Konrad BOEHMER: “Acousmatrix – History of Electronic Music V” ***

Recorded 1966-68, 1977-78, 1984


Originally from Berlin, Konrad Boehmer honed his compositional skills with the likes of Gottfried Michael Koenig, Pierre Boulez, Henri Pousseur, Karlheinz Stockhausen and Bruno Maderna.  At least half a generation younger than the above-mentioned composers, Boehmer debuted in the early 1960s and has since deployed his professorial talents in the Netherlands and in the US. 


His very detailed approach to composition, however ‘electric’, eschews many of the trappings that defined the canon of processing in vintage electronic music – reliance on generators, sonic masses, echoes.  When Boehmer incorporated pre-recorded tape material, he did so with a fully semantic approach – a far cry from Stockhausen’s intuitive cut-ups. 


Despite the wealth of external inputs, Boehmer’s electro-acoustic creations sound introspective and concentrated.  The structural complexity of his work does not invalidate their seamless and pristine, entirely legible character.  In addition to his ‘electric’ and electro-acoustic works, Boehmer has been also composing for more traditional media, including piano, percussion ensembles, chamber ensembles, choirs and symphony orchestras. 


It is astounding that Boehmer’s talent has remained so underexposed outside the (hermetic) circles of European academia and concert halls.  There is much more in his oeuvre that could and should be appreciated among the fans of Nurse with Wound, Operating Theatre, Hafler Trio or Un Drame Musical Instantané.  The recording presented here should also appeal to those to follow the careers of Dagmar Krause, Phil Minton and Frederic Rzewski. 





This early composition opens by infusing space with an oppressive sonic register: gurglings, chuckling buzzes, non-resonant mechanistic clashes all bite our earlobes with irregular dynamic assaults.  Crescendo of liquid bubbles, staccato cricket buzz and crackling feedback come and go, obstructing our auditory access to swooshing glissando blankets.  The reigning effect here is liquidity, with some extra sibilance on topmost layers.  But the composer refuses to apply insecticide; as another liquid cascade ebbs away, buzzing arthropoda buzz by in gyrating duets and trios.  When gigawatt electronic thunder interrupts this litany of naturalistic associations, windy gusts of grey noise soon follow.  The initial impetus drops off and a fairly slow-paced sequence ensues at various textural levels.  Much space is devoted to flicker noise, but the proceeding seems subtractive, rather than additive.  On one occasion, a reverberating machinery rumble kicks in.  After a short recess, submarine bubbles reinvent the context.  Contrasts are now distributed in a balanced fashion, with much energy still channeled through some liquid medium.  Most of these sensory structures are knit together in a sequential fashion with little, if any overlap.  Stockhausen’s influence is definitely perceptible.  In the last subsection, a sputtering motor sound is being embraced by micro-bubbles and a low-range torrent.  There is some enforced stationarity in the illusions generated by the structural stasis here.  The composition does really not advance, but rather like engines circling on a race track, it alternates in energy levels and frequency.  Boehmer avoids both excessive accumulation and obvious splicing of material.  Overall cohesion relies on atemporal functions, many of which are elicited within a pre-defined range of (mostly liquid) effects.


