Crisis In Creative Confidence by Chumki Banerjee

Parameters of Perception - chemicals which alter minds: how I lost mine and found it again in Neil Campbell's music.

CD review and a bit of introspection by Chumki Banerjee - 23/3/2015

HOW TO LOSE A MIND

Once upon a time someone gave me a tiny pill. I popped it into my mouth without thinking; trusting in the guy who wanted to give us all a good time; knowing he would never hurt me.

I didn’t stop to think about the wiring of his mind; so different from mine; and the interaction of this manmade manipulator with my natural neurochemistry; the alchemy of synthesised stimulant seducing sleeping serotonin from storage sites; sparking synapses, supposedly to sparkle with elevated emotion.

For him, his inherited brain chemistry and propensities; prone to a degree of compulsion, and outbreaks of anger, vexation erupting uncontrollably to explode empathy; this inducer of enforced ecstasy pours palliative over irritated pathways. For him it sooths intermittent itch of exasperated pique and impatience which afflicts him, inhibits inhibitions to instil temporary truce, effect simulacrum of serenity which lends him space to stop and smile at the moment, rather than rushing on to voraciously consume the future, without fully tasting now.

As for me, the story was different. Flooded by chemical cascade, my being drowned and I was dragged into depths of a basal brain, perception at periphery, almost out of reach, all but erased. I felt like I was at the bottom of deepest ocean, where light nor sound could barely penetrate, restrained by weight of water, a primitive creature, aware of the pulse of life, just able to maintain vital signs, but blind to meaning, unable to materialise the world through thought. Terrified I thought I would sink, be subsumed. I desperately sought sliver of light which glimmered through gloom, struggled to hold onto ephemeral strand, praying it would not dissipate or break, would take my dead weight. It took intense concentration, but slowly this spectre of me surged through seething introspective seas, to reconnect with what we call reality.

Chemically stripped of my essence, I had an inkling of what it might be like to be a blank slate; to lose the whole of one’s life, erased from coils of the mind where every moment is embedded; to no longer possess the power to imagine non actuality so vividly it almost exists; and it scared me. I felt what it would be like to be disconnected, living in landscapes of elusive memory, wandering vast empty spaces of head, hoping to encounter a familiar place, grasping it tight as it slips away like mirage, the despair of re-iteration with no new imaginings, existence in a shadowy other world of ether, just able to glimpse light of reality at almost overlapping edges, but unable to leap dimensions and return to its warmth.

Needless to say, this was not an experience I wanted to repeat but, as time moved on through another year, having been shocked into seeing how our minds make our worlds, I realised that it is not only outwardly administered chemicals which can wipe it of content, change the picture. The influence of others also has the power to remotely reach in and invade your head, turn the taps, to alter the flow and mix of hormones and neurotransmitters which control physiology of emotion; a sort of unintentional thought transference, retrograde telepathy.

I have no special dispensation to be down hearted or despondent, my life in no more desolate or distressed than another’s, but since I stopped writing music reviews for Mudkiss and Nerve, and in particular over the last year, I have suffered a crisis in creativity, a degree of dejection in the day to day, a sense of inevitable existential desperation, shuffling into a future which simply falls off this mortal coil like the mythically suicidal lemming; from stars back to stars; as more and more people around me face unforeseen tragedy, and my own life follows a path which does not always bring pleasure.

For me the year that has just passed, continuing into this one, has been a particularly difficult one for being caught in the moods of others, for my brain to be bruised and battered by their chemical compositions. Much as synthetic chemicals had rendered me a blank slate, so has this more natural administration robbed me of confidence in my creativity, and as a consequence my writing almost ceased and, even my greatest pleasure, listening to music, reduced to minimum release. Anything so emotional touched nerves that were too raw.

My dreams reflect my fears. I used to flee them; fly away amongst the clouds, albeit through cold stormy skies, about to crash, scratched by skimmed hedgerows; or drive away in fast car with no licence, though often veering off the road and always unable to pull the brake tight; or recklessly riding a bike, with no sense of balance, relentlessly up hill. Whatever my method of attempted escape, I somehow found myself stumbling towards a more hopeful horizon, even though I never quite reached it, and was usually thwarted.

But now my dreams have reverted back to running away from unimaginable night terrors, trying to escape, barefoot through mire, not being able to find my way home, familiar dissolving before my eyes, trapped in tunnels, or stairwells , underground or in claustrophobic rooms where doors disappear or won’t open, walls closing in to crush me.

