Over the past 11 years, Montréal’s empreintes DIGITALes label has established itself as an important source for electroacoustic music from around the world. The recent release of Yves Daoust’s Bruits adds to their excellent catalogue, contributing a disc of infrequently ramshackle and noisily intimate source materials sculpted with finesse.

Daoust sets the tone with Children’s Corner, using the sonic landscapes of street festivals, markets, outdoor sports, and backup beeps from delivery trucks as his starting point. Amidst varied metamorphoses, the sound materials remain vestigially recognizable, yet sufficiently developed so as not to lapse into a documentarian aesthetic. While Nuits lacks the personality of its predecessor, Fête stage-dives straight back into its crowds and celebratory nature, re-establishing the light-hearted quality that defines and separates Daoust’s work. Fête reminds of the Parisian summer solstice celebration “fête de la musique,” where musicians from any background play on the street, with all of the recorded fiddles, accordions and djembe heard in a two-block venture through Place de la Republique, yet none of the pickpockets or thieves.

With the help of mutated material from Chopin’s Fantasie-Impromptu in C# minor, Daoust’s Impromptu engages and expounds upon its inspiration without clutching the Chopin too tightly. The final piece, Ouverture, develops the swaying crowds of previous works for more directly political purposes, exploring the subject of Québécois history. Overall, despite being somewhat uneven, Daoust’s Bruits succeeds with a boisterous playfulness and the warm impressions of community heard in the playgrounds and watering holes of old Montréal.

In the late eighties and early nineties acousmatic art in Montréal captured international attention. Among the forerunners was a young Robert Normandeau whose music possessed a soulful enterprising intensity.

As a short-lived golden age began to fade after 1992 and the practice fell into some question, I was starting to feel very uneasy about the music outputted by Normandeau. Technical strides and artistic exploration were being made, the music was even developing a pop sensibility (which I admired), but somehow the youthful grit was beginning to fade. However, with his new CD release Clair de terre my fears for the worst have been quelled. He has recaptured that earlier intensity and most of all without turning back on the discoveries of the intervening years.

The pop sensibility is certainly still there. In fact, it smacks you in the face when you hear the opening blasts of a shakuhachi in Malina. In the minutes that follow Normandeau shows his range as a composer by weaving through an oceanic tapestry of moods and sentiments that journey far beyond contemporary or traditional conceptions of shakuhachi music with a subtlety and depth that confirms his maturity and artistry. The other works continue on a similar theme of playful interplay between recognition and departure. The powers of acousmatic art to push beyond common associations could never be more evident as they are with the music of Normandeau at his finest.

When you peer into the electroacoustic antecedents of Gilles Gobeil you encounter the names of well-known as well as more obscure organizations throughout the genre which have all rendered him awards; Biennal Acousmatic Composition Competition (Belgium), International Electroacoustic Music Contest (Brazil), Ciber@rt (Spain), Bourges International Electroacoustic Music Competition (France), Stockholm Electronic Arts Award (Sweden), Ars Electronica (Austria), Luigi Russolo International Competition (Italy), Newcomp Computer Music Competition (USA), Brock University Tape Music Competition (Canada) and so on and so forth. Impressing! Undoubtedly, this wizard of the electronics, spinning all around his hat, is amply worthy of all this havoc, because he is one of the most talented and sensitive jugglers of sounds we’ve heard.

His new CD is one of a batch of new issues from the prolific empreintes DIGITALes of Canada, wherein we can monitor the present vibrancy out of his creative act. The works presented were conceived between 1995 and 2001, so we are provided with new music, which is always very interesting, since all acts of creativity, throughout the arts, are mirrors of our present day life and the position and state of humanity and affairs of the moment! The similarity between visiting a modern arts gallery down the street and listening to a new CD with electroacoustics is striking. It is often about shapes, shadings, light, movements, contours – and… associations. The richer one’s own scope of references and the wider our frames of reference, the richer and more rewarding our experiences of art. That experience, in its more evolved stages, doesn’t come for free. It takes initial time and effort, but as Pete Seeger once sang in a song called Maple Syrup Time: “Everything worthwhile takes a little time”. The electroacoustic village is pretty sparsely populated, even though worldwide – interconnecting through the Internet – we’re a growing bunch. For the newcomer it’s all about finding a way into the soundscape, and it might be all too easy for someone completely unaware of the electroacoustic goings-on to just bump off the surface, on hearing these weird sounds… However, in later years there seems to have been an up-surge of the idiom, hopefully indicating a wider public interest too, and an uncanny assortment of very good electroacoustic releases have helped pave the way. empreintes DIGITALes constitutes one of the main outlets of high quality sound art, and this CD by Gilles Gobeil is no exception.