Cry of This Earth

This composition – part of a trilogy composed in the early 1970s – relies largely on Christopher Shultis’s deeply-pitched percussion – cymbalic overtones, fast tympani rolls – and interjected voice-overs.  The distant mix generates a sense of a stage-like detachment.  Electronics floods the space, but throttles back, slipping down the gutter of nothingness.  When the xylophone comes to the fore, we hear the first declamation – first female, then male, punctuated by a drum roll.  Tympani and stratospheric electronics spice it up with (frustrated) melodic spices.  Finally a soprano joins (Thea van der Putten), colored by a friendly vibraphone.  The delivery is dramatic, somewhat oblivious to the continuing (also female) narration.  Tympani, xylophone and the two voices compete for influence, reminding me of the disorienting operatic effects on U Totem’s first record.  Sequences appear, only to be closed by non-resonant percussions tracks.  The ‘song’ proper is now entirely supported by abstract percussion and xylophone.  Small hand drum prepares the atmosphere for the spoken text in French.  Damning, high-pitched sounds sprout into the short breaks, bruscamente.  Then a spoken male voice in Spanish takes over – to a more defined percussive (xylophone, large cymbals and gongs) accompaniment.  Boehmer’s whispers his own part (in German) – gliding over smeared out notes teased from the vibraphone and electric organ.  Wooden percussion clucking disturbs the emerging order and so does the electronic interjection.  One can’t dispel the sensation that the drummer part requires a lot of attention in this section of the composition.  The other two voices soon return, with more conviction, making a point among the swishing electronic flyovers.  Spanish recitation (male) and French a-melodious chant (female) appear endorsed not only by the avalanches of electro-bubbles, but also by the electric organ’s condescending harmonizing and some graphic accents from the percussion.  A long dying note from a cymbal closes the trilogy.


Apocalipsis cum figures

Dagmar Krause’s voice scares us with cataclysmic scenes of fire and hail, as dantesque and horrifying as Bosch’s nightmarish vistas.  Petrified by agony and horror, the voices also come off as sardonic.  Krause’s voice is sometimes transposed through a chorus treatment and is surrounded not only by an anguished jumble of ghastly slurps, gargles and guzzles, but also a suitably apocalyptic and very metallic piano (Frederic Rzewski).  A refrain of male voices goes almost doo-woop (Jan Hendriks, Ernst Jansz, Henny Vrienten), when a French narrator announces arrival of other creatures.  Overall, a sense of uncertainty reigns, as in the highly improper duet of piano tremolos and unhelpful belching.  German sentences (from Hölderlin) can occasionally terminate a phrase and plunge us into a silence, but it never lasts.  The French text, on the other hand, is delirious, exorcising the images of “semen”, “angels”, the Virgin and God, all surrounded by barking dogs as if hijacked form a Psychic TV or Dali-Wakhevitch recording.  Dagmar Krause picks up some of the more deranged passages from Karl Marx and its juxtaposition with Marquis de Sade does not grate here.  Phil Minton’s plaintive crooning proclaims “I am free”.  Howling monkeys, stately Eislerian piano and a hunched German text operate between a mechanic dynamo and robotic voices – in a dense, crowded underworld where dissonance is order and tonality is hell.  A whole treasure of interjections swamps the listener – simian creatures, pianistic salvos, animalistic glorps, bird calls, French expressions of indignation and blasphemy.  Intimidating, monstrous voice growls as others attempt a conversation above this unsettling canvas.  The piano is punctual and aggressive, but it is the Hague Percussion Ensemble that occupies center stage here: chimes, closing gates, multi-voice ‘Erinnerungen an Prophets’, fast drum runs.  The French recitation is defaced, clipped at the top, molested by devilish shouts of panic, eerily contrasted with doo-woop sing-alongs (apparently a piece by Skriabin).  In this sonic mayhem, growling beasts meet oral hygiene and female scolding mocks male despair.  Some electro-percussive effects are repetitive, wrapped around fragments from an English song.  When a measure of piano-voice order returns the percussive layer reorganizes the texture with march-like snare drum and tom-tom preparation.  Many voices in French are so critically slowed that they are barely comprehensible.  Some voices are muffled, other strangled, other suffocated or vivisected into ingressive-sounding, and that despite a strong bass buttressing that annoys us so much in Hollywood action movies.  That bass phrasing contrasts here with either vibraphone or high piano notes, just when we are to hear about the last hope: “I am god I am god”.  The sacrilegious text is first spoken, then chanted, then exclaimed.  After a male recitation in French, sweeping electronics ushers us into the sinister underworld of growling, braying and vomiting.  And this menace means business: “the night, so deep that you won’t see the way, you won’t hear your own voice”.  Then, the tortured, damned voices reveal, unexpectedly, a tepid bourgeois song, sung in English with a piano accompaniment amid the spiky cacti of electronic swirl, piano arpeggios and all THAT howl. If this really is the end of the world, then this is quite fascinating and worthy living through, sonically. 




