a ramble through some electronic music

I suppose, to be strictly accurate, that ALL music that appears on CD, or on magnetic tape, or even on old fashioned phonographic records is electronic in some form. The grooves on a gramophone record aren't smooth or even, there are minute textures that are registered by the movement of the stylus and these textures are then, electronically, translated back into audible sound. Likewise recording onto tape creates fluctuations in the magnetic field strength and these fluctuations can be converted, electronically, back into sound. 

Now, in the digital age, actual sound is sampled and converted into discrete binary numbers or pure data, the faster the sample rate, the higher the recording quality. It doesn't get more electronic than this.

But what I'm really talking about is music created by electronic means, not by striking a piano key, or hitting a snare drum or strumming a guitar string. The word synthesizer is often used as an umbrella to describe various electronic keyboards and gizmos, but synthesizers really just manipulate other sounds, and rarely create their own.

Brian Eno used a VCS3 on the early Roxy Music records. It was simply a box, carried in a medium sized suitcase that could change and distort any imput signal. Usually Phil Manzanera's guitar was fed into the VCS3 for Eno to play with. Frequently the guitar sound that emanated would be backwards, or treated to sound like a crashing plane. In the same way Andy Mackay's saxophone mic would be fed through Eno's synth to create the most other worldly sounds. The VCS3 had no keyboard and thus could not be 'played' as an instrument in it's own right, instead Eno had a series of knobs to twiddle to affect the sounds and would have to frantically switch the leads over when he wanted to switch from guitar to sax and from there to electric piano. One reviewer memorably compared him to a crazed telephone operator. 

Of course at the same time synths were being created that did have their own keyboards or joysticks, meaning that analogue input wasn't always needed. Bob Moog set his tonal manipulators into smart wooden surrounds creating a keyboard that was more akin to a piece of furniture. At least it was fully electronic. Mellotrons, a mainstay of prog rock from the mid sixties onwards relied on samples of sound recorded onto short loops of tape, which could then be played in the same way as a conventional keyboard. The sustained strings sounds thus created were usually beautiful, but Mellotrons were liable to drift out of tune due to fluctuations in the power supply, or tapes that frequently stretched. Robert Fripp coined a number of helpful maxims for the various members of King Crimson, one of which runs simply 'Tuning a Mellotron doesn't.' 

By the mid 1970s synths were portable enough, easier to control and genuinely play, and were capable of creating a huge variety of realistically musical sounds. Rock bands were generally wary of such new fangled devices, usually adopting the attitude that if you couldn't play guitar like Clapton, or drum like Bonham then you couldn't possibly be a 'real' musician. Even Pete Townshend was viewed with suspicion when he incorporated arpegiated synths into "Won't Get Fooled Again". Later in the mid 1970s Queen famously stated that their albums did not feature synthesiz, as if this was something to be admired.

So those who played electronic music started on the fringes. German bands loved the technological aspects of synths and fully utilised the wide range of sounds to found. Tangerine Dream initially created cosmic journies to the outer galaxies, before gradually switching to gently warm and inviting synth pop; NEU!, Cluster and Harmonia emphasized the rhythmic capabilities of the early percussion programmes, building complex melodies around an unwavering mechanised beat, and Kraftwerk took both aspects to create perhaps the most carefully crafted, ultra precise music ever heard, but somehow they were able to avoid their music sounding clinical and imbued it with a warmth and humanity that many other bands would struggle to achieve. For all their Man Machine pretensions the secret of Kraftwerk's success lay in the fact that the men fully controlled the machines. And men could make mistakes. And, for that matter, the machines were not 100% reliable either. These analogue machines had moving parts, valves, transistors, elements which could wear out, switches that could break or overheat, circuit boards that would change their performance depending on the humidity of the room, sounds that would fluctuate depending on the reliability of the electricity supply around the world. This was not cold, clinical unvarying music at all. The sounds created by the early synth musicians has all the vagaries of 'real' music, and thus it contains a genuine warmth and an emotional punch that later digital music cannot possess.

