In the late 1990s, experimental electronic music seemed to develop in parallel with Moore's Law. As computers grew more powerful and software more sophisticated, texture began to trump all, and subgenres sprouted from every newly programmed patch. We heard in music the sound of technology at the precise moment of a record's creation. A lot of great music was made, and a lot more that'll never be heard again. But sometimes it seemed as though the machines were in charge; there was a tremendous amount of complexity for complexity's sake.
Thinking about those days while listening to Polish-born and Cologne-based producer Paul Wirkus is instructive. As experimental electronic music goes, Wirkus' work is very simple. A given track might have two or three distinct tones that are introduced, layered, tweaked, and mixed in varying proportions, and then allowed to vanish into silence. But Wirkus possesses a natural ear and a disciplined sense of structure. Everything happens when it should, and these miniatures of basic, controlled sound wind up being tremendously affecting.
I can't help but think of the opening "View Finder" as a sly homage to Giorgio Moroder, another auteur with a gift for economy. The repeating synth driving the track reminds me of what it might sound like to be under a couple of feet of water as a helicopter hovers just above the surface, and then the gently modulating synths lean in with the same flanged drama Moroder deployed to telegraph the climaxes of "I Feel Love". But it isn't pop music Wirkus is making; it's not even cinematic, exactly. It's too abstract for that, and draws too much attention to its constituent qualities. It sounds like electricity arranging itself into interesting shapes, not like a background for something else.
Every once in a while the music drifts into a static-ridden realm that could be overly familiar to those who burned out on Mille Plateaux even before the label disintegrated; but even tracks like the hissy, trembling "Dogs After Flight" and the steam-tunnel drone of "Erineru" have flashes of melody and change considerably over their relatively brief running times, so they hold up well to repeated listens. As on his previous record, Inteletto d'Amore, Wirkus again has a track with subtle vocals; "Nie Kocham" has barely whispered Polish chopped into pieces and moved through space in and around columns of repeating bass, fostering a very odd affective space that's both creepy and sad.
The record as a whole can be summed up by taking in the power of "Kocham", which begins with meager ingredients indeed: just a stereotypically "electronic" palette that's been around since the score to Forbidden Planet and a handful of notes that seem to float in space randomly. And yet, somehow, it manages to put a lump in my throat. It's difficult to convey the subtle beauty of the best tracks on Déformation Professionnelle; all I can say is that Wirkus has some sort of weird gift that'll likely become more apparent over time.
