Bass Communion – Bass Communion V Muslimgauze

September 1999
Bass Communion V Muslimgauze EP, July 2000

Hooboy.

Bryn “Muslimgauze” Jones is one of those guys who probably should have a song-by-song retrospective written about his work, ideally by some underground music nerd who’s written a dissertation on recent Middle Eastern history. Over the course of his twenty-year career he’d release well over a hundred studio albums, mostly atmospheric loop-based electronic pieces (swinging between ambient and dub and noise and everywhere in between) with vocal samples and traditional Middle Eastern instruments thrown in, all laser-focused on conflict in the Muslim world. The music of Muslimgauze, and the way it interacts with the person who created it, is full of apparent contradictions, and is worth engaging with because of them.

Let us, then, engage. Famously, Jones himself was a nonreligious white guy from Manchester who never visited the Mideast on the grounds that it was (and is) occupied territory. His impetus for starting the project was the 1982 invasion of Lebanon, and over the next seventeen years he’d develop an encyclopedic knowledge of Middle Eastern politics and history, but his perspective on that history never progressed beyond “aggressively woke Tumblr teenager.” Even more bizarrely, outside of his strident opposition to Western imperialism and adventurism in the Mideast, his politics were apparently wildly incoherent, to the point where the creator of an album titled Fuck Israel happened to also be, of all things, a Thatcher supporter.

This is actually perfectly ideologically consistent. The mistake here is assuming that an anti-imperialist position is exclusively leftist when it’s not hard to come up with counterexamples. (To pick one immediately to hand, Khomeini. He may have called the US the Great Satan but that doesn’t mean his post-revolution goal was a secular, moneyless, propertyless utopia.) This myopia can be partially explained through Jones’ nationality: he lived in a country whose late empire remains lamented amongst its right wing. Meanwhile, in a country that was the victim of empire, it’s not hard for a conservative nationalist anti-imperialism to develop, perhaps centering around an idealized vision of how the land was before the Westerners started marching in with their tanks and their decadence and their arbitrarily drawn lines.

(Tangent 1: So it’s clear that leftist and rightist anti-imperialisms can bleed into each other pretty easily. Going back to Iran, for instance, both socialists and theocrats had a hand in toppling the Shah in 1979. That said, it’s probably best to leave the question of how to deal with the uncomfortable ways left and right intersect here to those actually on the ground.)

(Tangent 2: And that, by the way, is how Ostalgie-riddled ex-Communist East Germany fell hard for the AfD.)

(Tangent 3: That for all his militancy Jones was apparently very awkward and introverted in real life should also not be surprising, as anyone who actually knows militant Internet people can testify.)

It is this sort of conservative anti-imperialism that the music of Muslimgauze easily lends itself to. Many of the album and song titles—when they’re not referencing a specific person or event or blasting a nation complicit in the systematic oppression of Muslim people—reference a traditional aspect of Islamic society and culture. The field recordings and use of traditional instruments paint a picture of a traditional society that has had modernity—in the form of oil-thirsty empire—imposed on it from outside and which is suffering for it.

(Tangent 4: The most immediate critique—the West ≠ modernity—is obvious and essential. This conflation we can probably chalk up to the way Britain thought of its empire as a civilizing force instead of the destructive force it actually was.)

If we’re being unkind, we might even call this a fetishization of Middle Eastern culture, and speculate that Jones’ refusal to actually visit the Mideast might also have been subconsciously fueled by a desire to not have this very intricate idea of the Muslim world, silted into existence over years and years of research and music production, collapse in on itself after coming into contact with reality. That’s a fair critique. It certainly reads that way to someone like me whose mental image of the Mideast is less Hebron and more Dubai. Either way, though, there’s extremely little in the way of any broader anti-capitalist sentiment here.

Nevertheless, the field recordings are evocative, the dronework unsettling, the electronics abrasive and challenging. The questionable politics are there, yes, but they’re questionable in very specific and idiosyncratic ways that demand polysyllabic engagement. This remains, fundamentally, very well-made music.

(Tangent 5: Besides, if I only listened to music that aligned with my specific politics I’d only listen to anarchist crust punk recorded in squats, and that’s no way to go through life.)

