Shizuoka, Japan’s Kensho Nakamura crystallises abstract but spellbinding dioramas from cute small sound arrangements on their debut with Slovakia’s Mappa Editions
Leading deeper into his imagination after 2019’s ‘House of Pain’ tape with the label 音鼠工房, Nakamura draws on experience of working in construction to model metaphors of decay, or rusting, as a process of transformation and a measure of time on ‘Electric Rust. If the conceit is a little lofty, the results are playfully daft and cartoonish in a way that mirrors Foodman or Meitei’s curiously riveting small-sound music, with an obsessive attention to detail that means few sounds repeat in pattern across the 30 minute release.
It feels like a contemporary parallel to the painstaking work of early concrète artists as much as his Japanese environmental ambient sound designer forebears, or a more kinetic adjunct to the likes of Nozomu Matsumoto. Taking note of daily life of clambering old buildings, he imagines the music of their textures as though animated by nanaobots programmed by Miyazaki, giving life to darting synth notes and almost recognisable snippets of bells, pianos, marimbas, and sampled voices, where scuttling structures emerge from their seemingly static nature and are bound to jog the imagination of certain attentive listeners.
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Shizuoka, Japan’s Kensho Nakamura crystallises abstract but spellbinding dioramas from cute small sound arrangements on their debut with Slovakia’s Mappa Editions
Leading deeper into his imagination after 2019’s ‘House of Pain’ tape with the label 音鼠工房, Nakamura draws on experience of working in construction to model metaphors of decay, or rusting, as a process of transformation and a measure of time on ‘Electric Rust. If the conceit is a little lofty, the results are playfully daft and cartoonish in a way that mirrors Foodman or Meitei’s curiously riveting small-sound music, with an obsessive attention to detail that means few sounds repeat in pattern across the 30 minute release.
It feels like a contemporary parallel to the painstaking work of early concrète artists as much as his Japanese environmental ambient sound designer forebears, or a more kinetic adjunct to the likes of Nozomu Matsumoto. Taking note of daily life of clambering old buildings, he imagines the music of their textures as though animated by nanaobots programmed by Miyazaki, giving life to darting synth notes and almost recognisable snippets of bells, pianos, marimbas, and sampled voices, where scuttling structures emerge from their seemingly static nature and are bound to jog the imagination of certain attentive listeners.
Shizuoka, Japan’s Kensho Nakamura crystallises abstract but spellbinding dioramas from cute small sound arrangements on their debut with Slovakia’s Mappa Editions
Leading deeper into his imagination after 2019’s ‘House of Pain’ tape with the label 音鼠工房, Nakamura draws on experience of working in construction to model metaphors of decay, or rusting, as a process of transformation and a measure of time on ‘Electric Rust. If the conceit is a little lofty, the results are playfully daft and cartoonish in a way that mirrors Foodman or Meitei’s curiously riveting small-sound music, with an obsessive attention to detail that means few sounds repeat in pattern across the 30 minute release.
It feels like a contemporary parallel to the painstaking work of early concrète artists as much as his Japanese environmental ambient sound designer forebears, or a more kinetic adjunct to the likes of Nozomu Matsumoto. Taking note of daily life of clambering old buildings, he imagines the music of their textures as though animated by nanaobots programmed by Miyazaki, giving life to darting synth notes and almost recognisable snippets of bells, pianos, marimbas, and sampled voices, where scuttling structures emerge from their seemingly static nature and are bound to jog the imagination of certain attentive listeners.
Shizuoka, Japan’s Kensho Nakamura crystallises abstract but spellbinding dioramas from cute small sound arrangements on their debut with Slovakia’s Mappa Editions
Leading deeper into his imagination after 2019’s ‘House of Pain’ tape with the label 音鼠工房, Nakamura draws on experience of working in construction to model metaphors of decay, or rusting, as a process of transformation and a measure of time on ‘Electric Rust. If the conceit is a little lofty, the results are playfully daft and cartoonish in a way that mirrors Foodman or Meitei’s curiously riveting small-sound music, with an obsessive attention to detail that means few sounds repeat in pattern across the 30 minute release.
It feels like a contemporary parallel to the painstaking work of early concrète artists as much as his Japanese environmental ambient sound designer forebears, or a more kinetic adjunct to the likes of Nozomu Matsumoto. Taking note of daily life of clambering old buildings, he imagines the music of their textures as though animated by nanaobots programmed by Miyazaki, giving life to darting synth notes and almost recognisable snippets of bells, pianos, marimbas, and sampled voices, where scuttling structures emerge from their seemingly static nature and are bound to jog the imagination of certain attentive listeners.