Jon Doyle, the
multi-faceted writer behind music blog Wake The Deaf, has curated a
compilation for charity. The compilation is called ‘Quiet,
Constant Friends’ and, put simply, it is the slightest, most
delicate, most down-to-earth collection of music you will hear this
year. The compilation is in
aid of Worldreader, a non-profit organisation dedicated to creating a
literate world through digital education. The album is
literary-themed and will make you cry. Before I pour any further
platitudes on the thing in of itself, its conception and its
standing, let’s do my job and actually look at the music therein.
While I can’t deliver
a track-by-track of this compilation with any logistical ease, I can
say of the tracks I don’t mention from here on out that they share
much in common with each other and the songs I do pick out: warmth,
care and a DIY, from-the-bedroom-from-the-heart aesthetic that
truthfully expounds that idea of a favourite book, of
reading-as-vitality, even of nostalgic storytelling.
There are very few weak
moments in what is by and large a long, calm, slow-paced meander
through the minds and hearts of the tape-recording, book-thumbing,
indie-folk-Silver-Mt-Zion artistic set – a remarkable feat which
stands testament to the good taste and pure intention of Wake The
Deaf. That said, there isn’t much diversity by way of genre, or
even timbre much of the time, which is only a problem for the
compilation when it comes to fierce opponents of that genre (of which
there are certainly a few).
The compilation’s
opener, ‘The Well’ by Danielle Fricke, is a reverb-soaked lament
made bombastic by synth upwellings and audacious vocal ideas that
carry you up and out from underneath. It’s the perfect starter for
the A-side, with Wes Tirey’s plaintive, minimalist
banjo-and-country-crooning 'Akhnilo Blues', Pasture Dog’s soulful,
layered ‘Everything That Rises Must Converge’ and Henry Demos’
violin-seethed, cat-meow-stippled ode to the instrumental epic ‘Not
Her’ comprising much of its direction. The A-side ends with
moody post-rock instrumental dirge ‘Hair’ by Sondra Sun-Odeon,
while side B begins with a refreshing, leaf-turning field recording
of nature in action by Nathan Amundsen, aptly named ‘Haruki
Murikami’.
From here, the compilation changes pace, bringing
positive drum samples and electronic phrases from Windmill and ARMS.
Free Cake For Every Creature bring surf-rock Of Montreal vibes to the
equation with the jangly and frail ‘Don’t Go Away Ahumpf
Acgroomf’, while Nice Legs bring the hard-compressed
reverb-and-tambourined Flaming-Lips-y shimmer-fest ‘Past Lives’.
The compilation ends with Nadia Reid’s impeccable southern-folk,
lapsteel-swollen conduit for folk-vocal spine-shudder, and the first
instinct is to go straight back to ‘The Well’.
Now that bit’s out of
the way, I can say what I’ve been itching to say since the end of
my very first listen: one of my favourite
figurative labels to use when talking about art is "love letter".
The term conveys a very particular kind of gentleness, affords the
notion of great care being taken – of slightness in the
reconstruction of, or conversation with, something obviously dear to
the creator. If the simple, warmth-inspiring image behind "love
letter" is already a pleasurable thought, then the pleasure is at
least doubly so when its use is demanded by something; the thought is
made tangible, the care made real, the warmth transferable from
distant definition to present experience, be it eyes or ears.
In
this case, I’m able to, with no small degree of comfort, describe 'Quiet,' Constant Friends as a love letter. Even better, it’s a
love-letter compilation of love letters. Each track is a
perfectly-executed evocation of the inspiration afforded by the
written words, by the sheaves of well-thumbed books by beds and in
backpacks just like the ones you and I held and hold so dear. The
compilation captures a mood perfectly, arranging these precious
stand-alones with the care of which Rob Gordon would be proud. Its
name – 'Quiet, Constant Friends' – is just so, and the physical
form it takes (a cassette, with a thank you note, a quote from a "fictional friend" and limited edition postcard artwork for
certain songs) is artisan without the hipster implication. It’s a
love letter to books; a love letter to independent artists, bedroom
recordings and unashamedly folk-culture influences; a love letter to
other compilations; a love letter to making, to learning, and to that
first time you read words without your parents’ help; a love letter
to charity; and a love letter to that warm, fuzzy feeling you only
truly get when reading, watching, listening to love letters both
figurative and literal.
It cannot be overstated
that the issues at the fundament of this charity compilation are
epistemically important, not only for the arts but for the fair
development and education of people worldwide. Just as books
inspired the art that makes up this compilation, so can they inspire
more from the next lot. It’s an inspired idea for a noble cause,
executed with undeniable grace and care.
No comments:
Post a Comment