In the mid 1970s Brian Eno experimented with tape loops. He played a simple rising and falling motif on a keyboard and recorded on tape loops of varying length. When the loops were played back simultaneously, but at different speeds, the overlapping notes created a hypnotically calming effect. Eno would set this up and let it play for hours while he read, and then he decided to record a snapshot of this potentially endless music. Half an hour was released as Discreet Music in 1976. But what could have been very calculated and clinical is nothing of the sort, and perhaps surprisingly the whole piece has a strong emotional core. This is all down to movement. The tape loops physically move, and none can be absolutely precise. The combination of sounds they generate pushes the air around and this is captured on yet more tape, before being physically carved onto vinyl. Another potentially variable movement occurs when you play the record. This actual genuine movement surely contributes to what moves the listener emotionally. A digital version of this wouldn't have the same impact. In fact Eno once tried to digitally recreate Discreet Music. And he failed miserably. There was no way to recreate the effects of various tapes at different unstable speeds and pitches. The digital version wanted to correct all the wobbles and unevenness, although it's exactly these imperfections which that give the original it's power.

The differences between analogue and digital are clearly demonstrated by Jean-Michel Jarre. His pioneering albums Oxygene and Equinox are fabulous, with a warm buzzy sound to the analogue synths that is missing from most synth music once digital becomes the norm. By 1983 he'd converted to digital and sure enough all the warmth has gone. Zoolook still contains some cool tunes but it relies too heavily on technology which doesn't have the heart and soul of the old valve driven Moogs and ARPs that powered Oxygene.

One of the main problems with digital music is that it is generally so unwavering that it quickly becomes repetitive. Back in 1975 Brian Eno came up with some helpful aphorisms to overcome creative blocks. One of the most famous of these Oblique Strategies reads - "Repetition is a form of change". But this was coined before unwavering digital repetition which allows for no change at all. Repetition is only a form of change where there is a human and therefore unstable element in the equation. Which is why Kraftwerk continue to have such a large involvement in the controlling of their concerts. They don't simply turn up and press 'play' on their laptops; each concert is actually quite different as the four members take a very strong control over the programmes and samples that go to make up their music. And stuff often goes wrong. Without the human element the show would be very flat.

These sorts of problems are being recognised and there is a gradual movement back to analogue synths and moving part technology. Actually recording the music digitally is fine and allows for all sorts of improvements in storage and transfer, but it's become widely accepted that creating music digitally can lead to dullness and a cold unfriendly end result. Many synths are starting to have random elements built in, to replicate at least some of the variables of using tape. This is surely a good thing. Our human ears are not machines and our brains can cope with sounds that are not absolutely perfect. In fact our brains make the tinye adjustments needed to compensate for a dropped beat or a slightly out of tune note. If the music is so perfect, with little or no human variation then our brains actually switch off, as there is nothing for them to do. What ought to be active listening becomes something passive and therefore a fairly pointless exercise.

Music exists to played, not repeated by a machine. Music is something that humans have created, something that inspires us and moves us and involves us. Music needs to played by people - it doesn't matter what instruments are used, or whether it's a triangle or a violin or a complex synthesizer, what matters is the human involvement and the physical movement of the sound through the air molecules. That is music.

To perhaps a lesser degree the same applies to Kraftwerk. The sequencers and buzzes of The Man Machine album give it an organic, rich feel, but the Boings and Tschaks of Electric Cafe, fun and brilliantly constructed though they are, are much colder and less welcoming. It's only with very recent advances in technology that digital synths can give off that much needed warmer feel. But digital still can't give you that actual physical movement of sound created by moving parts in the machinery and the stylus scratching away at the vinyl... 

lou reed - take no prisoners

In early 1977 Lou Reed witnessed a demonstration of a recording technique called Stereo Binaural, in which two microphones are used, arranged to create the same sort of 3D effect that your ears send to your brain. To facilitate this, the microphones were frequently placed above the ears of a dummy head. The result is a stunningly immediate sound which gives the impression that the listener is right in the middle of the action. As the full effect could only really be appreciated on headphones the technique was never of much interest beyond a small number of sound engineers, though today, with the ubiquitous use of headphones on iPods and the like, it's surprising that this method of recording hasn't had a resurgence. 

