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Venice

by

Fennesz

 
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Venice
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Average: 4.0 (59 ratings)

Austrian-born guitarist transforms glitch into poignant symphonies.

  • We Say...

    Those not already familiar with the music of Austrian-born Christian Fennesz might find the initial experience disconcerting — this is electronic but beatless terrain, full of tiny irruptions, pockmarks and hiccoughs, a semi-abstract, synthetic mess of malfunctions. This is glitch, a genre invented, electronica legend has it, when another Austrian, Stephan Betke, aka Pole, dropped one of his studio mics and was intrigued by the hisses and crackles it made in its broken state.

    Venice elevates glitch, however, from a transient, futuristic fad into something altogether more poignant and symphonic. Whereas many electronica artists, you suspect, have got their shtick down to a default setting or random programme, able to generate new material by the yard at the push of a button, with Fennesz it's a fine art — he clearly labours at and sculpts his pieces. Venice might seem like it's all a surface swell of fuzz and blips and feedback at first glimpse but it's the skeleton of form and melody which informs the contours, direction and viscosity of these sounds.

    The dark blue hues of the album's sleeve art are reflected in opener “Rivers of Sand,” whose dawning grandeur reminds more of Vaughn Williams than any of Fennesz's electronica peers. Twisted and burgeoning, ebbing and flowing between Gothic gloom and Heavenly surges of adrenalin, this is sheer emotion rendered in electricity. “City of Light” lurches and lists like a long-abandoned galleon rediscovered in the 21st century, while “Circassian,” on which Fennesz enlists the assistance of guitarist Burkhard Stangl, highlights the link with MBV in its mesmeric fixation on the grains, textures and phantom micro-details of plectrum-generated noise.

    “The Stone of Impermanence” and “The Point of It All” are immense, like electronic transcriptions of extreme polar weather conditions. Yet all this is really an outer manifestation of inner states of being. Proof of this arrives with “Transit,” on which ex-Japan vocalist David Sylvian intervenes, appearing high in the mix as if Fennesz's soundtrack lies many miles beneath him. As he delivers an obliquely mournful elegy for Europe, Fennesz depicts an entire continent in the last throes of radioactive torment, its neon lights and national grids sputtering what could be their last. Yet Fennesz's music is destined to endure when his contemporaries have long degraded and died away. That's not just because of his application to his work, or his brilliant, Eno-esque draughtsmanship but also because albums like Venice give the lie to electronic music as steely, formidable and inhuman. In its nebulousness, its holes and burns, its jumps and fissures, Venice reflects a very human condition of vulnerability and uncertainty.

  • They Say...

    Talk about "highly anticipated": fans of Fennesz had three years to marvel in his Endless Summer CD. Meanwhile, the album became a hit in left-field electronica, exerted a major influence on countless sound-alikes, and even allowed Fennesz to break -- however slightly -- into the mainstream. Is Venice better than Endless Summer? No, but the fact that it doesn't disappoint, despite the expectations generated by this bona fide follow-up, is by itself a commanding feat. The reason why Venice doesn't top its predecessor is because it follows a rather similar recipe and therefore lacks the effect of surprise. Otherwise, it is a very fine release, highly enjoyable yet genre-pushing, and unmistakably Fennesz from beginning to end. The melodies that haunted Endless Summer's washes of granulated noise are still present, although in a more subtle form. Except for one standout exception, you won't be whistling these tunes in the shower, as the melodic component is more evanescent, but the impression of listening to "songs" remains strong. In that respect, highlights include the delicate opener "Rivers of Sand" and "The Point of It All." The album features two extra contributors. One of them was predictable; after all, Fennesz had appeared in duet with David Sylvian on the latter's 2003 solo CD, Blemish. They do it again in "Transit," a beautiful song about departures that makes one think the pair should definitely work on a full-scale collaborative project (it could be Sylvian's best collaboration since the Sylvian/Fripp albums). The second guest is Viennese guitarist Burkhard Stangl, a maverick improviser and puzzling experimentalist. His appearance on two tracks, "Laguna" and "Circassian" (the latter another highlight) follows up on Fennesz's 2002 collaboration with his improv quartet, Polwechsel. These two pieces (on which Fennesz joins on guitar) have a light post-folk flavor. The album is marvelously sequenced, with short soundscapes articulating mood shifts. The only weak point is found in the closing track, "The Stone of Impermanence," significantly harsher in texture and sound than what came before, which makes for an uncomfortable finale -- the piece would have worked better at midpoint, tempered by gentler neighbors. Still, Venice is another success and every bit as delightful as its predecessor. The presence of David Sylvian will make it easier for new fans to jump in.

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