'Aunes' is a special record, a collection of modest, intimate collages made from synth, voice, organ, environmental recordings and of course cello that impressionistically memorialize the times and places that prompted their creation. Gorgeous, softly-spoken stuff - RIYL Moniek Darge, Alvin Curran, Graham Lambkin, Félicia Atkinson or Delphine Dora.
Usually spotted behind the scenes, working with everyone from Alvin Lucier and Oren Ambarchi to Jules Reidy and CS + Kreme, Berlin-based Australian composer and cellist Judith Hamann steps into the spotlight on 'Aunes', presenting six personal reflections written in various countries over the last few years. Hamann regards the material as "songs", and it's easy to understand why - their voice is more prominent than ever here, gusting through so much of the music that even when it's absent you can still just about pick out its lingering residue. Even the name of the album speaks to this phenomenon: the aune is an old French unit of measurement that differed according to the fabric it was used to measure. So a song is still a song, no matter how it's been shaped, or what exactly has been used to orchestrate it.
The voice is barely perceptible on opening track 'by the line', but it plays a critical role. Hamann's wavering synth tones echo the elasticity of the larynx, and in due time they're joined by muffled hisses, faint whistles and casual, wordless vocalizations. If you're not tuned in, it might appear that the voice is following the synthesizer, but listen closely and things are flipped - the voice is the heart, and everything else appears to bend around it. The outside world is more apparent on 'Casa Di Riposo, Gesu' Redentore', and Hamann's diaristic recordings make interesting rhymes; chatter can almost be made out underneath the wind noise and chirping crickets, and Hamann's voice cracks and hums seem to paint over the details, bridging the negative space until a song appears almost spontaneously from the noise. Like Moniek Darge's 'Sounds of Sacred Places', it places us in the middle of an event: Hamann is walking up a hill to an outdoor mass in Tuscany and urges us to experience the feelings that might provoke.
The relationship between church music and the physical world is explored further on 'schloss, night', where Hamann sings wordlessly while squeezing out informal, half-opened pipe organ tones. The atmosphere of the building itself is just as important as the instrumentation here, and Hamann plays with perception, sketching traces of a hymn and fraying the raw material, bending the tones subtly and adding peculiar high-pitched harmonics as it progresses. And on the lengthy closer 'neither from not towards', Hamann merges the concept with their idiosyncratic cello performance, overdubbing two vocal takes and accompanying the blessed moans with expertly rendered just-intoned bowed notes. Baroque, romanticism, sacred music and pop, it's minimal, but overflowing with personality, technique and history. That's how you do it.
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'Aunes' is a special record, a collection of modest, intimate collages made from synth, voice, organ, environmental recordings and of course cello that impressionistically memorialize the times and places that prompted their creation. Gorgeous, softly-spoken stuff - RIYL Moniek Darge, Alvin Curran, Graham Lambkin, Félicia Atkinson or Delphine Dora.
Usually spotted behind the scenes, working with everyone from Alvin Lucier and Oren Ambarchi to Jules Reidy and CS + Kreme, Berlin-based Australian composer and cellist Judith Hamann steps into the spotlight on 'Aunes', presenting six personal reflections written in various countries over the last few years. Hamann regards the material as "songs", and it's easy to understand why - their voice is more prominent than ever here, gusting through so much of the music that even when it's absent you can still just about pick out its lingering residue. Even the name of the album speaks to this phenomenon: the aune is an old French unit of measurement that differed according to the fabric it was used to measure. So a song is still a song, no matter how it's been shaped, or what exactly has been used to orchestrate it.
The voice is barely perceptible on opening track 'by the line', but it plays a critical role. Hamann's wavering synth tones echo the elasticity of the larynx, and in due time they're joined by muffled hisses, faint whistles and casual, wordless vocalizations. If you're not tuned in, it might appear that the voice is following the synthesizer, but listen closely and things are flipped - the voice is the heart, and everything else appears to bend around it. The outside world is more apparent on 'Casa Di Riposo, Gesu' Redentore', and Hamann's diaristic recordings make interesting rhymes; chatter can almost be made out underneath the wind noise and chirping crickets, and Hamann's voice cracks and hums seem to paint over the details, bridging the negative space until a song appears almost spontaneously from the noise. Like Moniek Darge's 'Sounds of Sacred Places', it places us in the middle of an event: Hamann is walking up a hill to an outdoor mass in Tuscany and urges us to experience the feelings that might provoke.
