The state of turntablism has undergone rapid transformation over the last decade or so. No longer content with manipulating vinyl in unexpected ways, some artists have now turned on the tables themselves, utilizing every inch of the case, platter, motor, tone arm and stylus of the venerable record player.

Martin Tétreault, part of Montréal’s Ambiances Magnétiques collective, is one such artist. He began this evening with a solo turntable set. Looking something like an impish scientist he sat pensively behind his mixer and two turntables, if turntables you can call them. In fact, one was simply a spinning platter raised high on the table, a piece of rotating metal with a disembodied stylus and tone arm that he used to probe various items at hand. His other turntable was a standard Technics, although Tétreault often eschewed vinyl in preference to metal plates, and he often used open RCA cables in deference to the stylus to generate rumbly, sparking and oddly explosive sounds. He ended one piece by throwing a 7” record onto a pile of objects he had built up on his stylus, eliciting audience laughter, though his more frequent slamming of the tone arm would cause a serious vinyl addict to cringe in horror. At times his approach seemed chaotic or even spastic, while at other times he built revolving grooves that were glitchy and intense. It’s difficult to call Tétreault a DJ in this context, but as a turntablist he sees many unexpected possibilities.

It was clear from the two Technics decks on Yoshihide’s table that he would focus on the turntables, so it came as a bit of surprise that Yoshihide played much of his solo set on guitar, playing through a blond Marshall amp. His playing was drenched in feedback, starting with a buzzy intro that crescendoed into a ringing harmonic pallette, growling and angry. His playing was urgent, piercing, and vicious, a dirty blues with strong tremolo. Out of this slowly emerged the strains of Ornette Coleman’s ”Lonely Woman,” drifting in the feedback, a languorous rendering of the song. This slowly receded as Yoshihide began applying clips and various tools to his strings to effect, generating blocks of feedback and rich tones that rung and dropped under his thoughtful control. Yoshihide then turned to the tables to complete his solo set. He began by slamming on a disc, generating strong feedback, shaking the decks and probing at his discs to create long looping harmonic grooves punctuated with sudden collisions, unlikely beats and internote interference. The set ended with something sounding like an alien death ray, a fitting end to a charged set.

After an intermission the players returned as a duo, with both players at their turntables. The similarities in style were as striking as the contrasts: both used their styli as a probe, striking at objects that occasionally included vinyl records, but also included metal plates, cymbals, and seemingly anything loose and nearby. Yoshihide had springs mounted on his styli to force them into repetetive grooves. Tétreault picked up a vinyl record and scratched at it with a free stylus as though it were a guitar. Both developed long grooves over which they busily worked, but generally Yoshihide tended towards more patient development of sounds relying often on delays, including an extended interaction with the package from a battery against his tone arm, making a wailing melodic cry. Meanwhile Tétreault jumped between sound sources in percussive and disruptive ways. As the set developed both settled into grooves, and the point of applying their approaches to turntables as opposed to any other solid object became apparent, as the rhythmic, cycling nature of their sound became more obvious. Dueling airplanes, industrial washing machines, droning noise with the beating of construction nightmares married and exploded, the factory gone haywire under the hands of these two noise pilots. The sheer feedback, interbeats and thunderous sounds threatened to change the listener’s body chemistry, a satisfying and jarring experience.

As in previous years, the range of artists and genres represented at Mutek 2003 was considerable. With over 70 artists from around the world appearing, one had the opportunity to see ‘marquee’ acts like Pole, Coil, and Richie Hawtin, as well as uncompromising artists like Pita, Kevin Drumm, and T. Raumschmiere. Unlike past Muteks, DJ sets were almost entirely absent at this year’s festival (although, for the record, past DJ sets had often been used to bridge the gaps between non-DJ performances). And, in comparison to last year’s ambitious potpourri of concerts, panel discussions, films, and design displays, the 2003 incarnation limited itself to concerts and panel discussions, with seven of the latter. In short, this year felt like a satisfying consolidation of past festivals’ strengths instead of grandiose risk-taking.

