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LP
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LL 036LP
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"In the great and ongoing culture war between high and low, raw and refined, the real versus popular, certain territories have been ceded: styles considered mainstream get to be pretty, lovely and optimistic. Styles originating underground are presumed to be gritty, burly and practical. So it's a subversion of a kind, and definitely an intellectual challenge, to bathe a foreboding bass line in a lilt. To make gloomy shine. Adrian Younge's Voices Of Gemma embodies the potential of the hybrid. By just saying no to the borders a label like underground might impose on a creativity like his, he's able to fashion a sound that elbows its way past your defenses, whatever they are. You don't want to hear anything grim today? Had enough of that on the news, thanks? Younge has a couple of angels on hand to waft a hard truth over so that when it hits it feels like a kiss. Sick of the saccharine piped over aisle 4 at Walgreens? Younge's palming you a melody fit for impending doom. Voices Of Gemma comes from Younge's refusal to accept the premise. His stance is there in every artist's job description -- the determination to suction up sounds and flavors and phrases from all over the past and present and imagined and documented, and then splice and dissolve what he finds into more possibilities and new ways of seeing, something fresh. On this project his songs are precise, the set ups delivered with a satiny finish and, in the low end, just a hint of louche. Care has been given to every detail, and the old way of doing a thing (bring in an orchestra, record to tape) is the way it's done; it's like listening to a five-star hotel. Voices Of Gemma is luxurious, a style that we forgot could be present day, as accustomed as we are to sampled and thrice-removed versions of it. This is high-class signified, a world-class realization."
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LP
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LL 035LP
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"In the great and ongoing culture war between high and low, raw and refined, the real versus popular, certain territories have been ceded: styles considered mainstream get to be pretty, lovely and optimistic. Styles originating underground are presumed to be gritty, burly and practical. So it's a subversion of a kind, and definitely an intellectual challenge, to bathe a foreboding bass line in a lilt. To make gloomy shine. To trojan horse some heavy feelings in a delicate vocal. Adrian Younge's Voices of Gemma embodies the potential of the hybrid. By just saying no to the borders a label like underground might impose on a creativity like his, he's able to fashion a sound that elbows its way past your defenses, whatever they are. You don't want to hear anything grim today? Had enough of that on the news, thanks? Younge has a couple of angels on hand to waft a hard truth over so that when it hits it feels like a kiss. Sick of the saccharine piped over aisle 4 at Walgreens? Younge's palming you a melody fit for impending doom. Voices of Gemma comes from Younge's refusal to accept the premise. His stance is there in every artist's job description ? the determination to suction up sounds and flavors and phrases from all over the past and present and imagined and documented, and then splice and dissolve what he finds into more possibilities and new ways of seeing, something fresh. On this project his songs are precise, the set ups delivered with a satiny finish and, in the low end, just a hint of louche. His characters are lyrically poised, but when it comes to their emotional lives, as portrayed melodically, it's one cliffhanger after another. Younge's female leads take up residence in their upper register, a fairytale landscape pierced only once by a man's voice. The dreamy, internal feeling singers Brooke deRosa and Rebecca Engelhardt conjure up is tethered to the earth by music that's filmic and deeply intelligent. Here there are easter eggs left in accent notes and fills. Care has has been given to every detail, and the old way of doing a thing (bring in an orchestra, record to tape) is the way its done; it's like listening to a five-star hotel. Voices of Gemma is luxurious, a style that we forgot could be present day, as accustomed as we are to sampled and thrice-removed versions of it. This is high-class signified, a world-class realization."
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LP
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LL 034LP
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"Adrian Younge calls The Electronique Void an academic album, by which he means it is both instructional and informational. The science of love, its formulas and if-then constraints, causal relationships and observable properties, is best taught experientially, but learning it hurts so, so bad. Music, especially electronic music, reliant as it is on abstraction and unrepentant as it is about hijacking your physiological responses to tempo and rhythm and dynamics, is a way to get there without going through it. Electronic music as practiced and developed by pioneers like Dick Hyman and Raymond Scott and Wendy Carlos is precise and intentional. In making his first electronic album, Younge took his cues from them, reminding a contemporary audience what a synthesizer, deep in its heart, really could be. This study of how music crafted with synthesizers can tap into raw human emotion is sure to excite long-time fans of Younge as well as devotees of electronic music. Adrian Younge now presents what is sure to be one of his most sought after instrumental releases, The Electronique Void: Black Noise Instrumentals."