The relationship between church music and the physical world is explored further on 'schloss, night', where Hamann sings wordlessly while squeezing out informal, half-opened pipe organ tones. The atmosphere of the building itself is just as important as the instrumentation here, and Hamann plays with perception, sketching traces of a hymn and fraying the raw material, bending the tones subtly and adding peculiar high-pitched harmonics as it progresses. And on the lengthy closer 'neither from not towards', Hamann merges the concept with their idiosyncratic cello performance, overdubbing two vocal takes and accompanying the blessed moans with expertly rendered just-intoned bowed notes. Baroque, romanticism, sacred music and pop, it's minimal, but overflowing with personality, technique and history. That's how you do it.
'Aunes' is a special record, a collection of modest, intimate collages made from synth, voice, organ, environmental recordings and of course cello that impressionistically memorialize the times and places that prompted their creation. Gorgeous, softly-spoken stuff - RIYL Moniek Darge, Alvin Curran, Graham Lambkin, Félicia Atkinson or Delphine Dora.
Usually spotted behind the scenes, working with everyone from Alvin Lucier and Oren Ambarchi to Jules Reidy and CS + Kreme, Berlin-based Australian composer and cellist Judith Hamann steps into the spotlight on 'Aunes', presenting six personal reflections written in various countries over the last few years. Hamann regards the material as "songs", and it's easy to understand why - their voice is more prominent than ever here, gusting through so much of the music that even when it's absent you can still just about pick out its lingering residue. Even the name of the album speaks to this phenomenon: the aune is an old French unit of measurement that differed according to the fabric it was used to measure. So a song is still a song, no matter how it's been shaped, or what exactly has been used to orchestrate it.
The voice is barely perceptible on opening track 'by the line', but it plays a critical role. Hamann's wavering synth tones echo the elasticity of the larynx, and in due time they're joined by muffled hisses, faint whistles and casual, wordless vocalizations. If you're not tuned in, it might appear that the voice is following the synthesizer, but listen closely and things are flipped - the voice is the heart, and everything else appears to bend around it. The outside world is more apparent on 'Casa Di Riposo, Gesu' Redentore', and Hamann's diaristic recordings make interesting rhymes; chatter can almost be made out underneath the wind noise and chirping crickets, and Hamann's voice cracks and hums seem to paint over the details, bridging the negative space until a song appears almost spontaneously from the noise. Like Moniek Darge's 'Sounds of Sacred Places', it places us in the middle of an event: Hamann is walking up a hill to an outdoor mass in Tuscany and urges us to experience the feelings that might provoke.
The relationship between church music and the physical world is explored further on 'schloss, night', where Hamann sings wordlessly while squeezing out informal, half-opened pipe organ tones. The atmosphere of the building itself is just as important as the instrumentation here, and Hamann plays with perception, sketching traces of a hymn and fraying the raw material, bending the tones subtly and adding peculiar high-pitched harmonics as it progresses. And on the lengthy closer 'neither from not towards', Hamann merges the concept with their idiosyncratic cello performance, overdubbing two vocal takes and accompanying the blessed moans with expertly rendered just-intoned bowed notes. Baroque, romanticism, sacred music and pop, it's minimal, but overflowing with personality, technique and history. That's how you do it.
'Aunes' is a special record, a collection of modest, intimate collages made from synth, voice, organ, environmental recordings and of course cello that impressionistically memorialize the times and places that prompted their creation. Gorgeous, softly-spoken stuff - RIYL Moniek Darge, Alvin Curran, Graham Lambkin, Félicia Atkinson or Delphine Dora.
Usually spotted behind the scenes, working with everyone from Alvin Lucier and Oren Ambarchi to Jules Reidy and CS + Kreme, Berlin-based Australian composer and cellist Judith Hamann steps into the spotlight on 'Aunes', presenting six personal reflections written in various countries over the last few years. Hamann regards the material as "songs", and it's easy to understand why - their voice is more prominent than ever here, gusting through so much of the music that even when it's absent you can still just about pick out its lingering residue. Even the name of the album speaks to this phenomenon: the aune is an old French unit of measurement that differed according to the fabric it was used to measure. So a song is still a song, no matter how it's been shaped, or what exactly has been used to orchestrate it.
