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    Whirr
    Hushed
    Tumultuous
    Ring
    Blister

    Fred Lonberg-Holm - cello, electronics
    Abdul Moimême - 2 electric guitars (played simultaneously), objects
    Carlos Santos - computer, synthesizer

    HAPPY ENDING

    ...someplace he had just wandered into and now he wondered not just why or how or even when, but who, who was this someone occupied as much as the one occupying, in there some self or not-self going on, or two of one and/or the other, like some seared seer in some sad seersucker wandered into a euphemism like WASHROOM or RESTROOM in a lost and futile decade's diner (the Future Diner the neon had declared, whether promissory note or veiled threat), no washing or resting initially in mind, but then transfixed by the circulating signs of the stall door message handles turned in every case to occupied (or some semblance thereof, like occupied [some message in numbers, a puzzle mathematical] or occupied [promotion of said diner's food] or occupied [state of being resulting from said food, leaving one or it or here the past tense of a noun] or occupied [some great bird not just extinct but now misspelled]), but somehow slipped away to stand in the recent past of an exterior doorway, backlit by the diner's neon or the desert sun, the air a threatened veil, dust motes en regalia…that the digestion was a metaphor, some puzzle of hearing, some auditory hallucination, like a watery echo of an essential but incomprehensible warning, muffling up through the narrow passages of nothingness pinched between the trio’s machinery, whether promise or admonition or domination, some subset let loose, some variation on the solid state, like promise or admonition or just admonition, even domination…(the real song realized not on the jukebox’s recurrent medley but in the artfully sustained creak of the wooden screen door’s rusted hinges and muted thud-click when arriving back in place, the ring of hammered metal from the adjoining service station, the rush of fuel from the gas pump outside, the terrible memory of things as yet unhappened, nothing so hollow as the sound of a mridangam or all that rubbing, a dead letter office of lost sounds finding new life)… or some misbegotten pilgrim’s perplexed arrival at a tripe festival later rendered stranger by learning a little further down the road the festival subject had been apple pie, then graced with the realization that if tripe were an occasion for commemoration and celebration he truly was among the blessed, truly he…by the stream of…sat…to read…"More than the absence of hope, it was the dreamclang--hirsute, bloody, vituperative--that made the sounds of the diner so refreshing."
    Stuart Broomer

    Recorded live at Namouche, by Joaquim Monte, 05/05/2018, Lisbon. Mixed & mastered by Abdul Moimême.
    Graphic design by Carlos Santos. Liner notes by Stuart Broomer. Produced by Ernesto Rodrigues.

    Includes unlimited streaming of Transition Zone via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
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  • Full Digital Discography

    Get all 34 Carlos Santos releases available on Bandcamp and save 40%.

    Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of Quelque chose prie la patience des nuages, Falling into wide spaces, Transition Zone, Studies on Colour Field Modulation, MELT, A Silent play in the shadow of power, Uncommon Symmetries, Sur nos pas dans la clarté du jour, and 26 more. , and , .

