In 1993, before the IDM phenomenon had drawn enough recognition to merit so much as a name, David Toop penned an exposé for The Times on the surge of Britain's up-and-coming "bedroom composers." The photographs that ran with the article showed a slight young man with a prominent Adam's apple, gym-teacher glasses and a gnarled ponytail, and the pubescent shadow of a moustache spreading over his upper lip. Dressed plainly in a sweatshirt sporting the name of his former band, he tapped at the ivories of his Casio FZ-1 keyboard amid the clutter of his mother's house. Some laughed when Toop said the future of music rested in this man's spindly, awkward hands. But Mike Paradinas, for it was he, laughed last.
In the eight years since that article ran, Paradinas has emerged as one of the most influential magnates of the avant-electronic scene. He's now a married father of one, living in his own home and managing a first-rate record label that he started from scratch. The moustache is gone, along with the ponytail (sold for roughly $80 on eBay)-- and with them, any question of whether Mike lived up to Mr. Toop's monumental charge. Operating under a total of seven pseudonyms (omitting collaborations), Paradinas has guided the growth of electronic music with genius and grace. And few works showcase his talent more ably than 1993's Tango n' Vectif.
Paradinas' second release, after an impossibly rare 12" issued under the Diesel M moniker, Tango paints in sweeping, creative strokes, unrestrained by the genre-based trappings that often limit contemporary IDM. A few weeks ago, Richard D. James' Rephlex label reissued this gem, compiling several unreleased tracks with material from the original CD and vinyl releases, as well as the long-lost "PHI*1700" single. At two discs and 26 songs, this reissue retails at most online vendors for a few dollars less than the 13-track U.S. original. Nice.
Most of the material on Tango n' Vectif was composed well before its release, and in places, the album betrays its age. The granular fidelity sounds unrefined, and straightforward instrumental arrangements like those of the "Phragmal Synthesis" suite have long since fallen out of favor with the "intelligent" crowd. But nitpicking aside, Tango is by all measures a truly staggering album.
Consider that in 1993, Autechre released Incunabula, James issued Surfing on Sine Waves, the Joyrex 12-inches, and Analogue Bubblebath 3, and Beaumont Hannant drew critical acclaim for his Tastes and Textures series. Against Tango n' Vectif, even such notably progressive albums sound dated and one-dimensional. And in today's climate of vain experimentation, scrupulous precision and perfect sound, \xB5-Ziq's debut, in all its raw glory, continues to hold its own. It's hard to believe that a gangly young recluse with no musical training could imagine such bold, poignant textures from the confines of a bedroom.
The self-titled opening track wastes no time in showing you where the album stands. A yawning bassline creeps out from the song's recesses, fastened down by punishing drums and jagged metallic clangs. Paradinas tempers the song's stark ambiance with simple, playful melodies, lending an emotive irony to the piece that is uniquely \xB5-Ziq.
"Swan Vesta," a long-time resident of my pantheon of perfect songs, eludes comparison. This song overwhelms the listener with its stylistic and emotional versatility-- the violent swaths of blistering snares, the melancholy strings, the idiosyncratic bleeps, the plaintive mechanical cries, the funky tribal interludes and the haunting clarity of the central eight-note refrain. The result is as ambiguous and intangible as it is blissful-- a liminal listening experience that not only makes you dance or think or cry, but compels you to do all of that at once.
It's a hard act to follow, but Mike does his best. "Iesope" is a tranquil melodic number whose resonant cave-dubbed samples culminate in a powerfully understated three-note resolution. "\xB5-Ziq Theme," one of several songs from Tango that involved the cooperation of Frank Naughton (he left the project to focus on schoolwork, but has since released a handful of solo songs on Spymania), brings the beat back amid a swirling arpeggio and a lush bed of mournful strings.
"Ad Misericordiam," previously available only on the vinyl issue of Tango, opens with the drone of gothic synth pads, then slowly phases in jangling percussion and squelchy electro melodies. The pace of the record flags with songs like "Whale Soup" and "Die Zweite Heimat," but these disappointments comprise a clear exception to an otherwise consistently strong album.
Paradinas mines a different vein with "Xolbe 2," a subdued, rhythmic piece bathed in layers of tinny static. The new additions ("Driving Is Easy," "Methyl Albion" and "Glink") also go down well, though only "Glink" parallels the standard set by the original album. Even so, I have a hard time finding fault with their inclusion on the reissue-- all three songs offer something of value and, thanks to the absurd politics of the record industry, they won't run buyers any extra flow.
Eight years ago, Tango n' Vectif offered to change the code of modern electronica. Until recently, its plea fell on deaf American ears. Now we've entered the 21st century, and in some respects, we're still catching up with what Mike Paradinas did in 1993-- perhaps the finest period of his career. You can call this record groundbreaking, or relevant, or just a real riot to listen to. I call it a masterpiece, and I don't think any IDM enthusiast can tell the sky from the ground without it.