But despite all this doom, there are also dreams which shine so bright with life’s delights, they drown out despair, and those are the ones which I hope to wake up with in my head; irradiated with intense colour, filtered through lucid light, of music, food and sex; memories of loved ones; their sound, feel and scent.

Both digging out buried memories and crafting new scenes, alive to all senses, this ability to imagine alternative circumstances so vividly, alter mood on turn of a tune, to retain, somewhere in our head, the lessons of our lives, ready to be recalled when in need, or to help us navigate the unknown, this constant writing on blank space, storing away experience, is the thing which makes being human so extraordinary.

I often dream of music, and it always astonishes me when a tune I might have heard only once, pops up in its entirety, somehow subconsciously stored away in my head, until recalled as soundtrack, or when a song just writes itself and slips effortlessly out of my mouth, or from my hands on the piano. These are things I cannot do in real life.

And, over the last year, as my real life has fallen into creative disrepair, such dreams have flamed the fires of passion, making sure they do not go out altogether, so when a new CD materialised in my letterbox in the new year, I was determined to wipe the slate clean and start again; but it was not as easy as that, hence the extended monologue above to try and figure out why.

Luckily, though it has taken a while, this is probably the only CD which could have turned me around.

HOW TO FIND A MIND

Leaving aside its music, the title of this recent release from Neil Campbell, has been rattling round and round my head since I received it. Tabula Rasa, blank slate, can be interpreted many ways; a fresh start, erasing the past, no preconceptions, new thoughts, no thoughts, starting from scratch, tearing off another page, literally inscribing new tablet, or a head so numb it no longer dares to imagine.

Beguiled by bloodshot sunset of Rothko-esque ochre red cover, flipping it over tips me tumbling from recent reality, spinning inescapably into vortex of time, drawn drowning in deep waters of distant past by I-IX movements of a musical suite, followed by guitar interpretations of Satie’s three Gymnopedies for piano; smoke signals, siren call to my classically trained, piano first instrument, musical youth.

Drawing out its disc, the CD mirrors hazy circle of fiery sun, which hovers above my player in a picture which used to hang at Heart and Soul, the restaurant which I loved and lost.

Slipping silver disc into sliver of CD player, as musical reverie floods from speakers, into my room, into my head, I feel impelled to express my thoughts, but I cannot because I am too overcome by emotion, too overwhelmed, too drenched in tears trickling with its notes, enveloped in cloud of coincidence and remembrance.

My mind taken over, taken out of itself, realises that encoded on seemingly un-scribed smooth surface is a cryptic script, which sculpts blank air into a key which un-cracks the code to shattered confidence, and as it sings to me, shards re-coalesce into semblance of a broken mirror, reflecting back a wavering image of what used to be me, before I dissolved into doldrums which I had no right to indulge in.

I hadn’t really pondered why my mind has become a blank, but Neil’s CD, as it imagines a new world into my head, forces me to think why I no longer dare to take up blank tablet, and put down words.

So, apologies to Neil, for the introspective indulgence above, which is no way to start a music review but, before I am brave enough to articulate once more, I needed to unravel imagined trauma which has trapped me, bundled me up in myself.

Thank you Neil, for being the un-picker, for extracting end of a thread from this tangled ball of my head, so tendril of creativity might tentatively creep onto new page.

REVIEW: at last, thanks to those who waited

Gymnopedies

Starting with the end, Gymnopedies was a turning point in my life in more ways than one. It’s seductively simple, eloquently fluid structure bridged the gap between a classical musical education which shied away from the 20th century by several decades, and more freeform musical expression. Described by some as precursor to ambient, I am sure Satie influenced my later love of dance music, as well as feeling like a daring departure from school curriculum; a rather tame rebellion as my later musical education was to teach me, but a tune which once heard, possessed my head forever and remains a favourite.

Playing Gymnopedies on the piano felt liberating, its lilting chords and flowing forms falling naturally under fingers, enviably effortlessly expressive, a few melodic threads spun out like silk, which made me wonder, yet again, how a scale of so few notes can be endlessly re-woven into infinite shades of shifting emotion. Shaken awake from where they roost, scratchings on staves, the potent pleasure which comes from stroking shimmering notes to air born life from hieroglyphic ink marks on mere paper, is immeasurable; mystical magic transferring emotion through dimensions and time, from one small head to hundreds of others. I never fail to be awestruck that such an astonishing achievement has been mastered by mere mortals such as us.

