicious smears of pure sound.
The arc of this composition also warrants further inspection,
for rather than opting for marked contrasts, and more
or less abrupt shifts, Whitman nurses this music along
ever so slowly, and, as a result, the ensuing tension
is all the more palpable for the care that went into
its development. Whitman also demonstrates power within
this self-imposed confinement, planting within each
phase a plethora of detail - from the muted percussive
sighs and low frequency static vibrations of the earlier
moments to the pockets of fuzzed out, decaying feedback
that are splashed about the latter half. While perhaps
not arising from a stern zealousness, one imagines that
the care evident in the unfolding of these events is
the result of the appreciation and awe Whitman felt
over his recent surroundings in Galeria Ze Dos Bois,
where this piece was recorded. Not surprisingly, an
unencumbered imagination brimming with sprightly moods
runs rampant throughout this charming album.
Max Schaefer
4/5 |