(Tangent 6: And no, I have no idea how you’d make an explicitly leftist counterpoint to Muslimgauze. Perhaps ask someone who’s actually from the Mideast.)

Steven Wilson has a longstanding policy of not caring about an artist’s politics, so long as the music is good. (Not unrelatedly, Steven Wilson is a cisgender white man.) And this music is extremely good, and more importantly, extremely good in an off-kilter left-field way that’s right up his alley. So, when Wilson discovered Bryn Jones and his considerable discography, he wrote to him, they met, and he gave Jones some of his own music, which Jones then heavily edited to fit his own style and sent back.

The two of them would fling remixes and remixes of remixes back and forth until an album emerged. The result is something that would be a lighter Muslimgauze offering if it didn’t sound like Muslimgauze run [further] through the William S. Burroughs cut-up method. There’s not much in the way of Jones’ usual trademarks, like the vocal samples or the percussion, but there’s a lot of distortion and artistic brickwalling. It’s like if someone dunked the Muslimgauze machine in water and then let it rip. As for Bass Communion, their (“their”) more pronounced contributions generally show up toward the back, with Moonloop leftovers showing up in Four and Six, and their penchant for slow, incremental change (not, critically, a Muslimgauze staple) appearing in Five.

In general, though, this collaboration still feels like a watering down of each artists’ respective strengths. As I write this I still find myself drawn to the punchier stuff Jones released solo instead of what this collaboration produced. Bass Communion fares slightly better, but that may have more to do with the way their identity is less subsumed into the collective muck than anything. In that respect, this EP feels somewhat unbalanced, and one would expect a months-long remix and re-remix effort to eventually produce something that both retained each artist’s individual identity and molded them together into something distinctive. That didn’t quite happen.

It’s probably inaccurate to say it’s a “missed opportunity.” That would imply there’s some ideal way for a Bass Communion/Muslimgauze collaboration to sound, and given the two projects approach ambient and experimental music from perpendicular directions (loosely: BC plays up the alien-ness of its soundscapes, whereas Muslimgauze is firmly rooted in the real world), if there is one, this is probably it. But it doesn’t really matter, because the two artists wouldn’t have the chance to collaborate again. Bryn Jones died of a rare blood disease in 1999, leaving behind a Tupac-sized mountain of unreleased work that took over fifteen years to fully sift through. (Fortunately, it’s all on Spotify. My personal recommendation is to start with Gun Aramaic and work your way outwards from there.) Wilson, meanwhile, would go on to collaborate with multiple Israeli artists (one of whom is related to Moshe Dayan), have a second home in Tel Aviv, and describe other musicians’ support of BDS as performative ego-stroking. Go figure.

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Bass Communion – Bass Communion II

July 1999

  • Advert. Like an advert, except with beeps. (When did he stop doing these?)
  • 16 Second Swarm. Melancholy horns over static fuzz. More reconstructed memories (what was happening in 1999?). Not a memory—a ghost (do the Hokey Cokey). Record scratch fades out, ambient shimmers fade in. 6’00” in…violins. Cellos. (A mourning.) Ágætis byrjun, abstracted. A call of alien animals across the highland hills.
  • Grammatic Oil. Thumping, thrumming, all-consuming low humming. Not quite JBK-tribal but close. Electronic echolocation. All blends together into a coalescing, oppressive wall of noise. Which then fades out to alien whispering distant alien shrieking.
  • Drugged III. Back to the shoreline saxophonic well. Intro feels like a tension-riddled Japanese tea ceremony. Ambient swells kick in early. (Kyoto—outside of time—akin to the timeless London whose Thames bridge Gull jumped off in From Hell’s penultimate chapter. (A memory of an imaginary city.)) Sax from before, accentuated with guitar (see above). Fades out in favor of soundscapes and whalesong, the suite collapsing in on itself and reconstituting. Travis’ sax becomes disembodied from itself, as we drift slowly upward.
  • Dwarf Artillery. Twitchy, glitchy, and full of radar. Voyage 34, Phase IV, if Brian was a conspiracy nut. (This time the paranoia is palpable.) (It has direction.) Distorted guitar ambience in the background in the midsection.
  • Wide Open Killingfeld. Wind above metal shacks. Future civilization camping in amongst the ruins of ours—communicating in song (sounds like birds). Abstracted seagull calls. First part sounds the way a Lasse Hoile photograph looks. Radio static, rusted flagpoles. After this, only the mood.