Falling in love with Gymnopedies, the thing which really lit something in me, which has stayed with me ever since, is hint of beast in beauty, thrilling tingle, ripple disturbing surface of placid lake, hint of disharmony, slightly turbulent interplay of off kilter rhythms, laconic melancholy casting shadows shivering through languid light, shifting moods, as major slips into minor, sliding mercurially from one to other.

Just as my favourite flavour is bitter sweet, so in music it is piquancy of opposites which attracts me; intriguing interaction, tangled tango which entwines two opposing passions, dissolved to liquid one, disassociated and dissolved, in endless flow of counteracting contradictions, consolidated while letting individuality shine. From Satie, through Progressive Dance to Radiohead, this clash, delicious dash of dissonance, prickle of thorn protecting velvet rose, has always enticed and beguiled me.

I guess Gymnopedie No. 1 is the most familiar. Like modern day dance music it has been sampled, remixed, readapted, rearranged, appropriated by many musicians, served up in film scores, one of those tunes which has worked its way into the public psyche; an ear worm.

No.3 takes up the theme of No.1 under more melancholy minor cloud, so, by association you are probably accustomed to its sound.

No.2, for me, wanders around a little too much, without finding its way, and is perhaps less memorable.
Satie’s too cool for school eccentric prescience was confirmed for me when I discovered the cult film Diva. One of my favourite films for beauty of its filming, attention to small, seemingly insignificant but poignant detail and its shiver down spine score; epitome of stylish French chic, a pop art film with opera at its core, it introduced me to a piece of music which mesmerises me still, one I will always crave, which will always cause me to weep, the aria Ebben? Ne andrò lontana (Well, then? I'll go far away), from La Wally. But also, the score included an enticingly atmospheric piano piece which sounded so like Satie, except for a niggling lack of dissonance; Gnossienne melody mixed with Gymnopedie’s lilting style; that I thought it was his. It turned out to be Vladimir Cosma’s tribute to Satie, Sentimental Journey, but stealing Satie’s sentiment re-enforced my belief that classical music could mix in modern times, that at the core, good music, whatever its genre is eternally evocative.

As a pianist of sorts, Gymnopedies, despite its various re-imaginings and adoptions, always plays itself in my mind on ivory keys. But, knowing the extent of Neil Campbell’s musicality I was more than curious to hear how it sounded in his hands. Fingers plucking strings, instead of felted wooden hammers striking steel wires, I wondered how in transcription, guitar would sustain dolorous legato sostenuto ostinato, without pedal power of piano; replicate lolloping sway, camber of snatched ephemeral chord, sinking into deep bass repose.

Of all guitarists I have heard and observed close up, Neil has the most remarkable, almost mystical sleight of hand way of dovetailing disparate notes, sliding surreptitiously from one to the next, vibrating their atoms together, so they flow like river of crystalline sound.

It is this ability, together with space expanding echo, which captures essence of Gymnopedies in his arrangement for guitar, in a clear eyed, refreshingly fresh, differently reflective way. Tenderly nursing the theme, pensively plucked, each note given grace of reverential space, reverie rippled by sparkling rivulet of strummed and arpeggiated chords, heaving with sigh of bass, old piano soul is reborn, revitalised by twinkle of spring.

Gymnopedie I sings like the siren it is, main melodic line shining polished silver bright. Except towards the end, there is less hint of dangerous undercurrents, dissonant pull towards tumultuous waters, but phosphorescent poignancy pours from compassionate fingers, which explore and accentuate its ephemeral quintessence; emphasising more starkly essential elements of its shifting moods.

The guitar adaptation of II actually seems more joined up than the piano version, acting as an interlude; strands of random sorrowful thought collecting, coalescing and combining, connecting the past with future. Bridge linking I’s theme to III’s, contributing some of its own elements, the transition feels clearer, disconnection more like contemplation, informing what is to come, or in this case, as it was written after III, perhaps unravelling an understanding in retrospect.

Gymnopedie III, like its piano parent, revisits theme I. Reflective, still euphoric but less rhapsodic, looking back, older, more sorrowful yet still poetically soulful, expressive experience lines drawn from Gymnopedie II tie threads together in a way which I did not so clearly comprehend previously, giving me a different perspective on all three pieces; opening up my ears and mind to listen again.

That Gymnopedies translates to guitar so guilelessly is a tribute to both the deceptively effortless musicianship of Neil and timeless quality of Satie’s serene simplicity. I need not have feared for lost legato; the guitar’s ringing strings spin out a lucent lyrical line which clarifies structure of Satie’s themes, and makes them gleam.

