Jed Speare - Sound Works 1982-1987

Family Vineyard
FV52

Judging from his CV, Jed Speare has led a long and extremely active career since the mid 70s around the Boston area. Nonetheless, this was my first encounter with his music though as a half-decade snapshot, I’ve little idea how representative it is. The five pieces collected here do have enough in common to begin to form a picture, if both an intriguing and frustrating one.

The works are essentially musique concrete and among the myriad sonic elements employed, Speare has a penchant for including some that might induce psychological discomfort in the listener, appropriately or not. One of those problematic elements puts in an appearance right at the beginning of the first composition, “At the Falls” (1982): the slurred voice of a patient in a psychiatric institution. While the bulk of the piece consists of a rich and fascinating evocation of water sounds (all constructed without the use of any actual water-sourced recordings), it’s periodically interrupted by these mutterings which, I’m forced to say, disturb the flow. Not that the main portion sounds like water, exactly, but more the sort of environments that have water as a large component: underground pools, dry docks, maybe even the interior hulls of battleships. Those disturbances are, obviously, intentional and serve the purpose of jolting one back into a different reality from the aqueous oneirics elsewhere, a tough-minded move on the part of Speare and, ultimately, one that I appreciated on relistening more than I did initially. Perhaps even more jarringly, it ends with an excerpt from an earlier chamber work by Speare, the music redolent of a Bryars-esque minimalism.

“Sleep Tight” (1983) begins with a thrilling and brutal series of episodes, all harsh whistles, underground rumbles and metallic scrapes. After about ten minutes of this bracing work, Speare chooses once again to interrupt, this time with a processed female voice, “speaking” in clipped, largely unintelligible phrases. This intrusion of the human voice into an abstract field is almost as disturbing as in the prior work, though its effect may well be different for other listeners. When the voice returns, in a longer, multilayered collage, it still lacks the pull and power of the other music in the composition. This track is followed by the hit single of the 2-disc set, “Taboo Death” (1982), an effective mixing of voices, noise and a catchy beat, marginally reminiscent of Byrne/Eno but enjoyable enough.

The second disc contains two compositions. The main sonic component of “Love Object” (1986) seems to have been quite interesting in the flesh: “The love object in question would have to be the sound-sculpture bouquet…The speakers mounted on copper rods in a white cylindrical vase. Tone generating oscillators were fed through them and unusual distortions resulted. During the performance, the speakers on their stems were seen to sway.” What’s heard on disc is once again episodic in nature and while some of these “scenes” are wonderful, strung together as presented here, they come across as rather arbitrary and unrelated, either overtly or poetically. The introduction of a female operatic voice about two-thirds in doesn’t help matters and it grows stranger still when a plaintively strummed guitar (reminding me for some reason of an old Incredible String Band piece) surfaces immediately thereafter from parts unknown. “Wayside” (1987) is far more successful, originally a collaboration with video artist Wendelien Havemen. The first section is especially strong with a lush weaving of whooshes that seem aeronautical in nature. It eventually slides into instrumental recordings (once again, penned by Speare) including some lovely piano over static which in turn segues into some equally enchanting solo cello. Delightful industrial chaos ensues without a voice in sight. It’s a very strong finish to an inconsistent but generally rewarding set, making me wonder what other work by Speare I’ve missed over the decades.

Available late January from family vineyard