Since music criticism became a viable career, volumes have been written on the purpose of music—what it is supposed to do and what gives it meaning. For the casual fan, music exists to entertain. Its job is to soothe the tension of the morning commute; to ease the claustrophobia of high rises and cubicles; to reminisce and sing along to. There are also those for whom music serves a higher purpose. It is the soundtrack to life, making the good times better and the bad times not so bad. It makes us dance and cry and sing and shout and convulse with joy and curl up into a miserable ball under tear-stained sheets. These devotees read music magazines and construct their circles of friends of those who share similarly discriminatory tastes. They go to more concerts than they should and have impressive music collections in alphabetical order.
But there also exists an elitist, obsessive fraternity who not only read about music, but write about it. They don’t just go to concerts; they take notes on them. Their impressive collections are either their own independent record stores, or are so voluminous and so frequently added to that organization and categorization are fruitless, eternally unfinished tasks. For these people, music is not the soundtrack to life. It
is life. They expect not only to be entertained or comforted by music, but to be challenged by it. They expect music, from time to time, to make them uncomfortable, to make them question the very purpose of their lives’ obsession. They gauge music’s value by its ability to spark catharsis and epiphany. These are the people who listen to records like
Immolation/Immersion.
Immolation/Immersion is the type of noisy, grating, experimental jazz that sends these obsessive freaks into a tailspin of self-doubt and discovery. Eccentric guitar wiz Nels Cline and saxophonist Wally Shoup scrape their instruments across the chalkboard on the opener, “Lake of Fire Memories,” and Chris Corsano’s wrecking ball drums bring the walls crashing down, burying even the slightest whisper of melody beneath a mountain of sonic rubble. “Immolation/Immersion” is an almost thirty-minute ode to the same destruction and deconstruction. Cline’s busy guitar sends predatory vermin scavenging through the wreckage to torment the living dead, whose helpless cries are voiced by Shoup’s tortured saxophone echoing through the subterranean crypt. Microscopic fissures expand in the black silence until the occasional moments of peaceful relief are shattered by yet another earthquake of noise and chaos and Corsano’s pile of debris settles amidst a cacophony of cracking and rumbling.
From the chaos, however, creation begins again. “Minus Mint” and “Beard of Pine” flow like evolution in fast forward: while Cline’s scraping strings sing conception’s discordant song from the depths, Shoup gently molds new life on the surface. Hints of melody and rhythm arise from the primordial mess, and while chaos occasionally bubbles up from the source, music as we know it survives these sporadic fits of destruction to at least survive within the harsh but inhabitable spaces of “Ghost Bell Canto.”
The question still remains, however: what is this music’s value? What is its purpose? It is neither pleasant nor sympathetic. At best, Immolation/Immersion is merely difficult. One can’t imagine actually wanting to listen to it. Like many discoveries, however, the reward is not in the sound itself, but in the possibilities it suggests. Immolation/Immersion has less to do with what music is than with what music could be. Beneath the deafening disorder, all the necessary elements exist—point and counterpoint, leading and following, rhythm and melody. They are simply rearranged in unfamiliar shapes and colors. Those who have donned the Trout Mask Replica or sympathize with the wickedness of Live Evil will be reminded of what they temporarily forgot, while those few neophytes whose courage and patience lead them out of Cline and Co.’s dark tomb will emerge into the light of a whole new musical reality.