There were label showcases by Mego, No Type, and Minus/Plus 8, and sets of dubby microhouse from EGG (Julien Roy and Guillaume Coutu-Dumont), smooth minimal techhouse from Robin Judge and Jeff Milligan (aka Algorithm and Revolver label head), hard-hitting minimal techno by Ototo (Dimitri and Filip), Jeremy Caulfield, and Matthew Dear (aka False), the latter’s music evoking classic Chain Reaction stylings in its treble and bass detailing. Drone and ambient musics were presented, the most notable instance being the appearance by Thomas Köner and Asmus Tietchens (performing as Kontakt Der Jünglinge) who sculpted a slowly unfurling glacial soundscape. Other artists in this genre included Gary Joynes (aka Clinker), who built a singular drone-like piece of slowly metamorphosing waves, and [sic] (Jen Morris), who created ghostly dronescapes against a diptych backdrop of enigmatic photographs. Electroacoustic sets were offered by the nuanced Coin Gutter (Graeme Scott and Michael Hendrix) and sampling artist Diane Labrosse and Aimé Dontigny, whose collaboration resulted in a tactile, improvisatory dialogue. Set Fire to Flames’ member Christof Migone generated a 45-minute stream of body-generated scraping and whirring sounds accompanied by a video triptych that showed a gaping mouth at left, what appeared in the middle to be a tomato encased within a block of ice lodged within a salivating mouth, and, at right, the nighttime silhouette of a cityscape and bridge. There were infectious jazz-inflected funkhouse from Cobblestone Jazz and celebratory Latin techhouse by Mambotur. Chicago-based Telefon Tel Aviv (Joshua Eustis and Charles Cooper) presented a heavy microdub funk of chiming synths and massive bass drum and snare patterns. But, overall, the most memorable performances were turned in by veterans like Pole, Coil, Richie Hawtin, Monolake, and Señor Coconut.

In a Saturday afternoon performance that paid tribute to turntable pioneer Raymond Gervais, four turntable titans — Philip Jeck, Marina Rosenfeld, Martin Tétreault, and Martin Ng — provided an hypnotic set that included extended group collaboration as well as individual spotlights. Ostensibly, the proceedings were directed by Tétreault but his was certainly a benign dictatorship; if anything, the pieces often evolved with the others responding to Jeck’s looping grounds. They began by constructing a beautifully measured collage of scraping and scratching sounds amidst ghostly strains of melody. Immediately following this auspicious beginning, they created an equally effective second piece of whistling tones and bell-like percussion effects. While the concert predominantly featured the four playing together, there were brief duos, trios, and solos. Naturally, as is to be expected in an improvisatory setting, some tentative moments emerged when it seemed as if each of the four was waiting for someone to take the lead, but these registered as not unwelcome moments of brief stillness. Each took solo turns: Jeck, using two turntables, one for 12 inch lps and the other for 45s, drowned the sitar from Stoked in showers of surface noise; Rosenfeld’s solo offered a turntable adagio of sorts filled with treble glissandoes, looped crackling patterns, and phantom melodies; Tétreault’s initial musical quotation was gradually buried under huge slabs of static and hiss, his turn ending with furious scratching and a physical attack on his lps; finally, Ng’s solo impressed less as an exercise in musicality and more as one of physical athleticism. To close, the four collaborated upon a carefully sculpted elegiac piece. In sum, this session was engrossing and nuanced—a demonstration of sensitive listening and collaboration by its participants.

In the late ’80s and early ’90s, Martin Tétreault was the quietest member of Ambiances Magnétiques, Montréal’s influential new music collective. He was providing strange turntable collages to the projects of his colleagues and released a couple of mind-boggling solo albums. When minimal techno and experimental electronica hit the museums at the turn of the millennium, he became the label’s biggest international name, multiplying collaborations with the likes of Otomo Yoshihide, Kevin Drumm, Xavier Charles, and Janek Schaefer. This career boom was accompanied by a stylistic shift from vinyl quotation to an approach of the turntable as a “pure” sonic device. In the process, what he lost in sense of humor, he gained in harsh intensity.

Tétreault has a background in fine arts. Much like the Czech radical artist Milan Knizak, he began to work with vinyl because paper led him to a dead-end. In 1984, for the first time he took an LP, cut it in half, flipped one piece over, pasted it back together, and played the result on a turntable. Tétreault continued to experiment at home, developing cutting and skipping techniques and collecting hundreds of cheap records he found at fleamarkets. Three or four years later, his next-door neighbor overheard his shenanigans. It was Ambiances Magnétiques guitarist André Duchesne, who quickly introduced Tétreault to his group of musician friends. Michel F Côté enrolled him in his ensemble Bruire. The turntablist’s first appearance on record can be found on the 1989 LP Le Bbarman a tort de sourire. He remained with the group throughout the 1990s and beyond. He also played with René Lussier, Jean Derome, and Diane Labrosse.

