Herbert
Scale
While 2006 can go down for the dirty (Wayne, Clipse, JT and Avatar,) and it can go in for some scary (Walker, Burial and Liars,) Herbert's the one who's bringing the wash. As complicated as his earlier Bodily Functions, yet far more compulsive, Scale is that rare piece of electronic music that is able to apply the minimalist technique found on Sleeparchive with the lifeblood of a humanistic Daft Punk, and then layer in enough pop vocals and horns to make it sound like the album Cristina Aguilera would've shot her mother to make. Somebody better hurry up and give Herbert a grant: otherwise, he's going to be enslaved by some label to produce every half-ass pop act that Simon Cowell hasn't emotionally devastated. Even more upsetting, he could probably make them seem interesting.
Dance music gets a lot of static and derision--The Factual isn't about to argue that most of it isn't deserved. While no music should ever be labeled "responsible" for any sad state of affairs, dance music is, for the most part, made for and by aggravating collection of the biggest nimrods this world has ever produced. If it wasn't for Phish and Deadheads, dance-freaks and X-girls could easily take the top spot as the most repugnant fanbase on Earth, even during the heyday of Poison.
Herbert gets a pass--after all, this is the first time in a few albums that he's pulled back on his solo work from just exploratory sound--in other words, he's made a dance music you could actually dance to, instead of just crazy beeps and sexy voices (Bodily Functions grows on you, but it takes some serious abstract thinking to tap your feet to.) Whether it's left over excitement from his 2005 work on Roison Murphy's album, one of the best pop albums that doesn't involve Justin, Herbert went to town on this one, crafting one of the cleanest love albums in a while. Scale is a masterstroke, and it's an album that grows into far more than just sexy techno the more it's played. Most heavy music critics are going to ignore albums like this--to artsy to be a guilty pleasure, but too fun to be taken seriously. That's their loss: don't make it yours.
-Tucker Stone, 2006
You'd also be might be pleasantly surprised by Ekkehard Ehler's recent A Life Without Fear--an album as bizarre as Scale is pretty. Although it would be a far cry to call the two artists contemporaries, they're both continuosly exploring the field of electronic music while still making music that people might actually want to hear. That's a backhanded insult at Alan Courtis.
Matthew Herbert once wrote a manifesto for his work, which
included the guideline, “The inclusion, development, propagation, existence,
replication, acknowledgement, rights, patterns and beauty of what are commonly
known as accidents, is encouraged.” Everything on Scale sets in
its right place, but Herbert’s attitude about the happy accidents (his
manifesto is titled “Personal Contract for the Composition of Music
[Incorporating the Manifesto of Mistakes]”) allows his compositions to break
free from the rigidity that defines most electronic music. Though they’ve obviously been given extreme
attention down to the minutest detail, his songs most often feel breezy and
carefree.
The vocals on Scale
unfold slowly. Herbert builds exquisite
tension before launching into his hooks. Often, one catchy chorus gives way to a second, even catchier
chorus. “Harmonize,” the album’s high point, has no less
than five musical phrases which playfully interact with one another until,
finally, the joyful “You are the world/ I am your people” swoops in and outdoes
them all. The effect is stunning. It’s also fairly orgasmic, but not in the
blatant way that most rock music aspires to be orgasmic. Orgasmic in the way that two people can
interlock their breathing and rhythms to create something greater than either
one could achieve on his or her own.
An album ostensibly about the nature of love—falling into
it, recognizing it, coping with it—Herbert’s Scale may come closer than any album in history to capturing the
sound of what we imagine love to be. On
the one hand, he has the syrupy strings that we associate with Sinatra and
walking in Central Park. He has the antiseptic vocalists singing like
they’re in a Hallmark commercial. He has
jazzy horn sections and swirling orchestral arrangements. On the other hand, he has a strong pulse, the
electronic flutters that sideswipe “The Movers And The Shakers,” the sick bass
line of “Moving Like A Train,” the intrusive bleeps censoring the dirty talk of
“Down.” With so many contradicting elements knotted into one tight little
bundle—so many accidents meeting within such a deliberate construct—it’s
practically the real thing.
For further investigation: Herbert’s wife and primary vocalist, Dani Siciliano, made her own album this year featuring, on one song, the sound a room full of girls slapping their own asses. The album is called Slappers. Also, Róisín Murphy’s nearly flawless Herbert-produced debut, Ruby Blue, was released stateside this year, and comes highly recommended by us here at TFO. Also, for a taste of experimental but accessible electronic pop from a completely different angle, dive into The Knife’s Silent Shout.
-Marty Brown, 2006
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