Derrière la porte la plus éloignée… (“Behind the Remotest Door…”) (1998) presents a few images from a journey through Italy. A deep murmur opens the piece, harboring sounds as of a deep, slow breath. Jingle jangle wrenchings are inhaled, exhaled, as if you were deep inside the belly of the monster, or maybe hid away on an old wooden bench in a dark corner of a cathedral or age-old church… The liberating sound of running, trickling water refreshes for a while… but suddenly the echo of the sounds indicates a much smaller space, and you hurry in flight down stinking sewers. A sound as of an elevator maybe means that you’re reaching safety, but an enormous, dense factory wall of noise holds you back… A richness of timbre and of millions of grains of sound suddenly halts, as a distant propeller airplane sound is detected from a distance, in the sudden silence. Once again the sounds hit head on, like someone just pushed a button or pulled a lever, but then again this music could be an illustration to the travels after death, through the bewildering landscapes of Karma that are described in the Tibetan Book of the Dead… so just aim for the Light, and fear not these grim faces staring at you from the walls, these murky hands reaching out at you from the slimy corners, because they’re just remnants of bad deeds, manifestations of ill thoughts… so hold on to the best within yourself and aim fearlessly ahead…

Projet Proust (1995, 2001) is “a personal reading” of the first pages of Du côté de chez Swann (“Swann’s Way”) (1913) by Marcel Proust. The narrator is Marc Béland. In a classical electroacoustic manner, the voice of the narrator is heard as from inside soothing spheres of bliss, whereas the sound web in which those spheres of French morphemes are expressed is ominous, spatial, dark, threatening, as from a furnace of destruction or the core of energy on the verge of exploding into a supernova of the intellect, spreading your desperate identity in a dissipation of fragmented thoughts and remnants of words throughout the abyss within… Like in the first piece on the CD the sounds at times start behaving in an inhaling/exhaling manner, indicating Time through Breath, Life through moving Oxygen and Carbon Dioxide. Chanting of angelic choruses are hallucinated through the whining of bee swarm timbres and the occasional occurrences of grinding machines in a large, smoky hall of a steelworks on the Baltic coast, into which diagonal rays of sunlight through semi-transparent windows on high cut through the rising smoke and hovering dust of iron particles, producing rhombs and squares of light on the dirty brick walls and the littered floor, and on the hell-like machinery of industrialization… Minuscule binary progressions of grains of sand wisp back and forth in the panning of the artisan’s tools, as cut up blisters of cries and hollers are ground down to oblivion, until one short second of a real-life scream plummets into water and relative silence… and the softness of speech continues… Nocturnal atmospheres are introduced, from silent Mediterranean nights of dark heat, wherein insects talk to themselves… but is this also a regression of evolution, back to dinosaur pastures of plenty, where the grass is green and where the giants of the earth rule…? … because I hear growlings of primeval forests and plains… or is it just the Unconscious in fast reverse, down the branchery of evolution inside the halls of mirrors of my mind…?

Point de passage (“Crossing Point”) (1997) is, says Gobeil, “a free adaptation of ‘The Time Machine’ (1895) by HG Wells (1866–1946)”. It begins in a furious speed, accelerating in volume, but dissipates into – once again – a “breathing” state of relative silence… Anyone who has read the book by Wells knows and remembers the story, so this is supposed, then, to be programmatic music, re-enacting the story of the British scientist who invented a time machine and went to a distant future — 800 000 years ahead! — where humanity was divided into a naïve and innocent breed (the Eloi) living on the surface of the planet like we do, and a dark, evil and intelligent breed (the Morlochs) residing beneath the ground, in tunnels and halls deep inside the earth, appearing on the surface only to abduct the fair and gentle ones, tearing them apart for the sake of their flesh. Of course, the plot is inspired by the findings of Sigmund Freud and his concept of the Subconscious and the Unconscious, and particularly the sexual and creative implications for the individual, who has to balance the surge and might of millions of years of evolution – tucked away in his unconscious – on a razor’s edge of civil varnish.

There is a lot of movement in this piece; rushing sounds as from haywire subway trains, and I can feel the cold steel of the evil subterraneans’ machinery, and the smell of oil and fuel… A cold rain is falling over the steel dome into which the scientist has pulled his time machine… These sounds from Gobeil’s fantasy are immensely lonely, as from a god who has given up his supremacy… A slow breath, on the verge of snoring, pictures this god asleep in his loneliness.