For me the piano version has more shades, intriguing shadows but Neil’s guitar adaptations are so stunningly surreal, that now, in my head Gymnopedies will sing with two equally evocative voices.

Tabula Rasa Suite

Seeing Gymnopedies sharing the billing on this CD gave me a thrill, knowing there must be a connection, a link, however ephemeral. Listening, the common factor is individualist, inventive, timeless ambient, spun round a classical nucleus, in this case of acoustic guitar, but informed by the modern day world; reflective of the many musical influences which inspire Neil.

I think the reason why I feel an affinity with Neil’s music, is his open embrace of music in all its guises; transcending genre, but informed by a classical training, the anchor at his core; and his instinctive, innate musicianship combined with a deep understanding of musical form. Also, he does not exclude less traditional means of music making, including electronica and sampled sound, from his arsenal of instruments. His means of expression are endless and though each of his projects is clearly defined, he is unafraid to cross dress, in musical terms.

An exceptionally expressive, lyrical instrumentalist, using all means at his fingertips and toes, he spins long elastic lines, which swung like a skipping rope somehow superimpose waveforms, amplified layer on layer in perfect synchronicity, emotion inexorably intensifying, unpeeling back down to shivering shimmer of sigh.

Shape shifting chimera, his style of playing magically melds and mutates with the many musical landscapes he explores and has explored, through his various performances and recordings, from simple charm of pop, through progressive rock, collaborations and re-interpretations, to dramatic rock fused with classical operas, via modern jazz, blues, improvisation, ambient and classical Spanish guitar. Whether acoustic or electric, or grown from nature around him, whatever the label; for everything must have a label it seems; injected with intense individuality from a myriad multi-musical mind, all are transformed to uniquely Neil.

Tabula Rasa Suite is no exception; though it draws on familiar forms and themes, both classic and pure Neil, it defies categorisation by comparison; sui generis, it is its own entity. In this, the name Tabula Rasa is entirely appropriate. Like all of Neil’s music this is a fresh page, atoms of a tabula rasa excited, ignited to renew its tales, tell it anew or evolve a new language, carving its mark on blank canvas of air. The inspiration is also a fresh start, in a new space in both his personal life and place, poignantly aware of his new environment, feeling things afresh, with renewed awe at the miracle of being, from miniscule to infinite, from molecular to intergalactic, reflected in the moments which make our specks of lives sparkle like stars.

Literally drawing on nature, capturing his surroundings by microphone; suburban park sounds from around Sefton and Princes Parks; recordings digitally processed and sequenced, mixed into an iridescent tapestry of rhythms and tunes taken from life; Neil and his empathetic guitar evolve from these environmental outtakes the miracle of life in microcosm, creation story mirrored in shades of one ordinary yet extraordinary day.

The sunset side of another of his solo guitar releases Through The Looking Glass; its blue sky cover falling flailing into flames of dusk; Tabula Rasa, as well as replicating its cover in another colour, at another time of day and life, plucks strands of Through The Looking Glass musical themes, weaving them with sense of serenity, ardently passionate yet mellow ambience, which irradiates Then, Neil’s jazz inspired collaboration with Perri Alleyne-Hughes.

Moving through its movements, Tabula Rasa’s moods shift with seasons of the day, mirroring birth of a universe through the miniscule but significant moments which make up its whole; all of nature reflected in human day to day.

For life to evolve there must be water; Movements I to III germinate seeds of being in torrential rain, torn by lightening, rumbled by distant roar of god thunder; elemental evocation of lush evolution, slowly awakening in new dawning, molecules multiplying, fecund flourish of fertile life unfurling tendrils, creeping, crawling from primordial soup. Neil’s graceful, intensely lyrical picked guitar mingles effortlessly with nature’s music, glimmering, glinting, dancing motes of sparkling light, casting rainbow on waterfall spray. As usual, his organic musical lines shimmy with shades of emotion, always deeply contemplative, slipping mercurially from smiling to sorrowful, as a mind may move between moods in a moment; filled with wonder yet intently aware of inherent sadness in all our brief beings. As much as his music will make you smile, it will also make you cry.

After water there must be warmth, birds are born, strummed alive by blood pulsing throb of skipping guitar heartbeat, singing scintillating spring songs, as haze of sun heats Movements IV and V. Neil captures atmosphere so evocatively the mind’s eye is picture perfect; shimmering horizon scene clearly imagined, by just a few perfectly formed lines of plucked sunshine strings.