Lou Reed had always shown a strong interest in cutting edge sound and decided to experiment with the Stereo Binaural technique. He cut his new album Street Hassle at a small club in West Germany. The bemused audience were confronted with microphones everywhere and a set of almost entirely new songs, some of which were played a number of times to ensure a good recording. Their sporadic applause was carefully edited out and for many years no-one realised the Street Hassle was actually a live album. Some of these tracks such as “Leave Me Alone”, "Dirt" and the scabrously insulting, but subversively funny “I Wanna Be Black” had been knocking around for a few years, but once the live recordings had been overdubbed and and manipulated they changed enormously from the basic tracks that the German crowd would have heard. The weirdest of the lot was the totally out there version of “Real Good Time Together” which took just the throbbing guitar part as the basis for the whole song. Lou's wavery vocals were oddly overdubbed and then without warning the full band was harshly faded in half way through the song. However, throughout all the weirdness it sounds as if Lou is having great fun. Admittedly it’s a perverse sort of fun as the songs are sometimes unpleasant, one chord dirges, with some tuneless harsh singing plonked on top. “Leave Me Alone” is especially hard to get through. But then there is the title track, the only studio cut on the album. "Street Hassle" is a song of beauty and grace and delicacy. Totally out of place amongst the grime. One of Lou's most poetic lyrics, a story from the streets, and some unusually personal lines. Later live performances would significantly lose all the stuff about how 'she took the rings right off his fingers...' which, at the time, Lou candidly said was all true.

For such an experimental album it's perhaps strange that Street Hassle was so widely praised, especially as it was released at the height of punk. Lou declared himself happy with the new recording process but decided that he'd perhaps taken the audio manipulation too far, and that for his next album he wanted to capture his live band in all their glory with as little tweaking as possible. And what a great band it was too, able to twist and turn along with Lou's random deviations and flights of fancy. Reed was very fortunate that most of his band had been with him for some years and all were well honed in coping with any of Lou's frequent mood swings and on the hoof set changes. Lou chose his favourite New York club, the Bottom Line in the heart of Greenwich Village, to be the setting for his next record. This little club, all seated, with a capacity of only 400, also boasted an excellent sound system which pleased Lou no end.

He resumed touring in March 1978, playing a set which mixed the new Street Hassle songs, with obscurities from his back catalogue and a few Velvet Underground favourites for good measure. Fortunately a handful of these gigs from across the USA were recorded for radio broadcasts and all are equally strong shows. The band is superb following Lou's lead at every gig, stretching some songs to 20 minute epics, cutting short other tracks that aren't catching the audience's attention.

For the record the band was - 

Ellard "Moose" Boles - bass,

Marty Fogel - saxophone, 

Michael Fonfara - keyboards, 

Stuart Heinrich - guitar, vocals,

Michael Suchorsky - drums,  

with Chrissy Faith & Angela Howell on backing vocals.

Lou himself handled much of the guitarwork and also played his new discovery, a guitar synth.

The tour opened at the Bottom Line in early March 1978, but it was the shows booked there between 17th and 21st May that Lou had set up for recording. All the performances were captured on tape and the best songs were cherry picked for the double live album. The title Take No Prisoners originated at a Canadian gig early in the tour. A fan in the front row, who had perhaps overindulged, spent half the gig shouting 'Take no prisoners Lou, take no prisoners!!' over and over before he was eventually escorted from the theatre. Michael Fonfara was given the initial task of identifying the best performances - as the band was so consistent across all the gigs and the recording levels were set equally consistently for each show Fonfara proposed editing together the best bits from various performances to create the truly definitive version of each song. Everyone agreed that this would be great and the painstaking editing process was already underway before Lou changed his mind and declared that, as the original intention had been to capture the band exactly as they were on stage, he didn't want any studio trickery or clever editing after all.

As a result the ten tracks that spread across the four sides of vinyl (these are long songs, folks) consist not only of excellent musicianship, but also Lou's fast and furious stories, snappy put downs, jokes and one liners. In short there is as much talking as there is singing. Many tracks feature asides wherein Lou takes swipes at critics, club owners, fans, the audience, movies, the record business and even some of his contemporaries. (Perhaps surprisingly, even Patti Smith gets sniped at). No-one is safe from Lou's sarcasm and barbs. But, crucially, whatever he says is actually genuinely funny. These aren't simply insults as Lou gets his own back on the critics, but a severely witty commentary on the business he's found himself part of. Respected New York critic Robert Christgau took his dig in good humour, commenting that he didn't mind Lou having a go at him on record because Lou Reed had actually pronounced his surname correctly (something that was rarely done). At times Lou's onstage digressions took over the songs entirely. "Walk On The Wild Side" for instance features the band vamping the tune while Lou explains how he came to write "Walk On The Wild Side", potted histories of the various characters in the song plus his thoughts on such varied luminaries as Andy Warhol and Diana Ross. And the whole thing is so wonderfully entertaining that you don't realise that even though it runs for nearly 17 minutes they've only got as far as the first chorus.

