Musicians struggle for years to transcend the context of their art. These people work hard to create works that will somehow stand apart from the rest of the product delivered by other musicians, works that will somehow instantly connect with many people at once. This phenomenon isn't unique to music, of course, but it does seem oddly, mundanely survivalist for a group of people who would be called "artists". The daily ritual of distinguishing oneself-- while never remaining distinguished for so long that one is surpassed by the next wave-- spans entire species, and even the most insular musicians will march alongside normal folk to this tune.
However, despite this constant mutation of style, artists will occasionally emerge from their time as its representative. Nature generally allows these instances to run a short course before devouring them into nothingness. Think of those artists who overpowered the grind of their eras: Bach, Wagner, Miles Davis, The Beatles-- all of these people were consistently displaced of their time by the striking originality of their work, and yet were quintessentially "then". This is rare, indeed, and there is a case for including Masami Akita in such a group.
Merzbow, as Masami is usually known, was born in 1956 in Japan. He studied painting and art history in college, and worked as an editor and writer for experimental art publications after graduating. From a very early point, Merzbow (named after the painting "Merzbau" by noted avant-garde artist Kurt Schwitters) was interested in 20th Century extremist concepts such as Surrealism and Art Brut (a principal wherein only personal impulse/delusion inform one's art, rather than external styles or works). Furthermore, his interest and reportedly vast knowledge of bondage and pornography are common visual references accompanying his music. His own releases number in the hundreds, and if any musical fabric binds them, it is that of total determination to assault listener senses. I can't say he is self-indulgent any more than I can say he is deviant any more than I can say he is a genius any more than I can say he is not. He is Merzbow, and if you have followed his journey for long, that means more than any other context.
A Taste of Merzbow is his first solo release (second overall) for Austrian imprint Mego, and features many of the common elements of his work: tape loops, metallic percussion jabs, squealing feedback and drastic bursts of other unidentified noise. It is also the latest in his recent line of computer-based music. Don't let the label or his hard-drive fool you: this is still Merzbow at his overloaded best/worst, and despite the record's quaint Japanese cuisine theme (each piece is associated with a traditional dish, complete with recipe on individual CD inserts), is not the first place to go for anyone testing the waters of experimental electronic, musique concrète, or even noise music.
Mammoth workouts like "Turban Shell Blues" and "Tempura in Moss Garden" attest to Merzbow's singular visions of radical overkill and pleasure through pain. The latter features layers upon layers of howling static-thunder and what sounds like the distorted shattering of glass, all over the insistent pulse of an electronic bass drum. After 10 minutes, it is headache inducing; at 22 minutes it is either life-affirming or suicide-coercing. Contradiction plays no less a part in the former track, wherein the opening percussion loop hints at a hidden structure at work, only to explode into a furious void of feedback, blacksmith hammering and omnipresent static.
Despite sonic evidence to the contrary, Merzbow does have roots. He has spoken of his early admiration for everyone from Jimi Hendrix to Iannis Xenakis, and elaborated at length on the meaning of his uses of bondage and porn images with some of his music. On the one hand, he is merely the brightest fire in an eclectic, almost anarchic Japanese music scene. On the other, Merzbow's music shatters scenes and precedents. Masami Akita is his own context, and listeners enter that world at their own risk.
