Francisco Meirino | The Ruins
Misanthropic Agenda (CD/DL)
Taken from multi-channel recordings that play like waves traveling from right to left cyclically Francisco Meirino opens his latest, The Ruins, with a twerky set of frequencies on Exposition. What sounds like sorting static becomes a vibrating central nervous system. Instructions: “Continuous playback recommended“. In this deeply layered wave field of sputtering electronic open sources there’s a infinite weave twisting the height and length of any room its played in. I had to literally shutter my office door as the tones leaking into the rest of the house were stirring the others here – it’s a robust live set of tension waves. At its sudden end the residual sonic static bounces off satellites into the rather reserved Rising. The trickling, illuminated static and raw scratching effects are dramatically tactile. But it could easily be in the deep woods of Maine with the chattering of insects in the darkness.Over these fifteen minutes he explores metered time vs. the coursing of electricity through cascading, buzzing wires.
During Climax I’m imagining the state of all of history in terms of what The Ruins actually are meant to be metaphorically. Of course the gorgeously designed coverart that he prepared from paintings by Hubert Robert and Joannes Hermans upend the history of depicting these places of reverence. The distortion of space as we know it, as it’s fabled, and the future of such, rolled into one it seems. The record plays with how we are effected by time, by our own memories, by the histories we are taught – especially in this age of so-called “fake news”. It soars, it retreats. It’s a contemplative piece, for the maker and therefor resonates in this abstract way to the witness.
Falling provides the mirror-view, a counterpoint to Rising and Climax. It creaks and has this free-form sense of reverse movement. But keep s short and to the point as all stops have been unplugged. And in conclusion the bouncy bucket seat movement of Dénouement creates a perfect contradictory restraint. The anonymous field recordings are both ambient and harsh, mumbly and like moon dust, drifting like specks in the darkness of an un/controlled atmosphere. These sound like reel-to-reel tapes of transmissions from a foreign spacelab. A pleasant coursing of microsound tapping away. Layering a motor that sputters over this speckled set of sources is interrupted by a simple cough, leading to the vague beating like a heart. It’s unusual, slightly unsettling and one of the best lunar fantasies I’ve spun this week.