Photosynthetic flourish in full sun, tropically torpid, Movement VI lays down lazily in Sunday afternoon repose, day high in sky, drawing on towards its peak; Neil’s guitar takes the time to just be, let loose in rapturous reverie, spinning around, dizzy with delight.

Movement VII, moodier, slides sun down towards dusk, all nature scurrying home from everyday life, office and school, song birds swarming, cackling crows and cautious parents calling children to their roosts, as they linger laughing in languishing afternoon light to play, chatter, kick dirt, scuffing shoes, grazing knees.

Movement VIII gathers in its brood, as evening evocatively falls in rivulets of reflective arpeggios, tears before bed; Perri Alleyne-Hughes’ caress of tenderly cherishing, wordless vocal, murmur of earth mother, meditative bedtime story summoning world of dreams.

Movement IX celebrates the moment when stars and infinitesimal chance collide to spark life; reflected in the arrival of one tiny, yet utterly miraculous life; the birth of a friend’s child, fortuitously named god of thunder, Tor. Welcomed ecstatically into the world, Neil’s guitar effortlessly expresses the wonder of it all, with warmth that comes from core of his heart. Work done he contemplates his creation, letting nature have last words.

Ultimate everlasting 7th, unresolved by non-existent Movement X; recurring number which slips off event horizon of understanding; ghost in the machine; unsolved ‘X’ in equation of life. In ending at IX, Neil hints at never ending wonders yet to be explored.

As I write this, yet another CD is born, eMErgence. Having wiped the slate clean with meditative Tabula Rasa clearing the way, cleansing his mind, Neil re-emerges reborn, with a release which feels like it has wiped the blackboard, re-written his musical equation in light of inspiration and understanding extracted from all his previous incarnations, morphed into a new alignment of cells which express his essence with renewed clarity.

Titles like Morphogenetic Fields and MC squared, elucidating the equation, lend a clue. Interweaving space and time in a single continuum, in eMErgence he seamlessly merges and moves between different dimensions of music; instrumental, vocal, electronic, ambient, experimental, progressive rock, jazz, classical, and the indefinable, linked by golden strand of guitar.

The last track E=, a dislocated element released from relativity, returns me in a circuitous circle back to where I so oddly began; ecstasy which eluded me.

Part of the pull for this chemical exploration, was exhortation; persuasive promise of a deeper immersion in music. From the muddle of my melted mind, I could hear other participators in this experiment were finding new depths in dance music that throbbed from the speakers. But for me, individual lines, the warp and weft of music, which I had been able to distinguish so easily before, become blurred into one mush, shapeless amoeba in miasma; I could no longer leap into heart of music and ride its rollercoaster. My greatest relief, emerging from enforced cocoon, was once again to clearly hear the beat, to be able to dive in deep, swim in swirl of quicksilver strands.

Unlike Alice popping a pill, I didn’t find Wonderland in mirror mind worlds but, I did discover that music is my most potent drug and that ‘natural’ chemicals have just as much power to influence the mind as ‘plastic’ ones.

Tabula Rasa, offered me the chance to wipe my slate clean and start again to believe that what I feel when I listen to music is real, to me, and that is enough; that if I want to shout about it that is up to me, even if others may feel I am stupid; that creativity can have a stronger gravity than minds which seek, however innocently or well intentioned, to control.

I wrote a short preview when Tabula Rasa was released to test my resolve, and those words still stand: Like the cosmos, Neil’s guitar music is complex; weaving intermingled waves; yet shines bright with the clarity of stars....with Tabula Rasa Neil redefines ambient solo guitar, combined with the sounds which fill his daily life with celestial light; wringing siren song from silence; the sort of music that creeps up on you and stealthily steals away with your soul. Until you’ve tried it you will never know the power of its mystical magic; Neil Campbell transported, at his transcendental, tantric best, glimmering with delight and awe at re-discovered life.

Sometimes when someone wears their heart on their sleeve, displays such naked emotion as Neil does through his music, people shy away, embarrassed, tempted but afraid of being taken over, scared to let go, sometimes it is easier to run away. I can promise that Neil is a safe drug, so surrender to his embrace and just jump in.

Having rediscovered my courage to write, I know I have gone too far, so I will leave you now, with this advice for your life:

Don’t take strange pills, even from those you trust, but always let the music take you where it must.

Chumki

You can listen to Tabula Rasa here: neilcampbell.bandcamp.com/album/tabula-rasa-suite
You can listen to eMErgence here: neilcampbell.bandcamp.com/album/emergence
And you can keep up with Neil here: www.neilcampbell.org.uk

Printer friendly page

Sorry Comments Closed