Nuit cendre (1995) is the last piece. Again Gilles Gobeil has turned to a classical science fiction novel; Voyage a centre de la terre (“A Journey to the Center of the Earth”) (1864) by Jules Verne (1828–1905), the originator of modern science fiction. Initial sounds are abrupt indeed, but soon you are taken into watery, descending swoops of motion, apparently inside some hollow place or craft, and the grinding force of a landslide or dark matter being shoved aside grows into a relentless noise of lithophonic qualities. Lighter metallic rings of timbres sooth for a while… Unusually withheld nuances of sound lurk in the crevasses of the passage… There is an ominous apprehension inside this music… and the tubular rhythms of machinery once again grows in intensity, albeit in softer, brownish timbres of clay and wet slices of soil, seeping down the outside of your listening sphere like venomous honey… It is undoubtedly a crude environment, dark with clay, granite and bedrock strata. The music moves in this environment with diamond edge and boring vibrations… but the sounds of air through vents or steam through pipes transform the event into a softer impression, and suddenly it feels as though the space opens up, perhaps into a giant subterranean hall, so large and extended that you cannot see the roof up there in the dark, even though you point your torchlight upwards… and then you see it; a low-intensity, bluish light that sort of hovers inside the giant subterranean cathedral… Later on sounds of what appears to be thousands of winged creatures flapping about – maybe giant bats – sends fear down your spine, or are these sounds the stumbling feet of shadowy beings skipping towards you in your vulnerability, towards the core of the planet…?

Yves Daoust has been dealing in sounds since very young years. He began taking piano lessons at the age of seven, and prepared the family piano at age sixteen, in 1962. He composed his first electronic work at 19, in 1965, for a gestural theatre work of an hour’s duration. He indicates that he found his electroacoustic style at IMEB, Bourges during an apprenticeship.

He officially entered the life of a composer in 1978, and has since produced about one work a year, in different disciplines. He names his major influences as Cage, Xenakis, Stockhausen, Kagel, Ferrari and Savouret, as well as some of the classical composers.

The first part of the triptych Bruits; Children’s Corner (1997) is a series of pictures centered, as Daoust says “around a relatively homogenous, diurnal sonic world”, like for instance street festivals, markets, machines and so on. He points out that the fragmentation procedure he utilizes creates a kind of “sonic smog”, which sometimes clears to reveal the clarity of certain sounds. After initial nursery rhymes of school children a total carnage of sounds, rolling at you in dense clusters, a prolonged high pitch ripple takes you into events suddenly lighting up like matches in the dark, showing, for a second, the faces of the people around you and the white walls of the houses, until the surroundings instantly fall back in silence/darkness again, just leaving memory marks in your brain tissue. It is impossible to make any sense at all of this, except that the whole piece could constitute a crude sample of Earth life picked up by some unknown recipient in a distant galaxy, pointing his devices of perception in our direction, receiving the influx from Earth civilization in chopped up and stellarly disturbed portions. At some very beautiful passages a distant jumble of bells constitute the backdrop for short, sharp, flaky short wave disturbances, mixing the tonal with the truly bruit. A continuous murmur bubbling below carries all kinds of minuscule sounds on its rough terrain. On high an airliner struggles across the canopy of the day, and here below chirping birds and playing children color time in happy garlands until it all is reduced to its constituents again, in a mincer of the light of day.

Nuit (1998) is the second part of Bruits. Daoust has a very clear view of what he is doing and achieving with his sounds. He says: “It is as though all the noises accumulated during the day continued, flattened, in the mind of the sleeper, reduced to a tinnitus that becomes confused with the sonic activity of nocturnal insects and with the very real, though distant, hum of the sleeping city.” Those phrases convince me that Yves Daoust thinks about electroacoustics in much the same way I experience this music; i.e. in a very poetical kind of way – and I suppose almost every composer of electroacoustics has to be a poet too, the way he bends shapes and sounds and auditory morphemes in and out of wack! Indeed the nocturnal layer constitutes a dreamy, very poetical sensation. The chirping of locusts and the squeaking high-pitch timbres of electronic devices join forces to produce this nocturnal machine-nature hybrid, taking you into secret, enchanted dominions of hearing, stemming from encounters with gleaming eyes and rustling unknowns in dark areas of the forest of night. The sounds roll and curl, spiral and ooze, meander and rush, in a spellbinding display of artistic bliss. Nothing is still; everything is on the move in this crazy world of dreams, where passing features remind you of people you’ve known or places you’ve been, and not least feeling you’ve felt – while other parts are nothing but alien and disturbing to your sense of security.