Konrad BOEHMER: “Acousmatrix – History of Electronic Music V” (1966-68, 1977-78, 1984)


Several other recordings are available, but they are not necessarily electronic or electro-acoustic works. 

Published in: on October 5, 2008 at 9:37 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Conrad SCHNITZLER: “Control” *****

Recorded 1978-81


Originally from Düsseldorf, Conrad Schnitzler debuted as a sound artist around 1967.  After studying with Joseph Beuys he moved to Berlin, when he was often associated with the local school of electronic rock even though his soundscapes were never “rock” and his aesthetic was always too idiosyncratic to be pigeonholed.


In his most successful recordings, Schnitzler showed predilection for range compression that was unusual in the early days of analog synthesizers.  It is as if he had done a careful scoping study before each session, imposing restraints on the adopted textures and energy levels.  Nor did he seem to be tempted by excessive multi-layering of additive effects.  His strength lied in poised tone colorings and controlled mood explorations.  His forays into illustration were quickly abandoned and throughout most of his career his music remained subconceptual and non-ascriptive.


Schnitzler’s creations went through several stages.  Beginning with Berlin-based trios Kluster (with Joachim Roedelius and Dieter Moebius) and Eruption (with Wolfgang Seidel and Klaus Freudigmann), his spacious, psychotropic work relied as much on musical instruments as on amplifiers and echoes.  He then moved on to explore in depth the modulatory capabilities of analog synthesizers, achieving much more groundbreaking and lasting results than many of his compatriots.  An artistic hiatus befell him in the second half of the 1970s, when several misguided attempts at electronic rock introduced him to accidental audiences in Germany and abroad.  But unlike the synthesized disciples of the Berlin school, he returned triumphantly in the early 1980s, penning some of the most intriguing and abstract oeuvres yet.  Ever open to experimentation, he engaged in collaborations with new generations of German musicians and then moved onto the digital age, still occasionally leaving recordings which testified his undying tonal curiosity and penchant for deft sound organization. 



Control A

Each side of the original LP is divided into several, untitled sections.  Schnitzler welcomes the listener with atonal kernels of creamy, electronic vibrato, bleeping at varying dynamic levels.  The only order in this disorder is that higher frequency chords are louder, leaving the muddier, brown frequency sounds partly concealed.  At least three layers of these independently originated, expressionist tides collate, but never coagulate.


In the second fragment, foggy synthesizer folds are sustained and then slowly pitch-modulated.  Unlike in the previous track, the very act of modulation generates melodic expectations.  At some subliminal level, there does seem to lurk a barely tangible theme, but it fails to appear de iure; it remains ill-defined and then re-defined by its own shadows – the multiple variations.  Each of the variation ends with longer notes, leaving behind the mood of a desolate, cloudy, open space. 


Electric clangs fall like raindrops hitting window panes curiously intent on rejecting the liquid particles at various frequencies.  This evanescent texture is sparse and the pitches are arranged to accentuate the mutual contrast.  Still, the overall timbral effect is almost childlike.


Another exercise in modulation and phase shifting.  The leading middle layer individuates both the bass line and the crisply sibilant accompaniment, each germinating with a different delay.


A more “industrial”-sounding track based on blender glissandos with controlled sustain.  Tone colors permutate between the illusions of take-off, landing and taxing.  Although the context harks back to the ideas first developed on LP “Con”, the selection of effects is more balanced.  Discrete pitch bending occurs around the usually avoided parts of the frequency spectrum. 


Rotating flywheels send out waveforms which recur in epicycles.  A less prominent sub-theme explores a frail, rounded melodic theme, as if clutching at wavecrest. 


