Rory Gannon‘s “The Waves,” the initial track on his most recent release Panic Language, presents a driving, repetitious initial motif that builds upon itself in layers. In the absence of guitar, lyrics, or any of the usual armature, he presents a bare experiment in sound. This lack of musical infrastructure seems a purposeful strategy, in order to build a world in which the listener isn’t given typical points of reference; the experience is supposed to be new, and it works. Cerebral in its succession, it offers relief not in the form of hook and solo, but rather in instruments strange to the ear, a puzzle one tries to piece together by identifying the origins of their sounds. Strings give way to what could be a rainstick agitated to and fro, and are followed by blown-out percussion that intimates metal trashcan lids being beaten against one another in a dark, bilious alley.
Mournful, the sore keyboard tones pull a melodious yearning over the organized cacophony beneath. If one follows the tributaries upstream, Gannon’s Bandcamp description of the album can be found, which informs the conclusions here. After experiencing a violent assault and deep loss, he concentrated those misfortunes into a gift of communicative art. While the unusual structure of “The Waves” doesn’t prime it for the radio play or live performance where most of us encounter our music, it certainly presents a unique and worthwhile listen. I’d recommend headphones on a rainy November PNW night.
I really enjoy this track and you nailed what I’ve been trying to identify in my feelings about it: no typical reference points! It reminds me a great deal of the rhythm experiments on The Legendary Pink Dots’ Chemical Playschool compilations or Muslimgauze. Music like this and ambient/drone are often challenging (though rewarding) for me and now I understand why.