Vito Camarretta / Rdeča Raketa / Wir Werden / March 2013

Vito Camarretta, 01 2013
A fascinating and tragically extant sample of sonic poetry.
Named after a poem by Slovenian poet Srecko Kosovel – leading figure of Slovenian avant-garde literature -, Rdeca Raketa (Slovenian for “red rocket”), interesting project by Austrian composer and performer Matija Schellander, who already fulfilled his academic studies of double bass, computer music and modular synths by means of many important collaborations (Okkyung Lee, Jorge Sanchez-Chiong/JSX, Wolfgang Schiftner, Anja Utler, Kazuhisa Uchihashi, Matalycee, Isabelle Dutholt, Marco Eneidi, Franz Hautzinger, Michael Bruckner and many more…), Slovenian singer, composer and flautist Maja Osojnik, co-founder of Low Frequency Orchestra, sign their second release “Wir werden” (meaning “we will”) after the 40-minutes electroacoustic improvisation album “Old Girl, Old Boy”, released on tape by Mosz Records three years ago. Their new smoulder seems to ignite from the longing of transformation, which includes subtle arguentation against contemporary cultural codes, that sometimes entails silent mutilations of individuality inside their intimate and controversial glorification (for instance the disaffected and somewhat weird voice-over by Anat Stainberg says: “We will stand there: ecstatic, in a state of dullness, frozen. […] suffocating on our own transparent words […] We will sleep, we will dissolve there-being and the being gone, will leave the premonition waiting and we’ll be hushed by the falling snow.”). The following sonic clues could portray an ego whose ascending billows find their chagrin on dying tones, consumed by noisy bussing wasps, drowned by suffocating white noises and corrosive bleeps, stunned by hiccuping engines and other pestering signals coming between the ego and its inner rhythms like a fog of toxic gas, whose heart rendering prostrated resolution collpases on sombrely heavy and slow piano strokes which still spill purulent liquid from open wounds. On the second part of the album, “Andere Menschen”, the limping amble on deafening electric shock, splitted phrases whose humanity could be confused with insectile noises, thundering saturations, gurgling automatism, malformed sinister clockworks, this sort of bionic transmogrification is complete and emerge from the shabby “dialectic” hushed words by Lisa Kortschak and Max Gaier, where that mutation contaminates a relationship and the reciprocal hideaway seems to be preferred to the acknowledgement of transformed inner lineaments. A fascinating and tragically extant sample of sonic poetry.