What does New York mean to you, musically? Is the birthplace of hip-hop? Ground zero for American punk? Or does it boil down to Brooklyn indie rockers? For a legion of young bands, New York is attractive for a wealth of history you can feed on, but need not think about too much. It's the hub where blogs and social networks seem to connect, where bands flock to make as much noise for as many people as they can, as quickly as possible.
Kyle Bobby Dunn-- not at all a country singer, as his name might suggest-- is part of the shadow vanguard of grave, taciturn young composers and sound artists who provide a necessary foil to the boom-and-bust cycles of the NYC hype-market, working in ways that are diametrically opposed to indie rock's vigorous self-promotion. Dunn's New York resides in the shadow of Morton Feldman and other downtown art-music titans who worked in self-effacing quietude, a debt he repays in compositions that are patience incarnate, and which, in context, can't help but sound like a rejection of blog-culture's rapid digestion and cult of personality. It's somehow heart-lifting to know that there are young conceptualists keeping the city's stern modernist spirit alive.
On Fervency, Dunn himself is concealed behind the impenetrable curtains of five surpassingly ascetic drone pieces that stretch out to 10, 14, 17 minutes. This is familiar territory for fans of William Basinski and Stars of the Lid: Long tones evolve at a glacial pace, the various frequencies and timbres weaving deep patterns from palpitating oscillations. "Butel (Kersey)" rolls through your headphones like a foghorn, with high trembles shining through sweetly. The mournful peals of "The Tributary (For Voices Lost)" are complicated by an almost sub-audible bass flutter you don't really notice until it swallows everything at the end. "Mobiles (There Is No End)" has a skimming, insistent pulse, as if the placid waters of the first two tracks were suddenly ruffled by a fierce wind. This is part of a steady climb of intensity, which ramps up through the prismatic organ chords of "Promenade" and culminates in the cyclical turbulence of "Baltic Sea Kisses (Viul Winter Remix)". We leave the album with a sense of stunned pacifism, and only the merest intuition of Dunn's personality.
Dunn is just not that interested in letting us know who he is-- the music speaks for him. Google his name, and you'll discover a volume of work that drastically outstrips its promotional trimmings. What info there is impresses: enthusiastic clips from The Wire and Keith Fullerton Whitman, and notices about fascinating-sounding live collaborations and commissions. Most of this information is related concisely and without fanfare on his MySpace page, its ghostly gray-and-white template seeming faintly embarrassed to exist just this side of the visible. The "Influences" section is giving over to Dunn's current listening, which at press time includes Kevin Drumm, Arvo Pärt, Sunn O))), and Henri Chopin. He also specifies that he is a "21st-century composer." His reverence for musical history and his insistence on now-ness comprise a tacit thesis-- that the project of NYC's postwar avant-garde is far from finished. Thank goodness!
