Icelandic Soundscapes: Jóhann Jóhannsson.

Jóhann Jóhannsson

IBM 1401, A USER'S MANUAL

(2006, 4AD)

Iceland! Just thinking of the place elicits mental images aplenty. Volcanic activity, steaming natural hot springs, wide-open rocky expanses, massive glaciers, awe-inspiring scenery, and beautiful people with a penchant for believing in fairies and elves certainly come to mind.

I had a chance to pay Iceland a visit during the Christmas of 2007, and I can confirm that all these mental images are correct. But here on this sub-Arctic island, there is a greater window into what makes the island nation tick; and that is the music that Iceland generates.

To take an atmospheric and eccentric musical voyage to the lava fields, geysers, waterfalls, and glaciers of this beautiful and majestic world takes just a listen to a singular Icelandic composition.

Showcasing a pristine minimalist approach that sounds as if it was made deep beneath the surface of the Earth – perhaps below the Eyjafjallajökull volcano itself – is Reykjavík-based composer and musician Jóhann Jóhannsson’s love letter to an outdated piece of computing machinery.

Jóhann Jóhannsson – IBM 1401, A User’s Manual. (2006, 4AD)

Iceland had a love affair with a machine; namely the IBM 1401, the first affordable, mass-produced digital business computer available on the island – imported for the first time in 1964. Its heyday lasted for seven years, until it was put out to pasture in 1971.

The chief maintenance officer of the machine, one Jóhann Gunnarsson, figured out an intriguing and novel way to make musical sounds with the IBM 1401: placing a radio receiver next to it and programming the memory of the processing unit such that the electromagnetic waves emitted from the computer could be captured by the receiver.

Iceland mourned the machine’s passing in 1971. They even held a funeral for it, playing the melancholic sine-wave sounds one last time as they threw the proverbial soil on top of the discontinued device. The ghostly notes were captured on tape, alongside the noises it made during operation.

Fast-forward 35 years. Gunnarsson’s son, Jóhann Jóhannsson, listened to the tapes of the IBM 1401’s musical notes and decided to write a five-part symphonic piece that would encompass and utilize these sounds – and, in doing so, complement them with the feel and spirit of Iceland itself.

Imagine a flurry of pristine snowflakes washing over you, with the crackle of ice crunching underfoot. A barren snow-flocked landscape, all black volcanic rock covered with ice and snow. Volcanoes lurk on the horizon, shaped like Stepford tits, plumes of steam pouring like smoke from unseen fissures in the crust of the Earth. Timeless.

Jóhannsson brings these images to mind as he gently plays a Hammond B3 organ and elicits forth a dynamic spectrum of sound that seems almost as if it were recorded underwater. He is ably accompanied by a highly skilled and emotive string quartet, the soaring notes they provide to his soundscape creating a lush backdrop of singular grace and beauty.

Add to this the IBM 1401’s peculiar drones and rattles and the occasional disembodied British voice intoning over the ominous and earthy music, instructing the listener on the basics of computer operation and maintenance, and what one has is a window into another place, another time – and the feeling is that of being transported to a mythical hinterland where humanity, nature, and technology meet.

Whether the notes were pulled from the 1401 Central Processing Unit, the 1403 Printer, the 1402 Card-Read Punch, or the 729 II Magnetic Tape Unit, the composition as a whole still feels as if it had come from fissures in the Earth. A pebble tumbles down the incline of a mountainous glacier and plunks into an icy pool of water – the ripples that emanate outwards in concentric rings splash imperceptibly on a distant shore, whilst the strings occupying the wake soar like luminescent birds.

Reminiscent of a magical cloudless evening staring at the Moon, Jóhann Jóhannsson’s starkly gorgeous IBM 1401, A User’s Manual – in my opinion – encapsulates perfectly the feel and the essence of standing on the outskirts of Reykjavík in the dead of winter, where the sky meets the land and civilization comes into contact with the soul of the Earth Herself.

But don't take my word for it! Check out this delightfully enigmatic short film for Jóhannsson's "IBM 1401, A User's Manual - Part 1".

Fun With Organs: Apparat Organ Quartet.

In case anybody out there read my May 16th gig review of Jóhann Jóhannsson's show at the Great American Music Hall and came away from it thinking, "Man, that avant-garde shit sounds boring," then do I have something to share with you today.

Yessir, it's true - Jóhann Jóhannsson has a fun, lighter side to his musical persona. It's a nifty project he founded in 1999 called Apparat Organ Quartet, and it's a delightful thing, indeed. You may notice in the album cover above that there are actually five members in the band (JJ is represented by the top-right Lego-man with the light-brown fuzz-cut), making them essentially a quintet - but one is a drummer, natch, and he supplies the beats!

So what we have here is four musical virtuosos having a field day noodling with various organs, vocoders, and voice manipulators whilst a steady rock and roll drumbeat backs the sounds up with aplomb and vigor. And it's all good. As I've said before, I've become a big fan of the Icelandic music scene, for I feel it aptly reflects the island's personality - a fair amount of quirkiness, unpredictability, and a sense of magic that can only come from living on one of the most fascinating and beautiful chunks of land on the planet.

And it was in this construct that Apparat Organ Quartet was originally founded. Kitchen Motors, a Reykjavík-based think tank, music label, and art collective (of which JJ is one of the founders) set about in the late 1990's to curate a series of collaborative efforts utilizing musicians and artists from disparate backgrounds in order to create new and exciting variations of the Icelandic artistic spectrum. Other members of the consortium include musicians from bands such as Sigur Rós and Múm.