————

A central concept of the first volume of Phonogram, the Gillen/McKelvie not-quite-love-letter to music nerdery, is the memory kingdom. It’s exactly what it says on the tin, a scene, something like Swinging London or Madchester or Britpop, as it exists in the culture’s collective memory.

Entering a memory kingdom isn’t shown to be exceptionally difficult, as it’s the natural extension of the sort of things people do when they listen to a ton of music that they associate with a particular time and place (eg. Burial and New York, Pendulum and Hong Kong, Space-Era Porcupine Tree and Taipei). There’s some ceremonial set and setting stuff that needs to be done in the beginning, but the core of the whole process is this: listen to something of that time and get into it. Everybody does that.

Bass Communion II presents itself as an invitation to do something similar. The transition point is pretty clearly the moment on the second track where the record static fades out and the barrier between the listener and the soundscape has been shattered, and we spend the rest of the album wandering aimlessly around a strange new world.

The kingdom we’ve entered, though, isn’t a collective memory, or even Wilson’s memory specifically. This is an oblique heterotopia; green England’s fields turned upside-down and inside-out, an ominous hellscape populated with bird-men and glitch-dogs and other, more alien creatures that hum and drone beyond the horizon. They go about their dark work not even knowing or caring you’re there, safe in the knowledge that if a tourist were to pierce the separation between worlds and stumble into theirs, you’d have no idea what they’re doing and would be too scared/dumbfounded to ask. You are a dream, wandering a world of dreams made real.

This is part of why music is magic. You may not be able to physically reach out and touch the glitch-beasts in the last track on the second disc, and they may not have existed in any meaningful sense before July of 1999, but there they are, to quote Alan Moore, real beyond refute, in all their grandeur and monstrosity. Steven Wilson sketched an entire world and packed it into 87 minutes of music, and you have filled in the details. A, uh, communion, if you will, between musician and listener.

But here’s the thing: there’s nothing inherent about Wilson’s soundscapes in this album, or even about Wilson as a musician, that allows this to happen. This is just an example of the magical properties of an aesthetic. Listen to a song, ideally one that carries a particular weight for you, and you’ll find this exact thing happening again. I’m doing it right now, with a different record, as I write this.

In other words, everybody does that.

  1. Bass Communion II
  2. Bass Communion I

————

  • A Grapefruit in the World of Park. Based on Robert Fripp soundscape. Oscillating burbles come in so loud they make the surrounding radio antennas hum. Music which has a concrete effect upon the world. Metallic hum resolves to cello. Individual elements slowly stretched apart.
  • Snakebird. Square Root of Sub remix. Spiritual sequel to Sleep, &c. Airships above a bog. At the center, a crystal shimmering. Mesmerizing. Drawing all in. Drugged reprise. Splashing, bitcrushed howling. Glitchy. Distorted beyond all recognition. Artificial, but very real and very threatening. But the brightness remains, beckoning. Something about the light’s true nature?

GUEST: Fish – Raingods with Zippos

19 April 1999

Fellini Days

The concept of the “imperial phase” is generally not useful for outlining the general trends of an artist’s discography. It’s too limited; by invoking the concept you’re fitting everything the artist has ever done into exactly three periods: the period during which they achieved the greatest critical and commercial acclaim, and the period on either side. Bowie, for instance. His imperial phase lasted roughly from Space Oddity to about Dancing in the Street. Staking out those singles as both sides of a distinct era says very little about what he was doing with either song, and the way he’d evolved as an artist during that period. Steven Wilson’s imperial phase, meanwhile, begins with In Absentia and ends with The Incident, and that point in his career says more about what people expect from him than what he himself was actually up to. This taxonomy is fundamentally more about people’s reactions to the music than about the music itself. But that doesn’t mean we can’t try for a quick salvage job.

