In 2002, the master archivists at Table of the Elements made a crowning achievement: the beautiful An Angel Moves Too Fast To See box set by legendary New York composer Rhys Chatham. Holding three discs of guitar-orchestra masterpieces and a thick book of notes inside a heavy silver-and-white package, An Angel was dauntingly monumental, more fit to sit under museum glass than rub up against dusty jewel cases. But it also felt a bit like a coffin. After all, something this massive and career-defining-- it even ended with a new peak, the 100-guitar title piece-- seemed insurmountable. How could Chatham ever top it?
Apparently the answer lies in simple math. If 100 guitars could sound so great, shouldn't 400 sound even better? In 2005, Chatham set out to test this theorem. Commissioned by the City of Paris to compose something for their all-night La Nuit Blanche Festival, he wrote the ambitious "A Crimson Grail (Moves Too Fast To See)." Gathering 400 guitarists (along with longtime comrades Ernie Brooks on bass and Jonathan Kane on hi-hat) and four leaders listening to his directions through headphones, Chatham led a 12-hour sonic marathon. Starting on the steps of France's largest church, the Sacré-Cœur, the ensemble ended the show inside, beneath a 272-foot ceiling. Nearly 1000 people witnessed this mini-miracle, while thousands more watched on television throughout France.
Given the huge mass of bodies and sound, it would be unreasonable to expect the recording to replicate this spectacle. But audio limitations become a blessing on this album, which excerpts the performance in three 20-minute chunks. Slightly hissy and foggy, at times even claustrophobic, the record sounds like the abstracted essence of electric guitar. Sure, you can hear a chord here, a string pluck there, and the clicking of Kane's cymbal throughout "Part Two". But the lasting impression is that of a vibrant, shimmering sound-cloud. Chatham's ensemble creates an atmosphere that rises above individual technique, leaving concerns of who, what, and how far behind.
Given that engrossing tone, A Crimson Grail's three parts are surprisingly distinct. "Part One" is the most symphonic, as guitar waves alternately gather into peaks and cascade into near-silence. Uncannily, the guitars climb separately in small shifts, yet invariably meet at each apex. As the echoes lengthen, the piece evokes a huge frozen wave, full of dense overtones and hymn-like hums. The cinematic drift of the Kranky roster and the power-drones of Phill Niblock come to mind, but the glow of Chatham's guitar army has a singular warmth.
The outdoors play a role in "Part Two", as the sound of rainfall mixes with oscillating guitar tones. Once Kane's clicking beat enters, the piece becomes hypnotically metronomic, with two-chord guitars marching forward. Over that robotic lurch, dense sounds roll in like thunder clouds, adding a scary dissonance. The piece ends like a soundtrack to a horror-film directed by Stan Brakhage, filled with blurry shots that imply violence through abstract light and color.
"Part Three" is A Crimson Grail's most direct statement, a buzzing, slow-burning drone that never wavers. It's also the closest to what one might expect from 400 guitars: a thick, solid wall of sound. But imagination alone couldn't predict the piece's undulating textures, a result of the massed intonation techniques Chatham has honed for three decades.
At least the audience didn't seem to expect that, judging by their sharp, reflexive applause. Chatham responds with an encore of a darker drone that seems to create howls and screams. Whether those noises came from the guitars or the delirious onlookers is hard to tell, but one thing is for sure: This wasn't just a performance, it was a larger-than-life sonic environment. And A Crimson Grail offers the best panoramic snapshot one could hope for.