But some songs are played straight. "Coney Island Baby" is the most powerful rendition of this classic that I've ever heard. There's a fantastically long drawn out ending as Lou and the girls repeat the 'glory of love' refrain over and over while Marty Fogel blows up a storm on his saxophone. It's incredibly emotional and exciting, and the Stereo Binaural recording is partly the reason, as you genuinely feel like you're part of the audience that night. The immediacy of the band, the clarity of the instruments, there's a palpable presence that leaps off the turntable and grabs you. The band are capable of playing oh so quietly and then, without breaking a sweat, suddenly charging like a locomotive at full speed. Listen to the gentle and delicate piano played by Michael Fonfara at the beginning of "Berlin" and then compare to the full on guitar, sax and pounding piano of just a few minutes later at the song's conclusion. This displays an amazingly strong grasp of the dynamics of the music. Playing these songs in a small club helped - a stadium sized PA doesn't allow for this sort of dynamic range, as everything has to be Spinal Tapped up to 11. But in a club, with a small audience, you can play quietly and tenderly and everyone will still hear. The version of "Pale Blue Eyes" clearly exhibits these quiet moments - guitar synth and keyboards take most of the tune as Lou tones down his vocal accordingly. But then a track such as "Leave Me Alone" opens up the throttle and the band are simply powering along for the whole piece, with no let up whatsoever.

Apart from my favourite, "Coney Island Baby", arguably the most impressive song on the album is "Street Hassle" which manages to keep the taut, elegant beauty of the original studio cut, whilst also adding an edgy unpredictable quality. The power of the bass and the guitar synth after Lou utters the words 'you know what it's called? Baaaaadd luck', is simply stunning. 

But it's the evergreen "Sweet Jane" that perhaps encapsulates the whole album. A sharp and clever mix of caustic one liners commenting obliquely on both the audience and the song itself, mesh seamlessly with the actual lyrics and the band keeps up with every word Lou is saying or singing. At one point Lou starts free associating and comes up with the phrase 'make believe love'. Quick as a flash he turns to Fonfara, 'Hey write that down Michael, Make Believe Love, that's an album title right there...' The band doesn't blink, the beat is solid and the riffs continue. Later a heckler shouts something fairly incomprehensible about writing a review and Lou immediately snaps back, 'if you write as good as you talk then no-one reads you'. This "Sweet Jane" also kicks harder than any other version I've heard. All the musicians are on such good form.

Released in November 1978 Take No Prisoners picked some pretty good reviews, with most commenting on the power of the band and the solidity of the music just as much as they focused on Lou's chatter. Reed himself later commented that perhaps the album should have been called Lou Reed Talks And Talks And Talks and later still he expressed the opinion that perhaps they should have gone with Fonfara's original idea of editing together excerpts from various performances after all, and cutting back on the patter. The initial plan was to showcase the band and perhaps the finished album doesn't quite let them roll as much as Lou would have wanted.

Considering that six or seven complete performances were recorded it's something of a shame that, apart from one unremarkable track on a box set, nothing else from these gigs has ever been issued. It seems to me that these Bottom Line shows marked something of a highpoint in Lou's live performances and to not issue a multi disc set comprising of the whole run of gigs is missing a marvellous opportunity to bring more of this fantastic music to the masses. But that's Lou Reed, an awkward old goat, a man who'll never do what's expected, or even what's sensible, sticking to his own stubborn path regardless of what anyone says. He may not have produced a decent album for over twenty years (and last year's team up with Metallica was quite possibly the most appalling recording he's ever been involved with), but there were twenty five years when he was bloody good (1965 - 1990), and as on Take No Prisoners he was frequently superbly brilliant and pretty much untouchable.