The final section of Bruits is Fête (“Party”) (2001). Daoust’s introductions are on the money as usual: Fête is a sort of allegro barbaro, a frenetic dance where music of the streets, clamoring voices, cries and whistles combine”. Yes, by now it would be obvious that Daoust likes to indulge in shattering, overpowering carnages of sound, which you just have to listen to again and again to be able to catch all the glimpse there are to catch of the sonic and associative developments. Jubilant crowds are taken on a tour-de-force into a layer just behind or below or maybe above the real world of events, like seeing the world through crystal and having your head stuck down into a bucket of water while being injected with some hallucinatory drug. Soon you’re astray, though “glimpses” really are what you catch of the real world, in such a chopped up and deviated way that you almost puke – so this is really good! You name it; we like it! Tickling grains of bell-like audio fall like dense precipitation all around, as heavily altered accordion tunes spin a thread of insanity around your last resources of clear thought… No way out of this – except maybe a brutal awakening from a runaway dream… (“Woke up, fell out of bed, dragged a comb across my head…”) Rhythmic cardiovascular beats bump and vibrate, and it all vanishes out on a thin, dissipating line of high pitch treble.

Impromptu (1995) is the only piece with an explicit instrumental idea, engaging Jacques Drouin [piano] and Lorraine Vaillancourt [keyboard]. The whole title is “Impromptu for piano, synthesizer, sampler and tape”. It cannot be helped; I have to quote this immensely eloquent Mr. Daoust on this piece too: “I completed this piece thanks to the help of Chopin, who for the occasion loaned me his Fantaisie-Impromptu in C-sharp minor for piano (op. 66). I have taken all material for this work from it, but also the agitation of the writing, the overly abundant energy, the tension.” It is a very seasick piano that opens the work. With gusting winds all around it, as the tones sort of reach us through watery waves of salty expanses. Unaltered speed freak pianism mingles with bent-out-of-shape tones, and a drone is heard – but sometimes not directly – as dump trucks of the soul are gearing up and gearing down somewhere in the vicinity. The blending of clean, clear and sparklingly present piano tones and all kinds of disturbed and wrenched, wretched sounds out of the poor instrument is splendidly arrived at, and here I can feel the influence of the Maestro, Mr. Stockhausen, in actual sound as well as in spirit and idea. Being a suspicious critic of the mixed-form bag, I nonetheless approve very much of Daoust’s adventure here, since, it seems, he uses the actual, acoustic instruments like would he any source of sound, thereby simply having them take on the apparition of “concrete sounds”; not primarily instrumental sounds. There is less of the frantic amassment of dense sounds here, and more of the poetic touch, careful in the detail, deeply in love with the over-arching gesture – and the musicality of this electroacoustic piece lands me in pure auditory pleasure! Prime time contemporary music! Hats off to Yves Daoust!

La Gamme (“The Scale”) (1981, revised 2000) is a kind of exercise on the part of Daoust, as he, as a dilettante to the electronic sound media stumbled through the venues of electronic possibility in 1981. Daoust calls this “techno music before its time”. The beginning is glassy, like long walls of shelves filled with bottles and wine glasses, screeching to each other about the blessings of fluid. A rubbery wind-down of events follows, like ropes of events closely knit together in a spiral grip of time… reminiscent of some Jean Schwarz adventures from the same time – but a lot of music sounded like this back then… and it still sounds fresh, electronically fresh. There’s nothing concrete about this beginning; it’s pure electronic music, electronically generated – but further into the work children’s voices in a school yard or a playground provide enough concretisms to secure even this piece in the secure grip of a musique concrète definition – and somebody practicing scales on the piano, overheard through a window facing the school yard, renders the piece a calm Paris suburb afternoon feeling, with no ill intents anywhere. Highly rhythmical progressions out of the 1981 electronic machinery talk directly to my memories of For Jon III by Lars-Gunnar Bodin of Norrtuna, Gnesta, Sweden; a veteran och veterans of electronic music. Sparkling clusters of edgy sounds spin down your auditory meatus like tumble weeds of Texas and Oklahoma down a gravel farm road during the Dust Bowl climate disaster…

The last entry is Ouverture (1989), which turns out to be a recount of the history of Canada in the making; a story that keeps its topicality through the struggle for independence in Quebec. The intrigue passes from 1760 and the end of New France, which falls into the hands of the British. It continues past 1793 with the decapitation of Louis XVI in France, and so it continues, in a narrated and sound-theatrical tour up the annals of history, though heavily blended with the sounds of modern Canada and an array of electroacoustic sound-bendings and sonic processes in the digital domain. Most of all this goes on in French, though English language is introduced inside the piece. This is just as much a radio play as a piece of electroacoustics. It’s very interesting and ear-catching, and like everything on this CD very well done, by an Yves Daoust who is a poet as well as a musician, and who manages to fascinate even an old hard case like myself…

