It’s an underlying topic in much that is discussed here, of course. I can’t offer a new brilliant insight or analysis, or even some smoothly-worded comment on modern tastes and the General Decay of the World. But I would like to share this little anecdote because it says something about the impact and power of the pure drop, old stuff: you know, the geezers with unfortunate haircuts.
I received last night a shipment of CDs and cassettes from Green Linnet. (I posted a list here.) Among them were Jack & Charlie Coen’s Branch Line. One of the fist things I listened to with my wife were a couple of unaccompanied solo flute tracks on that CD (some Jigs, and Lads of Laois/Green Groves of Erin). Pure, lovely, strong playing. The playing is “simple” with only sparse ornamentation, and it is fairly slow, relaxed I would say. My wife, who does not share my ITM obsession, but is open to any good music, just loved them, listened delightedly and said such things as “what interesting places he choses to take a breath”.
Being in a flute sort of mood, I switched to Kevin Crawford’s In Good Company. Not wanting to spoil the mellow mood with some high-speed track, I chose track 12 on that album: The Banks of Suir/Mama’s Pet (air and reel).
Ugh. It is not just soupy accompaniment, the glutinous violin section, or the wafty schmaltzy sound. The flute playing seemed just lifeless. It was highly ornamental and certainly steady. There was something vital missing. It was Joanie’s Whistle On the Wind all over. “Just turn it of,” my wife said. “No, let’s wait for the reel,” I replied. But it didn’t get any better when Crawford went into the reel: There they were again, the syrupy violins in the background playing long chords, taking the strenght out of the tune and turning it into pink cotton candy. It’s hard for me to put it so strongly here, because I like Kevin Crawford’s playing generally. But that track really turned me off: It will be a few days before I’ll listen to the rest of the CD.
What makes me write this up is the starkness of the contrast, going from Jack Coen to Kevin Crawford. There is Jack, recorded on a reel-to-reel in his house in the Bronx, here is Kevin, with recording studio, mixing, production, and a chamber orchestra. That can’t be reason, the difference. But the feeling of loss was so strong from one recording to the other. Jack was telling me the truth, Kevin was just lulling me to sleep, hoping I wouldn’t think, feel, live. It felt like I could trust one but not the other.
This is a bit rambling, I know, and probably inadequate to express my feeling: my visceral reaction to style, technique, and technology in ITM. And of course it’s not a clear-cut thing, either, I love listening to Lunasa.