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CD
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LL 033CD
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"This, too, is a story about control. It's a manual, maybe half Rosetta Stone, half bird guide. It was made the way they made electronic music in the good old days, all analog everything, right after synthesizers shrunk to a manageable size and you didn't have to trek down to a university to use one anymore. Hard-earned. Tastes different. Our parents' electronic. And its subject is staying together, that thing we thought was their province. It's about trying to fix what hurts. It's about knowing better. Black Noise is men talking to men about women; Lemonade is a woman talking to women about men, and they both orbit around a failure we take for granted like the sun: loving you is complicated. It's a skill; we forgot. Adrian Younge calls The Electronique Void an academic album, by which he means it is both instructional and informational. There's a problem at the heart of it, a woman who's been told that she's loved, but she doesn't recognize that, can't feel it, may have heard it all before, may be worrying about the wrong things. Jack Waterson, long a guitarist in Younge's band, plays the role of narrator, sounding professorial and rather superior as he lays out for the woman where she's erred. That vocoder you hear is Adrian, talking to her on a subterranean level, the way an artist must. There's a strong sense of rules here, a prescription and a presumption that there is an agreed upon way to do it, and there is also a wrong way, or at least a way that won't work. And the fact is, as didactic as that sounds, it might be the truth. Maybe everybody who's alone can be cured. The discourse on the album is the kind of thing that happens when you go blonde and then you can't keep 'em off you. These truths are cold and hard, and our hero begrudges the well-meaning advice being rained down upon her as any independent woman would. The science of love, its formulas and if-then constraints, causal relationships and observable properties, is best taught experientially, but learning it hurts so, so bad. Music, especially electronic music, reliant as it is on abstraction and unrepentant as it is about hijacking your physiological responses to tempo and rhythm and dynamics, is a way to get there without going through it. Electronic music as practiced and developed by pioneers like Dick Hyman and Raymond Scott and Wendy Carlos is precise and intentional. In making his first electronic album, Younge took his cues from them, reminding a contemporary audience what a synthesizer, deep in its heart, really could be. The lady of The Electronique Void, only ever seen through a man's eyes, who's being told what to do by him, sounds trapped by her history and by her position, her ancestors' trauma echoing through her lineage and booming out of her as a phobia, distrust, misapprehension, rational response to a fucked up situation. Waterson's text here seems to say that if his character could go back in time, catch her before the damage was done, she would be able to love. And that's reasonable. Don't get hooked. Don't do wifey shit for a fuck boy. Don't let it go to your head, no. It's also possible he has no idea what he's talking about. The lessons for men in The Electronique Void are unspoken but plain as day. This music is an urgent tutorial. Adrian Younge looks at us and sees the front line of a crisis, something we only have time to triage right now. This isn't romantic and it isn't about settling down. This is the fight of our lives: how to love."
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LP
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LL 033LP
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LP version. "This, too, is a story about control. It's a manual, maybe half Rosetta Stone, half bird guide. It was made the way they made electronic music in the good old days, all analog everything, right after synthesizers shrunk to a manageable size and you didn't have to trek down to a university to use one anymore. Hard-earned. Tastes different. Our parents' electronic. And its subject is staying together, that thing we thought was their province. It's about trying to fix what hurts. It's about knowing better. Black Noise is men talking to men about women; Lemonade is a woman talking to women about men, and they both orbit around a failure we take for granted like the sun: loving you is complicated. It's a skill; we forgot. Adrian Younge calls The Electronique Void an academic album, by which he means it is both instructional and informational. There's a problem at the heart of it, a woman who's been told that she's loved, but she doesn't recognize that, can't feel it, may have heard it all before, may be worrying about the wrong things. Jack Waterson, long a guitarist in Younge's band, plays the role of narrator, sounding professorial and rather superior as he lays out for the woman where she's erred. That vocoder you hear is Adrian, talking to her on a subterranean level, the way an artist must. There's a strong sense of rules here, a prescription and a presumption that there is an agreed upon way to do it, and there is also a wrong way, or at least a way that won't work. And the fact is, as didactic as that sounds, it might be the truth. Maybe everybody who's alone can be cured. The discourse on the album is the kind of thing that happens when you go blonde and then you can't keep 'em off you. These truths are cold and hard, and our hero begrudges the well-meaning advice being rained down upon her as any independent woman would. The science of love, its formulas and if-then constraints, causal relationships and observable properties, is best taught experientially, but learning it hurts so, so bad. Music, especially electronic music, reliant as it is on abstraction and unrepentant as it is about hijacking your physiological responses to tempo and rhythm and dynamics, is a way to get there without going through it. Electronic music as practiced and developed by pioneers like Dick Hyman and Raymond Scott and Wendy Carlos is precise and intentional. In making his first electronic album, Younge took his cues from them, reminding a contemporary audience what a synthesizer, deep in its heart, really could be. The lady of The Electronique Void, only ever seen through a man's eyes, who's being told what to do by him, sounds trapped by her history and by her position, her ancestors' trauma echoing through her lineage and booming out of her as a phobia, distrust, misapprehension, rational response to a fucked up situation. Waterson's text here seems to say that if his character could go back in time, catch her before the damage was done, she would be able to love. And that's reasonable. Don't get hooked. Don't do wifey shit for a fuck boy. Don't let it go to your head, no. It's also possible he has no idea what he's talking about. The lessons for men in The Electronique Void are unspoken but plain as day. This music is an urgent tutorial. Adrian Younge looks at us and sees the front line of a crisis, something we only have time to triage right now. This isn't romantic and it isn't about settling down. This is the fight of our lives: how to love."
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