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1.
Whirr 16:15
HAPPY ENDING ...someplace he had just wandered into and now he wondered not just why or how or even when, but who, who was this someone occupied as much as the one occupying, in there some self or not-self going on, or two of one and/or the other, like some seared seer in some sad seersucker wandered into a euphemism like WASHROOM or RESTROOM in a lost and futile decade's diner (the Future Diner the neon had declared, whether promissory note or veiled threat), no washing or resting initially in mind, but then transfixed by the circulating signs of the stall door message handles turned in every case to occupied (or some semblance thereof, like occupied [some message in numbers, a puzzle mathematical] or occupied [promotion of said diner's food] or occupied [state of being resulting from said food, leaving one or it or here the past tense of a noun] or occupied [some great bird not just extinct but now misspelled]), but somehow slipped away to stand in the recent past of an exterior doorway, backlit by the diner's neon or the desert sun, the air a threatened veil, dust motes en regalia…that the digestion was a metaphor, some puzzle of hearing, some auditory hallucination, like a watery echo of an essential but incomprehensible warning, muffling up through the narrow passages of nothingness pinched between the trio’s machinery, whether promise or admonition or domination, some subset let loose, some variation on the solid state, like promise or admonition or just admonition, even domination…(the real song realized not on the jukebox’s recurrent medley but in the artfully sustained creak of the wooden screen door’s rusted hinges and muted thud-click when arriving back in place, the ring of hammered metal from the adjoining service station, the rush of fuel from the gas pump outside, the terrible memory of things as yet unhappened, nothing so hollow as the sound of a mridangam or all that rubbing, a dead letter office of lost sounds finding new life)… or some misbegotten pilgrim’s perplexed arrival at a tripe festival later rendered stranger by learning a little further down the road the festival subject had been apple pie, then graced with the realization that if tripe were an occasion for commemoration and celebration he truly was among the blessed, truly he…by the stream of…sat…to read…"More than the absence of hope, it was the dreamclang--hirsute, bloody, vituperative--that made the sounds of the diner so refreshing." Stuart Broomer
2.
Hushed 16:59
HAPPY ENDING ...someplace he had just wandered into and now he wondered not just why or how or even when, but who, who was this someone occupied as much as the one occupying, in there some self or not-self going on, or two of one and/or the other, like some seared seer in some sad seersucker wandered into a euphemism like WASHROOM or RESTROOM in a lost and futile decade's diner (the Future Diner the neon had declared, whether promissory note or veiled threat), no washing or resting initially in mind, but then transfixed by the circulating signs of the stall door message handles turned in every case to occupied (or some semblance thereof, like occupied [some message in numbers, a puzzle mathematical] or occupied [promotion of said diner's food] or occupied [state of being resulting from said food, leaving one or it or here the past tense of a noun] or occupied [some great bird not just extinct but now misspelled]), but somehow slipped away to stand in the recent past of an exterior doorway, backlit by the diner's neon or the desert sun, the air a threatened veil, dust motes en regalia…that the digestion was a metaphor, some puzzle of hearing, some auditory hallucination, like a watery echo of an essential but incomprehensible warning, muffling up through the narrow passages of nothingness pinched between the trio’s machinery, whether promise or admonition or domination, some subset let loose, some variation on the solid state, like promise or admonition or just admonition, even domination…(the real song realized not on the jukebox’s recurrent medley but in the artfully sustained creak of the wooden screen door’s rusted hinges and muted thud-click when arriving back in place, the ring of hammered metal from the adjoining service station, the rush of fuel from the gas pump outside, the terrible memory of things as yet unhappened, nothing so hollow as the sound of a mridangam or all that rubbing, a dead letter office of lost sounds finding new life)… or some misbegotten pilgrim’s perplexed arrival at a tripe festival later rendered stranger by learning a little further down the road the festival subject had been apple pie, then graced with the realization that if tripe were an occasion for commemoration and celebration he truly was among the blessed, truly he…by the stream of…sat…to read…"More than the absence of hope, it was the dreamclang--hirsute, bloody, vituperative--that made the sounds of the diner so refreshing." Stuart Broomer
3.
Tumultuous 13:22
HAPPY ENDING ...someplace he had just wandered into and now he wondered not just why or how or even when, but who, who was this someone occupied as much as the one occupying, in there some self or not-self going on, or two of one and/or the other, like some seared seer in some sad seersucker wandered into a euphemism like WASHROOM or RESTROOM in a lost and futile decade's diner (the Future Diner the neon had declared, whether promissory note or veiled threat), no washing or resting initially in mind, but then transfixed by the circulating signs of the stall door message handles turned in every case to occupied (or some semblance thereof, like occupied [some message in numbers, a puzzle mathematical] or occupied [promotion of said diner's food] or occupied [state of being resulting from said food, leaving one or it or here the past tense of a noun] or occupied [some great bird not just extinct but now misspelled]), but somehow slipped away to stand in the recent past of an exterior doorway, backlit by the diner's neon or the desert sun, the air a threatened veil, dust motes en regalia…that the digestion was a metaphor, some puzzle of hearing, some auditory hallucination, like a watery