The imperial phase is generally something built up to and expanded outward from. You can, in retrospect, tell that the man responsible for The Laughing Gnome would eventually go on to write Space Oddity. Likewise, it’s also clear that the man who unleashed Linton Samuel Dawson upon the world would grow and evolve to the point where he’d also give us Blackest Eyes. Those two songs definitely existed in their respective artists’ ideaspaces when they were just starting out, albeit formless and void, low on the horizon. They just needed to be whacked into shape, a process largely facilitated not by conscious thought but through the particular ways in which their careers would take shape over the years, through their influences and life experiences.

The post-imperial phase, meanwhile, can go one of two ways: the sound can either ossify or diversify. Sellout-era Genesis and Phil Collins’ solo career together represent a notorious example of the former. Bowie was fortunate enough to have the latter; his post-imperial discography includes gems such as I’m Afraid of Americans, his collaborations with Placebo and Arcade Fire, and, of course, the Thomas Ligotti fever dream that is Blackstar. A diversified artist’s post-imperial work may not be as consistently good as their imperial work, but it is often just as interesting, if not more so.

(This is related, though distinct, to the universe-is-a-hyperboloid concept tossed around earlier, as a good candidate for a musician’s inflection point is the moment their imperial phase ends. The subject of this post, for example, has one sometime in October 1988.)

Field of Crows

Fish, then. His imperial phase consists of his last two albums with Marillion, the ones that gave us Kayleigh and The Last Straw and multiple UK Top 40 singles and the associated megastardom. His post-imperial phase consists of his entire solo career. Everything he produced from when he left Marillion up to this album could be adequately described as Fish Figuring Out Himself, expelling everything he couldn’t do with Marillion, trying on different styles, and finally stripping himself back to rediscover what made him a great musician in the first place. The results are uneven, but Fish’s evolution as a solo artist is clear and we still got some excellent songs out of it.

Hence, Raingods With Zippos, the best album of Fish’s solo career. In some ways it’s a counterpoint to Stupid Dream. Where Stupid Dream starts out strong and begins to flounder about halfway through, Raingods starts out rocky (Tumbledown is one of those songs that has a spectacular intro—in this case a beautiful piano piece—but when it actually kicks in it’s such a step down that you feel you’re the victim of a bait-and-switch; fortunately the piano returns at the end of Rites of Passage) but two or three songs in it finds its footing and we get, all in a row, the low thrum of Incomplete, the folk-inflected masochism tango of Tilted Cross, and the demented, off-kilter Faith Healer and its twitchy violin solo.

Which brings us to the Plague of Ghosts suite. Out of everything here, it’s probably the most…forward-thinking, as it took all the electronic experiments from his previous albums and brought them to their natural conclusion. The point of progressive music is to progress, and here’s Fish taking his music in a direction that might not be traditionally progressive, and may have 1999 written all over it, but here he does something interesting with it. Here’s 90s No-Man-inflected trip-hop in Digging Deep, burbling ambience in Chocolate Frogs, and a transition to a frenetic drum-n-bass beat in Waving at Stars, a bridge between the psychedelia-soaked origins of electronic music and its present. It’s only with the piano-driven Raingods Dancing and Wake-Up Call that we’re brought back to more familiar territory. This is Fish showing off the new stuff he’s learned in this vein over the past decade, and it’s great. It’s science fair presentations like this that are the bread and butter of a proper post-imperial phase.

Wilson takes more of a step back with this one, this time playing guitar on about half the album. With the exception of the more funky touches he brings to Digging Deep, much of his guitar work makes the suite feel like Fish’s own interpretation of The Sky Moves Sideways, Phase I. It’s a nice effect, giving the Plague of Ghosts suite a solid psychedelic foundation for Fish to play around with.

Postscript: yes, that Rick Astley co-wrote Mission Statement.

13th Star

Going forward, well, most of Fish’s direct collaborations with Wilson this century involve bear hugs in bars and that’s about it. Nevertheless, Fish’s and Wilson’s stories would intersect two more times.

