Repetitive Movements

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As the first sound of "Move1" comes groaning into earshot, the hoisting of chain-link on a rusty winch, or the rude alarm of a cheap clock, lurid panda-bear face luminous with green-white radium dots - you steel yourself for an acoustic deluge of unprecedented magnitude. Perhaps memories of Tietchens, Seuchengebiete 3 (Artware Products) are still fresh in mind, its unrelenting waters eternally lapping and receding deep within your head like a shimmering tide of gallium, a cold, leaded drizzle trickling down the spine. Despite portentous rumbles and tremors, the feared inundation never comes. Tietchen's, treatment of Wollscheid's spatial source-sound whittles at your nerves as anticipation of an unutterably apocalyptic assault mounts and mounts, the dread kindled and suckled by infrequent jolts of menacing chain-grind which razz the ears like brassy demonic tongues. Having played out its most effective feint too early on, "Move1" sustains itself on sheer intimidation, grumbling a little louder each time it feels the attention of its captive audience slipping away. The punch-line would involve some variation on "his bark was worse than his bite," as Tietchens has held you at bay for half an hour like a provoked dog, lips and ears drawn taut, no sound but a muzzled growl escaping from between tongue and wet, white teeth. An unadulterated sample of Wollscheid's acoustic source material (hidden between the first and second tracks) offers no suggestion of the menace which Tietchens so effectively teases out of it, sounding like little more than the winding-down spring of a harmless metal toy. This is what an electroacoustic genius can do with next to nothing, and the one-of-a-kind Tietchens may be one of the craftiest tinkerers currently working the trade. From the rattling of a fork against a tin plate (or whatever the source of the jangling Wollscheid-sample heard between tracks 2 and 3 might actually be), Tietchens conjures the insect symphony of "Move2." A tired wind musters enough strength to just barely rustle the grass and chill the air while crickets scrape their legs furiously in a rising airborne chorus of summer-dawn chirring. The inevitable quirks of digital technology prevent me from accessing the source-material tucked away before the first track, but "Move3" drums up a glorious cacophony of gently phased and pitch-shifted metallic clatter. Imagine a carol for bells beaten out on heavy, oiled sheets of corrugated industrial steel with the business end of an ordinary hammer. Believe it or not, you can almost sing along! And wouldn't this just be the dandiest tune to "whistle while you work?"