We think it is amazing that right now at this moment there are thousands of highly educated people chucking invisible objects down underground tunnels, in the hope that said objects will collide against other invisible objects generating barely perceptible signals containing glimpses into the secrets of the universe. That’s epic, psychedelic and inspiring. We like it.
Consequently, we love the music which captures the mystery of those scientific activities- this is what today’s post is about.
We have previously described his music as quantum juke. In it, we hear subatomic infra-worlds at the cutting edge of knowledge where illumination and hallucination dance an abstract tango. The rhythms and melodies stretch in front of our eyes, phase-shifting between stochastic jitter and deterministic structure.
When we listen from the right dimension, it is as if we had solved the tesseract at the end of Interstellar. The wave function of the sonic system collapses into concrete moments of funk, melancholy and drama made even more amazing by the fact they come from a place where we thought there was nothing, from a place that we didn’t even know existed, until we started listening.
Go and get Pressure Drop from Where To Now, now.
We have become sort of obsessed with Gunnar Haslam’s Lebesgue Measures. If we had to summarise it functionally, we’d say that it is probably the best-selling record at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology student union, where they filed it under “jazz funk”. We could also mention its aesthetic lineage: Carl Craig, Drexciya, Autechre, Plastikman, Squarepusher.
But this taxonomical exercise isn’t enough. We need to infer a theory, the beautiful equation we sense at the centre of this album, and we look for it like rabid fans in a Bolaño novel. The most obvious candidate is the Lebesgue method for calculating the integral of a curve (the area under it) by partitioning its range, to which the title of the record alludes. But that simply shifts the question. What is being measured here? What exists in the space under the curve? Lebesgue Measures, the record, isn’t just a tool, it is a framework.
The titles of its songs hint at infinity, things that can only be integrated approximately, by assuming convergences in lands beyond. We can only run so far. We eventually give up on our quest for meaning and stare at those white spaces in the horizon where Gunnar Haslam’s melodies soar like flashes of improvisation in a mathematical proof, logical leaps over chasms of impossibility, loops that close loops with a mystical move.