The function of Toshiya Tsunoda, the Japanese sound artist widely considered one of the most essential field recordists of the past quarter century, is distinguished by its startling precision of assumed and audio, united in the perception that our options are always living, never ever set or frozen in time. In his text: “Place is often going, like a sleeping cat.” Not articles to take care of the discipline recording as a rigid doc or summary audio materials, Tsunoda—who has a track record in oil portray—prefers to zero in on the complexities of human notion and consciousness. His tunes positions the “field” as not simply actual physical but also a subjective mental map developed in true time by the listener.
On his latest album, Landscape and Voice, Tsunoda applies a glitching technique—most notably employed on 2013’s o kokos tis anixis (Grains of Spring)—that pauses the absolutely free passage of time by looping little segments of the “field” for various durations and pairing those grains with small, vowel-like human utterances. Whereas the glitches on Grains of Spring ended up sometimes so subtle they ended up unnoticeable, on Landscape and Voice—a 25-minute culmination of Tsunoda’s aesthetic and philosophical research—they get middle phase, regularly disrupting the listening working experience and producing it one particular of his most visceral will work. Although quite a few audio artists like Francisco Lopez do the job together in the same way noisy lines, Tsunoda’s perform stands by yourself in its calculated, tactical fracturing of fact below, water, wind, and birdsong are recognizable as such, but they by some means bear traces of the inaudible—air itself, sunshine and shadow—with a nearly psychedelic intensity.
Opener “At the port” begins almost conventionally, with a gurgling lap of h2o in the correct ear and scattered birdsong arcing from still left to middle. Even so, a mere 30 seconds in, the pristine discipline is shattered by the glitch: A disembodied voice loops “eh” in tandem with the stuttering field recording, and we are thrust into a seemingly artificial room. Tsunoda phases landscape and voice out of sync with one yet another the two step by step separate by infinitesimal levels ahead of the landscape—water dripping from leaves, wind rippling by means of foliage—comes flooding back. Whilst some of these interruptions are comforting and almost humorous, like the looped boing of droplets midway by way of “At the port,” many others, like the shrill whistle of sparrows on “In the grass subject,” pierce with surprising force. It gets obvious that the human encounter is constantly relational: What we might ignore in one particular context crashes harshly in another.
On “Studies,” Tsunoda facilities the glitch, silencing the landscape and only performing in short looped phrases. By biking by way of these frozen times in an overtly mechanical way, Tsunoda highlights approach vs . result, earning distinct that even in stasis there is movement. The push-pull flow of the new music by itself communicates this flux: Simply because “Studies” comes after “At the port,” every glitch conjures glimpses of the unaltered landscape, which speedily burst and dissipate like flares in the intellect. Meanwhile, the percussive vocal repetitions—each of which catches a slice of landscape as if by accident—establish rhythmic patterns that linger in the world wide web of rumbling autos, chirping bugs, and the disembodied scraping of metallic pipes on concrete, encouraging us to make connections concerning human and mother nature, topic and object, artificial and organic. Much more than merely attuning us to history sound we could have beforehand overlooked, Landscape and Voice reminds us that we are energetic topics, shaping the earth just as it designs us.