David Roeder burns his fragmented, psychedelic concepts into endearingly unrestrained lo-fi experiments that exist at the intersection of bedroom pop and sound art. Raw and deliciously unpredictable, 'Form & Feeling' falls somewhere between Maher Shalal Hash Baz, Don Cherry's Organic Music Society, Laila Sakini and Malvern Brume.
Only a single song on Roeder's third Nein Rodere full-length cracks the three-minute mark. The German multi-disciplinary artist isn't motivated by long, overcomplicated expressions of labyrinthine filigree - he cut his teeth training as a painter and working in psychodynamic art therapy, and has played music for two decades, often improvising with other self-styled non-musicians. So his approach to his art is purposefully impulsive; Roeder is interested in digging out the vulnerability that comes from untethered free expression, and whether he's producing cracking folk blues ('Bristletown (I-II)' or charming no-fi drone ('&'), the music is yoked philosophically if not stylistically.
The album is informed by Susanne Langer's "Feeling and Form", an influential 1953 text that proposed that art ("form"), music particularly, could convey "feelings" that conventional language struggled to express. Taking this into account, Roeder uses aesthetic elements in intentional but broadly spontaneous ways, attempting to represent the anxiety and mundanity of his existence authentically, but not without an artistic spark. A comparison could easily be made to Laila Sakini's outsider music-influenced "Paloma", but where Sakini nudges into cinematic self-reflection, Roeder instead approximates rugged basement rock 'n roll, punk, folk and sound collage.
Guitars are a central focus of the album, but the instrument has been blunted considerably, sharp edges removed by obstinate tuning and trashbag recording techniques. 'March on Jahn' sounds like a smog track piped thru a broken telephone receiver; Roeder's voice is cracked and indistinct, and his string plucks ping-pong between innocence and crude, punkish grot. If sadness slips into the songs, it's because Roeder is vulnerable enough to express himself sincerely, using indistinct but familiar songwriting structures to bolster his message. Roeder's world is a place where deviant sound art, vintage pop, psychedelic noise and madcap jazz exist simultaneously.
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David Roeder burns his fragmented, psychedelic concepts into endearingly unrestrained lo-fi experiments that exist at the intersection of bedroom pop and sound art. Raw and deliciously unpredictable, 'Form & Feeling' falls somewhere between Maher Shalal Hash Baz, Don Cherry's Organic Music Society, Laila Sakini and Malvern Brume.
Only a single song on Roeder's third Nein Rodere full-length cracks the three-minute mark. The German multi-disciplinary artist isn't motivated by long, overcomplicated expressions of labyrinthine filigree - he cut his teeth training as a painter and working in psychodynamic art therapy, and has played music for two decades, often improvising with other self-styled non-musicians. So his approach to his art is purposefully impulsive; Roeder is interested in digging out the vulnerability that comes from untethered free expression, and whether he's producing cracking folk blues ('Bristletown (I-II)' or charming no-fi drone ('&'), the music is yoked philosophically if not stylistically.
The album is informed by Susanne Langer's "Feeling and Form", an influential 1953 text that proposed that art ("form"), music particularly, could convey "feelings" that conventional language struggled to express. Taking this into account, Roeder uses aesthetic elements in intentional but broadly spontaneous ways, attempting to represent the anxiety and mundanity of his existence authentically, but not without an artistic spark. A comparison could easily be made to Laila Sakini's outsider music-influenced "Paloma", but where Sakini nudges into cinematic self-reflection, Roeder instead approximates rugged basement rock 'n roll, punk, folk and sound collage.
Guitars are a central focus of the album, but the instrument has been blunted considerably, sharp edges removed by obstinate tuning and trashbag recording techniques. 'March on Jahn' sounds like a smog track piped thru a broken telephone receiver; Roeder's voice is cracked and indistinct, and his string plucks ping-pong between innocence and crude, punkish grot. If sadness slips into the songs, it's because Roeder is vulnerable enough to express himself sincerely, using indistinct but familiar songwriting structures to bolster his message. Roeder's world is a place where deviant sound art, vintage pop, psychedelic noise and madcap jazz exist simultaneously.