Apparat Organ Quartet grew from this musical soup, made a fantastic record, toured Europe extensively, and got wildly popular. 'Twould be nice if they came to the United States on tour sometime, but who knows. For now, at least, we have their eponymous debut, Apparat Organ Quartet, and a collection of songs that are both clever and rocking. Who knew an organ in the right hands could sound so heavy metal? The evidence:

Here is a song entitled "Konami". Does it not remind you somewhat of Kraftwerk?

And here is my favorite track from the album, "Stereo Rock & Roll". Do yourself a favor and turn it up loud!

Gig Review: Jóhann Jóhannsson.

Jóhann Jóhannsson

14 MAY 2010

Great American Music Hall

San Francisco, California

Reykjavík, Iceland-based composer and musician Jóhann Jóhannsson touched down on San Francisco's Great American Music Hall Friday evening with a mission: To perform select pieces from his newest project, And In The Endless Pause There Came The Sound Of Bees and, in the process, showcase a pristine minimalist approach to creating music that sounds as if it was made by the Earth itself, from some underground locale deep beneath the vast glaciers of Vatnajökull. Spellbinding!

As I write this, wearing my favourite red robe and sipping a cup of English Breakfast tea, I am listening to what is, for me, the ultimate Jóhann Jóhannsson experience: 2006's IBM 1401, A User's Manual. This stands as a most curious work, seeing as it is, essentially, a love letter to the first affordable, mass-produced digital business computer available in Iceland - imported for the first time in 1964. It's heyday lasted for seven years, until it was put out to pasture in 1971, the year of my birth.

I'll take this moment to let Mr Jóhannsson explain this project in his own words. From the liner notes of IBM 1401:

"The chief maintenance officer for this machine was Jóhann Gunnarsson, my father. [...]he learned of an obscure method of making music with this computer - a purpose for which this business machine was not at all designed. The method was simple. The computer's memory emitted strong electromagnetic waves and by programming the memory in a certain way and placing a radio receiver next to it, melodies could be coaxed out - captured by the receiver as a delicate, melancholy sine-wave tone."

I don't know what's cooler - the fact that his father was the chief maintenance officer for the "Model T" of computers, or that he figured out how to make music with it. Needless to say, Iceland (always a quirky and eccentric place) mourned the machine's passing in 1971, when it was discontinued. They held a funeral for it, playing the notes from it for one last time, and capturing the ghostly sounds on tape, alongside the noises it made during operation.

And what a cool thing for Jóhannsson to do - take these sounds from nearly four decades ago and create a five-part symphony with a string quartet! Every so often during the piece, a disembodied British voice intones over the ominous and earthy music, instructing the listener on the basics of computer operation, and on the art of simple maintenance. I'm getting goosebumps right about now!

I'd first heard of Jóhann Jóhannsson when I was in Reykjavík for Christmas of 2007. I'd entered the record store 12 Tónar early one afternoon and asked the friendly clerk if he could turn me on to any Icelandic electronica that I (most assuredly) hadn't heard before. He plunked me down on a black leather couch, poured me a cup of coffee, gave me a CD Walkman along with a nifty little pile of CDs, and told me to listen to my heart's content. And so I did. And ...

Enough digression, already! So, how was the show?

I'm glad you asked.

There was a slow-building intensity, gaining momentum in the Great American Music Hall's intimate womb as Jóhannsson and his colleagues took the stage bathed in dark blue light. There was Jóhannsson, perched behind a couple of Apple MacBooks and an electric piano; a string quartet assembled from three violins and a cello; and a bespectacled man off to the right, who performed the evening's percussion on an array of buttons, knobs, laptops, and keyboards.

It's hard to describe the music - but I'll try. Imagine a flurry of percussion washing over you: the gravelly crackle of pebbles tumbling down a field of ice and rock - increasing in volume and intensity until it is a veritable avalanche of boulders coming loose from their summit and raining down on the entire audience, accompanied by the soaring crescendos and notes of the highly skilled and emotive string quartet. Jóhannsson's bald pate shines in the violet and indigo lights as he massages his computers and elicits forth a dynamic spectrum of sound that seems almost as if it were recorded underwater.

A pebble falls down a mountainous glacier and falls into a pool of water - the ripples emanate outwards in concentric rings, splashing imperceptibly on a distant shore, whilst the strings occupying the wake left in mythical angels' wings streak overhead like the airstream from a ridiculously fast aircraft.

In the liner notes for IBM 1401, A User's Manual, Jóhannsson stated the encapsulation of what he was looking for: "man-machine interaction; obsolete, discarded technology; nostalgia for old computers; ... the relationships between human and artificial intelligence ..."

That was back in 2006. There I was, seated at a small table with a faux-marble finish, and drinking champagne out of a can (Sofia, by Francis Ford Coppola), watching this musical magician conjure these elemental dreams with his cohorts on an intimate stage on the fringe of the Tenderloin in downtown San Francisco; what I heard and experienced was a step beyond what he'd stated only four years ago. I think he's delved into a close and beautiful examination of the relationships between human and nature itself.

setlist.

tu non me perderai

englabörn

flight from the city

rocket builder

miracle.mystery.authority

corpus camera

sálfrae∂ingur

drömme i københavn

ibm 1401 part one: processing unit

englabörn - variations

melodia (guidelines for a space propulsion device)

odi et amo

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fordlandia

Let me close on this: I'm sure it's hard to get a gist of what I'm talking about in regards to the music. Don't worry! I'd like to share a sample of his music with you -- and who knows? If you'd like, you can look up some of his art; frankly, I think it makes fantastic afternoon music. Check it out, by all means. In the meantime, here is "IBM 1401: Processing Unit" off of ... well, I think you know that by now. Enjoy!