Sometime between Lightbulb Sun and In Absentia, as Wilson was winding down I.E.M., Fish would release Fellini Days. This was a darker and less baroque record than its predecessor, with Fish himself depending more on his lower register, continually straying further from the superficial light poppiness that early critics had saddled him with. The track from this album that sticks in my head the most is The Pilgrim’s Address, in which Fish positions himself as a not-entirely-naive war veteran faux-innocently making a mockery of his commander-in-chief by turning his own empty patriotism and hollow invocation of American Values back on him. He knows the wars he fought were in the service of unchecked greed and imperialist aggression more than anything else, but what he wants is a public acknowledgement that Mister President realizes this on some level as well.

Here’s why this song works: whenever Wilson plays a character in a song it’s always at somewhat of a remove, like he’s more interested in psychoanalyzing than acting. This is fine for what he’s setting out to do, for the record, as most of his characters are rather repulsive people; a rogue’s gallery of terrorists, serial killers, cult leaders, shut-ins, and various other creeps and weirdos. Fish’s characters, meanwhile, are generally innocent people who’ve fallen victim to circumstance in some fashion, whether it be something as small as a breakup or as large as a war. We’re invited to place ourselves in their shoes and sympathize with them, and the effect is palpable. The Pilgrim’s Address is the rawest song on Fellini Days, and upon realizing precisely how much power he’s tapped in to with this particular lyricism, Fish would eventually start doing the same trick at least once an album. Where in the World off 13th Star, the central suite of A Feast of Consequences, and Waverley Steps off Weltschmerz are especially gut-punching.

So how’s Wilson involved in all this? He isn’t. At least, not directly. However, as it happens, during this time Fish had cultivated a nice working relationship with a gentleman who’d opened for him on several world tours, and who would co-write and play guitar on this album. This is, of course, Mr John Wesley, the same gentleman who’d soon become a touring member of and occasional studio presence with Porcupine Tree.

Wilson’s most recent intersection with Fish’s world comes through his remix of Misplaced Childhood in 2017, which, as it’s also the earliest album of his that he’s directly, materially interacted with, feels like the closing of a circle.

A Feast of Consequences

Fish is retiring from music. He’s hit sixty now, and he’s been having some health problems, and he’s been spending a lot of time tending to his garden, and besides he thinks of himself more as a writer who sings than a singer and it’s Just Time. The current plan is one last tour and one last album, and then he’s done for good. He’s released a preview EP, A Parley with Angels, and what’s there sounds like an evolution of what’s appeared on 13th Star and A Field of Consequences. I’m cautiously optimistic about how the finished product will sound, especially since during the recording process it’s apparently spiraled out of control and become a double album.

It’s not quite accurate to say that a double album is a tricky beast to pull off. An album is as long as it needs to be, after all. But creating a double album does present two unique and not unrelated challenges: the ability to make it cohere such that it doesn’t seem like a scattershot braindump with no quality control, and the ability to consistently hold the listener’s attention. From what I’ve heard, it sounds like the result will land anywhere from “particularly good late Derek Dick” to “bloated hot mess.” It’ll probably be a little of both. Fish wants this to be the defining record of his career, but “overstuffed” was never a mode he really operated in before now. This will be new and exciting for both artist and listener.

The current date to tie everything off is 2020. Once he retires, I imagine he may pop up for little one-off gigs here and there, but mostly he’ll be puttering away out at the greenhouse.

Weltschmerz

Honestly, though, I’m not sure a final album necessarily needs to be a Defining Statement. The chunks of Weltschmerz released on Parley with Angels doesn’t sound like a transcendently beautiful statement of purpose that sums up not just the musical career but in fact the very essence of the man called Derek Dick, but that’s okay. Neither was Blackstar or Tim Drum or Clutching at Straws. A final album only needs to be, in the words of Kieron Gillen, a full stop with ideas above its station.

Besides, Fish’s already written his magnum opus. Much of the front half of Raingods with Zippos sounds like something from Fish’s earlier solo career, while the back half—from about Faith Healer on—sounds like Fish discovering where he wants to go from there. As a result, Raingods encapsulates Fish’s solo career more completely than Weltschmerz ever could. The album’s overall effect is of a man walking audibly from the past to the future, and as the final song fades out on Nicola King’s repeated “we can make it happen,” we too are left behind as we move into a different future of our own making.