The concept behind Gregg Kowalsky's "Tape Chants" performance is simple yet fascinating. Looking to break away from computer-based methods, the Oakland-based composer turned to cassette tapes. After recording various source material (piano, percussion, sinewave oscillators, etc) onto cassettes, Kowalsky would play them on mono tape players around a room and vary the volume levels of each. "Depending on where each member of the audience is located, they will hear the piece slightly differently than the person next to them," he explains in the press materials for Tape Chants. This unique performance process lies somewhere between the early phase experiments of Steve Reich and the "third ear" psycho-acoustic work of Maryanne Amacher.
It also provokes the question of whether Kowalsky could create as interesting an experience on record. He admits that Tape Chants, his second full-length for Kranky, "does not try to replicate the surround sound component of the live performances." But he used a similar process to make these pieces, adding what he calls "rhythmic textures" to the tape mixing. The result is a set of well-crafted drones that fans of the Kranky catalogue or any other ambient music should appreciate. The uniqueness of the live show, however, doesn't come across here. You can tell a lot of work went into Kowalsky's music, but you can't really tell what kind of work. So without the visuals or three-dimensionality of the performance, Kowalsky's drones have to suffice on their own.
And they pretty much do. Tape Chants opens with "Invocation", a minute-long track of tactile, engine-rev drone. But Kowalsky stumbles by following that with his least interesting (and longest) piece. "I-IV" lasts for 21 minutes, and a good portion of that is taken up by motionless, organ-like tones. Of course, a lot of good drone can be described that way, but here the stasis isn't counterbalanced by enough sonic texture or variety. About halfway through, a bassy rhythm takes hold in the background, giving the track a distinct boost. But even that element never quite gathers steam or rises into something new, and "I-IV" could have been as interesting-- maybe even more so-- at a third of its length.
The rest of Tape Chants is more varied, and more engaging. Kowalsky's drones get denser and moodier as they progress, gathering sonic dust and debris to become more like field recordings than studio compositions. On "VI-VII", his tones begin with a sandy hue, then drift into low-end rumble and what sounds like acoustic string plucks. In contrast to "I-IV", this piece is busy and active, with different strains of sound humming alongside each other like insects. The same goes for the ultra-quick "VIII"-- less than a minute of phasey, tactile howl-- and especially "IX", whose thick, piano-ish echo conjures thoughts of Labradford scoring a grainy horror film. It's moments like that in which Kowalsky's process takes a back seat to the end result.
Don't come here expecting all Labradford-style cinematics, though. Kowalsky's work so far is mostly for hardcore drone-fans, and even they might not be blown away by Tape Chants. But anyone can appreciate Kowalsky's attention to detail, and that thorough approach seems destined to produce a more unique statement-- whatever process it takes to get there.
