In the beginning there is noise. Not an encompassing and continuous noise, but something choppy and rhythmical. It sounds as if a noise-generating device is constantly being switched on and off in regular time. It's a machine-like pulse that stoically keeps its own time, even if none of the instruments, introduced one by one, follow its rhythm. Nor does the bass line, consisting of four notes and played with long pauses, nor the hypnotic tom sequence on the drums. The noise has a life of its own. Its staccatos swell into metallic-sounding harmonies that wander around the room without ever deviating from their tempo. The voice of Cambodian singer Prak Chum floats over it all. Its agility and countless, minute modulations make it seem strange and intimate, grounded and ethereal at the same time. We are talking about BATAGUR BASKA, the first piece from the album of the same name by Guido Mbius. Nothing on this album actually goes together. We hear bouncy patterns played on analog synthesizers, and then a recorder. Rumbling, grinding industrial hall percussion develops through vocals played backwards into something like acid Krautrock. In turn, the track CALL THE POLICE NOW, with its shakers and soft vocal lines, has a bossa character. Its warm acoustic pattern is counteracted by the overwrought voice of a woman screaming her lungs out in all fury. Confusingly, this contrast allows something distinct and new to emerge. Such is the ghostly HOW TO NEVER WAKE UP, with a mantra sung by Jana Plewa accompanied by grating and squeaking noises that seem to comment on and object to the voice and lyrics. In any case, for Mbius, it is about the interplay between friction and harmony, sound and noise, and the constant balance between melodiousness and discord that keeps his music in suspense. The path he takes from a pleasant sound immersion to oppressively disturbing noises is a short one
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