This new disc by Montréal based electroacoustic composer Gilles Gobeil picks up where his last disc, La mécanique des ruptures (also on empreintes DIGITALes), left off. It presents four compositions from 1995 through 2001. The first piece, Derrière la porte la plus éloignée… (1998) is punctuated by deep, broad and dynamic breaths. The piece undergoes a series of dramatic and earth-shattering changes, revealing an incomprehensible intensity and concentration of sound similar in spirit to what I found on his previous record. The next three pieces take their inspiration from works of fiction. Projet Proust (1995, 2001) incorporates a reading of the first few pages of Proust’s Du côté de chez Swann (Swann’s Way) with a constantly shifting sound field. Point de passage (1997) is an adaptation of HG Wells’ The Time Machine, but there is no narration; instead the adaptation is manifested with pure sound, strange machinery and metallic clamouring. The fourth and final piece is based on Jules Verne’s Voyage au centre de la terre (Journey to the Centre of the Earth), having found its inspiration in Verne’s fantastic accounts of the underworld. Gobeil’s vision as seen through these four compositions is characteristically dark and surreal. The dynamic and shifting nature of his sounds is truly remarkable; they occupy a broad trajectory on the stereo spectrum, and seem reach out from their confines into the space around you. This is difficult listening, the kind of music that pulls the carpet from under your feet and sends you headfirst into an unsteady and nightmarish world. So it’s not for everyone, nor is it for everyday listening, but it’s a fascinating trip nonetheless. Nicely done.

Rien à voir (nothing to see) is not true. When Robert Normandeau sets up tomorrow night at the Robert Gill Theatre, the stage will in fact be filled with something — a load of sound-amplifying speakers. Anything else, like real people or just a simple music stand, might get in the way of the musical sounds. And that’s one thing that won’t happen at a Normandeau concert of electronic music. Here the sound is a spectacle even if it has nothing to show (perhaps a word should be coined for this sound-only show, something like an “auracle.” There have been those over the years who have urged the 46-year old composer to add a visual element. “But we resist,” he replies. “It’s called Rien à voir to make clear to everyone this is not a show.” This can be a problem for some people. So can the sounds Normandeau creates — abstract, tuneless rhythm-free whooshes and swooshes, and electronica that goes ping in the dark. Tomorrow night, he is joined by two other practitioners of this art in the dark: his mentor, Francis Dhomont and a younger colleague, Louis Dufort. “At this concert, there really is nothing to look at,” Normandeau says. “There is nothing of interest to sit in front of. The performance itself is minimal. It is often presented in the dark.” Does this sound like a lot of fun? Well, it can be, he goes on. “In this way, the audience becomes an audience,” he says. What happens is probably the most musical experience in anyone’s life. Electroacoustic music was Normandeau’s turf well before he got his degree in musical composition from Université Laval in Québec City in 1984. Back in the early ’80s, it looked like the place to be. It looked like it might be the future of serious music, taking it to the next level. It even had a base in popular culture. All those techno-Brit bands were making electro-sounds so fashionable in hip magazines like The Face. Even Paul McCartney talked about Stockhausen, electronic music’s Big Cheese. So much for yesterday. Instead of replacing symphonic classical music, electronic music became its frighteningly eccentric second cousin. Since then, we’ve had no choice but to love it on its own terms. “Electroacoustic music should not be compared to anything else,” says Normandeau. “The major innovation in it is that the composer does everything in the studio. He doesn’t have to care about the reality of the stage or the realism of his gestures. He doesn’t have to think about someone else reading his score.” “I think being this kind of composer is a lot closer to being a writer or sculptor. We work like sculptors; we sculpt sound and space. We have to adjust our performance to the acoustics of the hall. Basically the music is written in the studio, but we have to fine-tune it for the performance.” “But even with this kind of taped music, I don’t think a live performance can be replaced. The live performance is important for human beings. It is a ritual. Going to a place and spending time with other people is something we need in our lives. “In the past, when we thought about electronic music as being the extension of the instrumental musical world, it didn’t work out very well because the electronic instruments are pretty primitive compared to regular instruments. The quality of sound you have when you play a violin or piano comes from centuries of research. In fact, we haven’t invented a new instrument in over a century. The last one was a saxophone.” Yes, but there is the computer, he admits. This is good news for composers and bad news. The bad news is that, “when you are working with a computer, you lose contact with the music. You watch what you are doing. You lose contact with the sound. Yet because with computers so many people are working at home, music can become very personal and very intimate.”