The Space Between: March 2020

Stewart Gardiner never intended the title of his ongoing reviews column to be about social distancing, but reality has wrestled all meaning to the ground

This report reaches you from the Concrete Islands bunker. It might not have. My usual motivation to write has been shot through with anxiety as events have overtaken us at a rapid rate. It’s one thing to read JG Ballard novels, but realising you’re a character – alongside everyone else – within a Ballardian narrative is far less appealing. The world has been tipped on its head and putting words on the page feels slightly counter intuitive. Although – and I’ve understood this even whilst not sitting down to write – that writing is necessary for my mental wellbeing. So this is me, back on the horse, riding through an apocalyptic landscape.

Here at Concrete Islands we’re dedicated to supporting the incredible community of artists, labels, DJs, clubs, promoters and record shops we find ourselves a small part of. We will endeavour to keep shouting about music that moves us. Please keep supporting the people making it.

Hyacinth, the second album from Scottish European outfit Spinning Coin (now based between Glasgow and Berlin) on the Pastels’ Geographic label, is a beacon of light that feels forged of the darkness. They occupy an intriguing guitar-led space somewhere between Dinosaur Jr and the Beach Boys. Sometimes they come off like an E Street Band incarnation of Teenage Fanclub or an inside out version of Arcade Fire built from the Glasgow ground up. Theirs is an expansive sound, jangly guitars with a hard-edged beauty. A cut such as “The Long Heights” has a just-conjured magic about it, an ephemeral burst that nevertheless captures youthful moments in amber: “Standing by the wall / Hands in my pocket maybe”. Words from the aether that last even as they wisp away. Rachel takes over vocal duties from Sean and Jack on the mellifluous “Black Cat”, which could well be the sound of summer if summer ever comes around again. “I know that something good is going to happen”, she sings and we can only hope.

Travelling along the musical spectrum, there’s machine music that also connects. Experimental label Phantom Limb launch their electronic imprint Visitant with the first of a series of split 12”s. Visitant001 sees Mexico’s Demian Licht and South Korea’s Enyang Ha take a side each. Licht’s “Ankaa” is abstract techno of the pummelling kind. With cut-up voices and speedy beats, think Richie Hawtin or Dave Clarke sonically glimpsed from a universe stacked next door to ours. “Heyanajo”, on the other hand, feels decidedly human, emanating from this realm – a backwards running, languorous, broken beat manifestation of post-club unease. Ha bathes the listener in synthscape sheen on the flip with “Plastic Run” before dropping the clank of machines, albeit quietly, on the edge of things rather than in your face. It’s a spy theme run through heavy machinery for the future set. She closes the record with “Reversed Bath”, which trips the fuse and hammers home the BPM as it builds out of a minimalist framework. When the bassline arrives it feels like a quiet explosion going off. A fine cut for dancing on factory floors. This is a promising series that is delivering out of the gate.

The present might be all kinds of bleak, but I still want to believe in a future. There have thankfully been moments during working from home that elevate conditions from anxiety to the sublime. Like when my ten-year-old daughter entered the room while I’m listening to Gilles Peterson on his Worldwide FM station. She starts to dance, with humour but also clearly feeling the music. I could only take a break and dance along with her. Everything, I feel in the moment, will be actually be okay. This is also how Onipa’s debut LP We No Be Machine makes me feel at any point across its runtime. Strut Records are of course experts at excavating outernational pasts to invigorate the present, so you need to take note when they activate the now. London-based outfit Onipa deliver life-affirming bursts of Afro-futurism that cut to the core with body-moving grooves and spaced-out excursions. There’s a real sense of joy throughout, with Onipa expressing their roots whilst pulling upon and opening up different directions along the way. “Onipa” alone is a low-slung African cut that throbs, urges and insinuates itself into the deepest part of you that needs to dance before anything else. It’s a timeless bomb of cross-cultural, open-to-the-moment magic. We No Be Machine is a glorious record that I couldn’t be more thankful for in these devastatingly weird times.  

I’m also finding joy (again – it’s a favourite from back in the day) in David Holmes’s Esssential Mix 98/01 CD compilation at the moment. Like Onipa, it’s on the bursting-through-to-sunlit-scenes side of my musical reaction to this situation. I certainly need the more contemplative too though. There’s much to choose from, but I’ve got to highlight JD Twitch’s ongoing series (two so far – you can stream or download from Soundcloud) of Tranquility mixes he is putting together as a salve for these times. Ambient and chillout as terms can be misused and often suggest a narrow field, but that need not be the case, as Twitch proves. As do Xoros, their self titled debut LP on Truant Recordings being a marvellous case of balmy soundscape music brought to life with edges and depths. Take “Cacading” for example. Its technoid drift recalls the futurescapes of Blade Runner as its beatless beats suggest an inverted universe version of a Slam night out. The intricacies develop and rise through the core of the track without distracting from the calming effects of the whole. It’s the sort of balancing act that is rare in this musical realm. Xoros appear well versed enough in club culture to properly understand what happens afterwards. Xoros is not about coming down, but instead about staying vital, remaining connected. That’s what you, me and everyone else probably need the most just now.