echo of an essential but incomprehensible warning, muffling up through the narrow passages of nothingness pinched between the trio’s machinery, whether promise or admonition or domination, some subset let loose, some variation on the solid state, like promise or admonition or just admonition, even domination…(the real song realized not on the jukebox’s recurrent medley but in the artfully sustained creak of the wooden screen door’s rusted hinges and muted thud-click when arriving back in place, the ring of hammered metal from the adjoining service station, the rush of fuel from the gas pump outside, the terrible memory of things as yet unhappened, nothing so hollow as the sound of a mridangam or all that rubbing, a dead letter office of lost sounds finding new life)… or some misbegotten pilgrim’s perplexed arrival at a tripe festival later rendered stranger by learning a little further down the road the festival subject had been apple pie, then graced with the realization that if tripe were an occasion for commemoration and celebration he truly was among the blessed, truly he…by the stream of…sat…to read…"More than the absence of hope, it was the dreamclang--hirsute, bloody, vituperative--that made the sounds of the diner so refreshing." Stuart Broomer
4.
Ring 10:47
HAPPY ENDING ...someplace he had just wandered into and now he wondered not just why or how or even when, but who, who was this someone occupied as much as the one occupying, in there some self or not-self going on, or two of one and/or the other, like some seared seer in some sad seersucker wandered into a euphemism like WASHROOM or RESTROOM in a lost and futile decade's diner (the Future Diner the neon had declared, whether promissory note or veiled threat), no washing or resting initially in mind, but then transfixed by the circulating signs of the stall door message handles turned in every case to occupied (or some semblance thereof, like occupied [some message in numbers, a puzzle mathematical] or occupied [promotion of said diner's food] or occupied [state of being resulting from said food, leaving one or it or here the past tense of a noun] or occupied [some great bird not just extinct but now misspelled]), but somehow slipped away to stand in the recent past of an exterior doorway, backlit by the diner's neon or the desert sun, the air a threatened veil, dust motes en regalia…that the digestion was a metaphor, some puzzle of hearing, some auditory hallucination, like a watery echo of an essential but incomprehensible warning, muffling up through the narrow passages of nothingness pinched between the trio’s machinery, whether promise or admonition or domination, some subset let loose, some variation on the solid state, like promise or admonition or just admonition, even domination…(the real song realized not on the jukebox’s recurrent medley but in the artfully sustained creak of the wooden screen door’s rusted hinges and muted thud-click when arriving back in place, the ring of hammered metal from the adjoining service station, the rush of fuel from the gas pump outside, the terrible memory of things as yet unhappened, nothing so hollow as the sound of a mridangam or all that rubbing, a dead letter office of lost sounds finding new life)… or some misbegotten pilgrim’s perplexed arrival at a tripe festival later rendered stranger by learning a little further down the road the festival subject had been apple pie, then graced with the realization that if tripe were an occasion for commemoration and celebration he truly was among the blessed, truly he…by the stream of…sat…to read…"More than the absence of hope, it was the dreamclang--hirsute, bloody, vituperative--that made the sounds of the diner so refreshing." Stuart Broomer
5.
Blister 15:08
HAPPY ENDING ...someplace he had just wandered into and now he wondered not just why or how or even when, but who, who was this someone occupied as much as the one occupying, in there some self or not-self going on, or two of one and/or the other, like some seared seer in some sad seersucker wandered into a euphemism like WASHROOM or RESTROOM in a lost and futile decade's diner (the Future Diner the neon had declared, whether promissory note or veiled threat), no washing or resting initially in mind, but then transfixed by the circulating signs of the stall door message handles turned in every case to occupied (or some semblance thereof, like occupied [some message in numbers, a puzzle mathematical] or occupied [promotion of said diner's food] or occupied [state of being resulting from said food, leaving one or it or here the past tense of a noun] or occupied [some great bird not just extinct but now misspelled]), but somehow slipped away to stand in the recent past of an exterior doorway, backlit by the diner's neon or the desert sun, the air a threatened veil, dust motes en regalia…that the digestion was a metaphor, some puzzle of hearing, some auditory hallucination, like a watery echo of an essential but incomprehensible warning, muffling up through the narrow passages of nothingness pinched between the trio’s machinery, whether promise or admonition or domination, some subset let loose, some variation on the solid state, like promise or admonition or just admonition, even domination…(the real song realized not on the jukebox’s recurrent medley but in the artfully sustained creak of the wooden screen door’s rusted hinges and muted thud-click when arriving back in place, the ring of hammered metal from the adjoining service station, the rush of fuel from the gas pump outside, the terrible memory of things as yet unhappened, nothing so hollow as the sound of a mridangam or all that rubbing, a dead letter office of lost sounds finding new life)… or some misbegotten pilgrim’s perplexed arrival at a tripe festival later rendered stranger by learning a little further down the road the festival subject had been apple pie, then graced with the realization that if tripe were an occasion for commemoration and celebration he truly was among the blessed, truly he…by the stream of…sat…to read…"More than the absence of hope, it was the dreamclang--hirsute, bloody, vituperative--that made the sounds of the diner so refreshing." Stuart Broomer

