… from the muse

Being somewhat unaccommodating, a tad loquacious and wee bit verbose and not too big on proper punctuation, I ask a lot of latitude for variation be afforded along with a couple more than a couple of preface paragraphs before I attempt to take a stab at finding the right inadequate words that could in some small way possibly convey my thoughts regarding the sensations both shaken and stirred within my inner reaches by the exquisite, incredibly unique and remarkably dynamic “Château Forty 8.”

Music is the universal language of sensation that unwittingly delves into the true nature of being using pleasant sounding abstract thought expressions rather than words to describe the inexplicable; thus, its incidental philosophy is far and away the best way to imbue the transcendental amoral universe with an essential human narrative’s makeshift order and clarity.  And if that’s not enough, artistically arranged sounds that produce effect also provide the inspirational fuel that affords inquiring minds the wings that enable imagination to take flight and bestows life’s too long lost at sea imperiled sailors with timely safe harbor as well.  And I’d be remiss if I were to dismiss the shake your booty aspects intrinsic to rhythmic repetition under the auspices of a big phat R/B groove that’s powerfully persuasive enough to make you get up off your duff and work up a brow full of sweat sweating to the oldies with Richard Simmons.

Words construct the thoughts that symbolically describe and explain a subjectively perceived and objectified personification rather than the actual actionable intelligible event-in-itself.  And paintings and photographs are two-dimensional representational interpretations of things-in-themselves.  Music, however, is by its own nature the thing-in-itself and of the essence, thus our only available artistic means by which to cleanse the doors of perception and take temporary respite from the subjective self to momentarily savor a semblance of unadulterated objectivity’s infinite thing-in-itself experience.  And if you’ve never had any ethereal, rapturous or elegiac music lift you up and take you there . . . well bless your heart.  Shudder the thought!

Music best expresses the inscrutable and what would otherwise be inexpressible as it transcends both words and imagery, and consequently helps us make better sense of the fraught with frailties human condition and deal with the intractable instinctual will that informs us far better than any mythological religious construct or notion. Music embodies the quintessence of this transitory sufferable life thrust upon us that has just barely enough intermittent euphoria interspersed throughout to make all the unbearable strife somehow seem endurable.  And to have no further questions nor anything further to add as to how music magically unravels all of life’s why and for what reason, and how come this and that conundrums, and damned if you both do and don’t pitfalls, one need only lend an ear to the “Adagio for Strings” alpha followed by the “Ode to Joy” omega.

I am not a musician and don’t want to know how the magic is made, but being a late bloomer baby boomer I had the good fortune to come of age when popular music was becoming an integral part of the world’s shared experience and our soundtrack.  Every boomer bar none with access to an idiot box watched The Beatles on Sullivan and shamelessly begged, borrowed or surreptitiously purloined return for two cent deposit pop bottles to get to go and partake in the “A Hard Day’s Night” religious experience at the picture show. No boomers worth their salts can relive all of Vietnam’s seen daily on the Nightly News horrors unless there is a CCR or The Doors tune playing in accompaniment; nor can they revisit the summer of peace, free love and wafting dope smoke salad days lest they first flip through cherished album collections to have Grace Slick’s imitable staccato caterwauls augment the youthful devil may care remembrance.  And you’ve now successfully made it through the interminable preface’s long, hard slough; so I suppose congratulations are in order.

From this particular appreciator of music’s point of view “Château Forty 8” is an amalgam of all the music I’ve ever loved. And what makes it remarkable is that it falls into the genre of all of the above and none of the above.  It is simultaneously ambient and predominant; it is music to disappear into and music that disappears into you; it is meticulously crafted just so and improvised on the wing; it is intended to be heard at high volumes or barely audible; it isn’t overly picky about fidelity; it doesn’t exist in a vacuum. And rather than be disturbed by an inharmonious B-52 bomber lumbering overhead, or a barking dog, it just incorporates whatever distraction the world sits in its lap.  “Château Forty 8” is what take what you get and make the most of it life sounds like.  There’s a lot more that needs to be said, but I’ve said too much already, so I’m going to give the critique a rest in favor of giving it another spin so as to hear all that BRAAKT is and is not for the first time again!

~ Douglas Bamburg