Fast ‘grasshopper’ tremolo is drowned out by an alternating dynamics in doomed quest of nebulous, dormant realm.  The dominant velocity would outpace any other track on the record, but the gesticulation is imperfectly robotic.  Another stratum of glissandos brings a dose of painfully sullied nostalgia. 


Control B

This is an even more atmospheric exploration of chalky textures.  Sheaths of organ give rise to a rare moment of loose harmonic consonance.


Another electronic landscape for stagnating sheets of lengthy notes, modulated in mid-flight.  They all fade away, substituted instantly by clones whose energy dissipates in like manner.  Simultaneous sizzling and rumbling epitomizes the hypnotic character of procyclical, compressed electronics.


Echoey, glassy clocking and pianistic electro-chords flow through a dialogue which explores attention, dis-habituation, expectation, clearing of remorse and doubt about it all.  This is a rare, modal achievement, particularly impressive given the limited toolkit involved in its creation. 


An essing, oscillatory web is delicately overlaid above the leading theme-building.  The focus is on an eventless space, wide open terrain and visibility constrained only by atmospheric phenomena. 


The record closes as it opened – with abstract, a-melodic clusters, collected almost sequentially in search of the right nocturnal mood.  A vague sense of solitude permeates the departures towards to the top of the staff, into ever shorter notes.  Mid-range synthesizer provides some harmonic solution, but the track is cut abruptly.  Did the Revox reel run out or is it another attempt to leave us pensive?




The discography below encompasses Schnitzler’s output from the first 15 (analog) years of his career and does not list numerous cassettes, the material from which was later reissued on LP or CD.  Positions 1, 2, 5, 10 and 11 remain my favorites.


1. Konrad SCHNITZLER: “Schwarz“ (1971)

2. Konrad SCHNITZLER: “Rot“ (1972)

3. Conrad SCHNITZLER: “Con’72“ (1972)

4. Conrad SCHNITZLER: “Zug“ (1973)

5. Konrad SCHNITZLER: “Blau“ (1973)

6. Konrad SCHNITZLER: “Gelb“ (1974)

7. Conrad SCHNITZLER: “Live Action 1977“ (1977)

8. Conrad SCHNITZLER: “Con“ (1978)

9. Conrad SCHNITZLER: “Grün“ (1976, 1980)

10. Conrad SCHNITZLER: “Control“ (1978-81)

11. Conrad SCHNITZLER: “Conal“ (1981)

12. Conrad SCHNITZLER: “Conrad & Sohn“ (1981)

13. Conrad SCHNITZLER: “Contempora“ (1981)

14. Conrad SCHNITZLER: “Con 3“ (1981)

15. Conrad SCHNITZLER: “Consequenz“ (1982)

16. Conrad SCHNITZLER: “Context“ (1982)

17. Conrad SCHNITZLER: “Convex“ (1982)

18. Conrad SCHNITZLER: “3.3.83“ (1983)

19. Conrad SCHNITZLER: “1.7.84“ (1984)


His recordings can also be found on several compilations, such as “Three Minute Symphony“ and “Hayfever“ (in the 1990s).  There are countless other cassette, film and gallery materials from the era.


Conrad Schnitzler’s early (1970-72) recordings overlap with his activity in bands Kluster and Eruption.  Indeed, his first “solo” album can be considered a Kluster/Eruption record.  The recordings of these bands are highly recommended for all the fans of vintage kraut electronics.  His appearance on Tangerine Dream’s best LP was the only time Schnitzler played someone else’s music.  Although the recently unearthed positions 5 and 6 are credited to Kluster, they are actually Eruption’s recordings. 


1. TANGERINE DREAM: “Electronic Meditation” (1970)

2. KLUSTER: “Klopfzeichen” (1970)

3. KLUSTER: “Zwei Osterei” (1970)

4. ERUPTION: “Eruption” (1970)

5. KLUSTER: “Vulcano” (1971)

6. KLUSTER: “Admira” (1971)

7. ERUPTION: “Live Action 1972.  Wuppertal” (1972)