about

Fred Lonberg-Holm - cello, electronics
Abdul Moimême - 2 electric guitars (played simultaneously), objects
Carlos Santos - computer, synthesizer

Linear notes by Stuart Broomer

HAPPY ENDING

...someplace he had just wandered into and now he wondered not just why or how or even when, but who, who was this someone occupied as much as the one occupying, in there some self or not-self going on, or two of one and/or the other, like some seared seer in some sad seersucker wandered into a euphemism like WASHROOM or RESTROOM in a lost and futile decade's diner (the Future Diner the neon had declared, whether promissory note or veiled threat), no washing or resting initially in mind, but then transfixed by the circulating signs of the stall door message handles turned in every case to occupied (or some semblance thereof, like occupied [some message in numbers, a puzzle mathematical] or occupied [promotion of said diner's food] or occupied [state of being resulting from said food, leaving one or it or here the past tense of a noun] or occupied [some great bird not just extinct but now misspelled]), but somehow slipped away to stand in the recent past of an exterior doorway, backlit by the diner's neon or the desert sun, the air a threatened veil, dust motes en regalia…that the digestion was a metaphor, some puzzle of hearing, some auditory hallucination, like a watery echo of an essential but incomprehensible warning, muffling up through the narrow passages of nothingness pinched between the trio’s machinery, whether promise or admonition or domination, some subset let loose, some variation on the solid state, like promise or admonition or just admonition, even domination…(the real song realized not on the jukebox’s recurrent medley but in the artfully sustained creak of the wooden screen door’s rusted hinges and muted thud-click when arriving back in place, the ring of hammered metal from the adjoining service station, the rush of fuel from the gas pump outside, the terrible memory of things as yet unhappened, nothing so hollow as the sound of a mridangam or all that rubbing, a dead letter office of lost sounds finding new life)… or some misbegotten pilgrim’s perplexed arrival at a tripe festival later rendered stranger by learning a little further down the road the festival subject had been apple pie, then graced with the realization that if tripe were an occasion for commemoration and celebration he truly was among the blessed, truly he…by the stream of…sat…to read…"More than the absence of hope, it was the dreamclang--hirsute, bloody, vituperative--that made the sounds of the diner so refreshing."

credits

released October 1, 2021

Recorded live at Namouche, by Joaquim Monte, 05/05/2018, Lisbon. Mixed & mastered by Abdul Moimême.
Graphic design by Carlos Santos. Liner notes by Stuart Broomer. Produced by Ernesto Rodrigues.

Creative Sources CS712

Review by Massimo Ricci for squidco

"Transition Zone is a fitting title for the music offered by Fred Lonberg-Holm (cello & electronics), Abdul Moimême (a pair of electric guitars played simultaneously, plus nonspecific "objects") and Carlos Santos (computer & synthesizer). This is a live performance in Lisbon dating back to May 2018, the musicians repeatedly reaching heights of radical poetry by combining inmost responsiveness with a somewhat utopian inclination.
The interplay suggests an attempt to outstretch the instrumental possibilities to a point at which the human factor becomes virtually unnoticeable. Nonetheless the sounds are unquestionably organic, loaded with noisy pneuma, driven by a kind of self-determination. Their concrete beauty is best expressed by fleeting instants of profound connection, despite the manifest destabilization of familiar methodologies.

Selected pitches emitted by Lonberg-Holm's treated cello are genuinely painful, heading straight for the primary core of receptiveness. He has for many years now been a renowned specialist in dissecting the acoustic fiber of his instrument, whose molecular structure we can sometimes nearly glimpse. Moimême's guitars move across untrodden resonant paths, vibrant shapelessness and imposing clangors reminding us of certain Elliott Sharp-esque principles. Santos further contributes to the dismissal of harmonic tyranny by breaking up conventional frameworks, inserting electronic ear-openers, essentially converting the electroacoustic image into a room of warped mirrors.
There are instances, such as "Hushed" and "Ring", when one senses a meditative stasis behind the incessant movement of sonic particles, as if the trio's quest were directed toward an invisible light. It's a common ground of radiance, accommodating within itself even the most dynamically charged happenings. Elsewhere, mechanisms of unsystematic repetition soften the brutality of some combinations. Aesthetic laws are rewritten to meet needs that go far beyond the mere acceptance and assimilation of a given sound. Tracks like "Whirr" and "Tumultuous" express the agitational proclivity boiling inside the artists' collective soul. Still, they remain in complete control of their machines at all times. An improvisational logic defined by intellectual boldness is thus prevented from becoming sheer discordance, whose constituents would appear indivisible to the internal microscope of an ill-equipped audience."

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Carlos Santos Lisbon, Portugal

Musician, sound artist, sound collector, digital audio manipulator and graphic designer. Interested in field recordings, soundscape composition, improvisation and electroacoustic music. Uses maxmsp software, microphones, speakers, piezo elements, modular synthesizers, spaces and a pair of ears in good working condition. Works as a graphic designer, sound art practices, field recording. ... more

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