The voice is barely perceptible on opening track 'by the line', but it plays a critical role. Hamann's wavering synth tones echo the elasticity of the larynx, and in due time they're joined by muffled hisses, faint whistles and casual, wordless vocalizations. If you're not tuned in, it might appear that the voice is following the synthesizer, but listen closely and things are flipped - the voice is the heart, and everything else appears to bend around it. The outside world is more apparent on 'Casa Di Riposo, Gesu' Redentore', and Hamann's diaristic recordings make interesting rhymes; chatter can almost be made out underneath the wind noise and chirping crickets, and Hamann's voice cracks and hums seem to paint over the details, bridging the negative space until a song appears almost spontaneously from the noise. Like Moniek Darge's 'Sounds of Sacred Places', it places us in the middle of an event: Hamann is walking up a hill to an outdoor mass in Tuscany and urges us to experience the feelings that might provoke.
The relationship between church music and the physical world is explored further on 'schloss, night', where Hamann sings wordlessly while squeezing out informal, half-opened pipe organ tones. The atmosphere of the building itself is just as important as the instrumentation here, and Hamann plays with perception, sketching traces of a hymn and fraying the raw material, bending the tones subtly and adding peculiar high-pitched harmonics as it progresses. And on the lengthy closer 'neither from not towards', Hamann merges the concept with their idiosyncratic cello performance, overdubbing two vocal takes and accompanying the blessed moans with expertly rendered just-intoned bowed notes. Baroque, romanticism, sacred music and pop, it's minimal, but overflowing with personality, technique and history. That's how you do it.
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'Aunes' is a special record, a collection of modest, intimate collages made from synth, voice, organ, environmental recordings and of course cello that impressionistically memorialize the times and places that prompted their creation. Gorgeous, softly-spoken stuff - RIYL Moniek Darge, Alvin Curran, Graham Lambkin, Félicia Atkinson or Delphine Dora.
Usually spotted behind the scenes, working with everyone from Alvin Lucier and Oren Ambarchi to Jules Reidy and CS + Kreme, Berlin-based Australian composer and cellist Judith Hamann steps into the spotlight on 'Aunes', presenting six personal reflections written in various countries over the last few years. Hamann regards the material as "songs", and it's easy to understand why - their voice is more prominent than ever here, gusting through so much of the music that even when it's absent you can still just about pick out its lingering residue. Even the name of the album speaks to this phenomenon: the aune is an old French unit of measurement that differed according to the fabric it was used to measure. So a song is still a song, no matter how it's been shaped, or what exactly has been used to orchestrate it.
The voice is barely perceptible on opening track 'by the line', but it plays a critical role. Hamann's wavering synth tones echo the elasticity of the larynx, and in due time they're joined by muffled hisses, faint whistles and casual, wordless vocalizations. If you're not tuned in, it might appear that the voice is following the synthesizer, but listen closely and things are flipped - the voice is the heart, and everything else appears to bend around it. The outside world is more apparent on 'Casa Di Riposo, Gesu' Redentore', and Hamann's diaristic recordings make interesting rhymes; chatter can almost be made out underneath the wind noise and chirping crickets, and Hamann's voice cracks and hums seem to paint over the details, bridging the negative space until a song appears almost spontaneously from the noise. Like Moniek Darge's 'Sounds of Sacred Places', it places us in the middle of an event: Hamann is walking up a hill to an outdoor mass in Tuscany and urges us to experience the feelings that might provoke.
The relationship between church music and the physical world is explored further on 'schloss, night', where Hamann sings wordlessly while squeezing out informal, half-opened pipe organ tones. The atmosphere of the building itself is just as important as the instrumentation here, and Hamann plays with perception, sketching traces of a hymn and fraying the raw material, bending the tones subtly and adding peculiar high-pitched harmonics as it progresses. And on the lengthy closer 'neither from not towards', Hamann merges the concept with their idiosyncratic cello performance, overdubbing two vocal takes and accompanying the blessed moans with expertly rendered just-intoned bowed notes. Baroque, romanticism, sacred music and pop, it's minimal, but overflowing with personality, technique and history. That's how you do it.