His first large-scale album, Des pas et des mois, came out in 1990. Then, besides the occasional Bruire album, Tétreault kept a rather low profile. Things changed in 1997-1998 when he began to let go of quotation and cut-ups to develop a more textural style that eventually saw him throw away the record to play the turntable itself, sticking the tone-arm in the motor, placing the needle directly on the platter, etc. These new developments were at the heart of his duo with René Lussier, introduced by the highly abstract and noisy Dur noyau dur in 1998. A participation to the Japanese project Four Focuses opened doors; so did a subsequent duo session with Yoshihide (21 Situations, 1999) and a solo CD for the Belgian label Audiophile (La nuit où j’ai dit non, 1998). By then, the turntable had become a trendy instrument of avant-garde expression and Tétreault embarked on a busy touring and recording schedule. In 2002, he curated the “Turntable Hell” tour (in England) financed by the Contemporary Music Network.

Drôle d’objet que celui-là. Un boîtier démesuré («super jewel box») qui ne contient qu’un disque compact et aucun livret d’information. Sur le disque, une seule pièce, de 27 minutes, mais d’une densité impressionnante. On a affaire ici à trois platinistes bien différents: Philip Jeck se sert de citations en boucle ou avec variations de vitesse; Martin Tétreault n’utilise pas de disques, mais toute les ressources du pick-up sont mises à contribution; et Otomo Yoshihide recourt à différents appareillages électroniques aux bruitages variés. Il est surprenant de penser qu’il s’agit d’une improvisation tant la construction et les échanges sont clairs.

Converging on Brussels from the UK, Japan and Canada, three turntablist masters join forces on this extraordinarily assured and coherent 27 minute live improvisation, recorded in July 2000. The most immediately strange thing about it is how rarely you hear the sound of vinyl and needles. Indeed, much of it is closer in spirit to contemporary electronica and laptop improvisation. Some harsh reminders of where these noises are sourced do crop up in the form of intermittent scratching and varispeed textures, but these few are so rigorously controlled that they come as quite a jolt. The array of loops and sounds on offer here makes you want to chuck out your computer and invest in a battered old Dansette — or, as Philip Jeck once famously did, 180 of them.

Judging from their differing approaches to deck manipulation, presumably Jeck supplies the many queasy loops that form the bedrock to Invisible Architecture: a whole series of shifting textures and grainy landscapes.The signature moves of Martin Tétreault and Otomo Yoshihide, meanwhile, are ever-evolving. In recent years, they have both gone beyond using turntables as a hands-on, primitive form of sampler for jagged musical quotation, and have fashioned a purer approach. Delving into the guts of their instruments, using everything from prepared records to the whir and hum of the belt drive, they have unearthed a whole heap of fresh sonic material. While virtuoso HipHop DJs take sonic collage, jumpcuts and dexterity to new heights, Jeck, Yoshihide and Tétreault are forming a divergent, original aesthetic.

Filmic, speckled Ambient washes open the piece, redolent of hazy childhood afternoons and cinefilms a la Boards Of Canada. Analogue oscillations pierce through, along with something like the squeaking of boats rubbing against a quay. With an organic, swelling pace, we then charge through percussive thumps and match fizes, insectile swarms, roughly chugging trains, delayed vocal snippets, bouts of machine noise, rusty guitar licks, squealing drones, pastoral flutes, belching feedback and the occasional spasm of sped-up vinyl. Gregorian chants over a whole blast of varispeed noise form a climax, before things end on an uneasy note with interrupted orchestral stabs punctuating an increasingly disturbing silence.

Improvisateurs québécois astucieux, Lussier et Tétreault — respectivement guitariste et platiniste — n’en sont pas à leur première collaboration et officient depuis de longues années au sein du collectif Ambiances magnétiques. Issues de sessions prises live en 97, ces pièces dures évoquent une rencontre totalement libre et saccadée des cordes et de (souvent courtes) séquences sonores issues des platines et radios de Tétreault. Lussier utilise tous les détails de ses instruments, du grattage ludique au récurage nerveux tandis que Tétreault pique son interlocuteur d’assauts fourbes (la fausse politesse dans Enrayure) et racleurs qui provoquent des demangeaisons dans le conduit auditif. Les accalmies arrivent à point nomme pour souffer un peu (le gris et bien nomme Sépulture) avant les nouveaux craquements, les nouvelles nodosités et un final dissonant. Si l’on n’avait conscience du tout joue sans fioritures de ces 21 morsures, on jurerait parfois (surtout sur la partie Prise de terre) d’un travail électroacoustique d’exception. Tous les mots choisis dans le livret définissent parfaitement ce disque en Ure. Lire l’excellente interview de Tétreault dans Revue & Corrigée n40