Shanghai native 33EMYBW (Wu Shanmin) has been an active member in the Chinese music scene for over a decade. She has also performed at CTM and Sinotronics in Germany, China Drifting Festival in Switzerland, and SXSW. Her 2018 album Golem, released on SVBKVLT, was met with critical acclaim and voted one of the best electronic albums of 2018 by Bandcamp. In 2019 she released DONG2 EP under Merrie Records Beijing, and will premiere her sophomore album Arthropods (SVBKVLT) at Unsound 2019.
Alexander Garsden is a Melbourne-based composer, guitarist and electroacoustic musician, working across multiple exploratory musical disciplines. Recent work includes commissions from the Sydney Symphony Orchestra, the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra, Speak Percussion, Michael Kieran Harvey and Eugene Ughetti; alongside performances with artists including Tetuzi Akiyama (Japan), Oren Ambarchi, Radu Malfatti (Austria), Julia Reidy, David Stackenäs (Sweden), and with Erkki Veltheim and Rohan Drape. From 2014 to 2019 Garsden was Co-Director of the INLAND Concert Series. He has taught through RMIT University and the University of Melbourne.
Allanah Stewart is an artist from Aotearoa/New Zealand, currently living in Melbourne, Australia. As well as her work in various experimental music projects, she is the presenter of a monthly podcast radio programme called Enquiring Minds, hosted by Noods radio, which explores old and new, lesser known and well known sounds that loosely fit under the banner of experimental music.
Annika Kristensen is Senior Curator at the Australian Centre for Contemporary Art, Melbourne.
Arben Dzika is an artist whose practice involves working with various media including, but not limited to: sound, image, word, and performance. His work primarily seeks to reflect on, interrogate, and play with technologies, systems, and human senses. Within his practice, he works as a producer and DJ under the moniker, Dilae.
Audrey Schmidt is a writer and editor based in Melbourne, Australia. She is a regular contributor to Memo Review, co-editor the third issue of Dissect Journal, and has written for various publications including Art Monthly, Art + Australia and un Magazine. She co-founded Minority Report with Adam Hammad in 2018 and released one online issue that was available until the domain expired in 2019. Audrey sits on the FYTA (GR) Board of Advisors.
Autumn Royal is a poet, researcher, and teacher based in Narrm/Melbourne. Autumn’s current research examines elegiac expression in contemporary poetry. Autumn is interviews editor for Cordite Poetry Review, and author of the poetry collection She Woke & Rose. Her second collection of poetry is forthcoming with Giramondo Publishing in 2021.
Bianca Winataputri is a Melbourne-based independent curator and writer researching contemporary practice in Southeast Asia, and relationships between individuals and collectives in relation to history, globalisation, identity and community building. Currently working at Regional Arts Victoria, Bianca was previously Assistant Curator of Contemporary Art at the NGA. She holds a BA (University of Melbourne), and BA Honours from the ANU where she received the Janet Wilkie Prize for Art. In 2018 Bianca was selected for 4A Centre for Contemporary Asian Art’s Curators’ Intensive.
Brian Hioe was one of the founding editors of New Bloom, an online magazine covering activism and youth politics in Taiwan and the Asia Pacific, founded in 2014 in the wake of the Sunflower Movement. Hioe is a freelance writer on social movements and politics, as well as an occasional translator.
Chi Tran is a writer, editor, and an artist who makes poems that may be text, video, object, sound, or drawing. Chi is primarily interested in working with language as a means of coming-to-terms. Their work has been published by Incendium Radical Library Press, Cordite Poetry Review, Australian Poetry and Liminal Magazine and exhibited at galleries including Firstdraft, Sydney; Punk Café, Melbourne; and ACCA, Melbourne. In 2019, as a recipient of The Ian Potter Cultural Trust Fund, Chi spent three months in New York developing their practice with renowned poets including Mei-mei Berssenbrugge, Fred Moten, and Jackie Wang.
Chun Yin Rainbow Chan is a Hong Kong–Australian artist, living in Sydney. Working across music, performance and installation, Rainbow is interested in the copy and how the ways in which it can disrupt Western notions of ownership. Central to Rainbow's work is the circulation of knock-off objects, sounds and images in global media. Her work positions the counterfeit as a complex sign that shapes new myths, values and contemporary commodity production.
Dale Gorfinkel is a musician-artist whose stylefree improvisational approach informs his performances, instrument-building, and kinetic sound installations. Aiming to reflect an awareness of the dynamic nature of culture and the value of listening as a mode of knowing people and places, Dale is interested in bringing creative communities together and shifting perceived boundaries. Current projects include Prophets, Sounds Like Movement, and Music Yared as well as facilitating Art Day South, an inclusive arts studio with Arts Access Victoria.
Danni Zuvela is a curator and writer based in Melbourne and the Gold Coast. Her research is informed by interests in feminism, activism, ecology, language and performance. With Joel Stern, Danni has led Liquid Architecture as Artistic Director, and continues to develop curatorial projects for the organisation.
Eric Avery is a Ngiyampaa, Yuin, Bandjalang and Gumbangirr artist. As part of his practice Eric plays the violin, dances and composes music. Working with his family’s custodial songs he seeks to revive and continue on an age old legacy – continuing the tradition of singing in his tribe – utilising his talents to combine and create an experience of his peoples culture.
Fjorn Butler is an artist, researcher, and event organiser. As an artist, she works primarily in sound and performance under the name Papaphilia. As a researcher, she interrogates how biological discourses are used in neoliberal/colonial governance structures to shape the political. Fjorn's research informs her writing on sound-poetics and the challenges this framework poses to anglophone notions of property. She is also co-director of Future Tense and co-curator of Writing and Concepts.
Freya Schack-Arnott is an Australian/Danish cellist who enjoys a multi-faceted career as a soloist and ensemble performer of classical and contemporary repertoire, curator and improviser within experimental music, electronics, popular and cross-disciplinary art forms. Schack-Arnott regularly performs with Australia's leading new music ensembles, including ELISION Ensemble (as core member) and Ensemble Offspring. Her curatorial roles include co-curator/founder of the regular 'Opus Now' music series and previous curator of the NOW Now festival and Rosenberg Museum.
Gooooose (Han Han) is an electronic music producer, visual artist and software developer based in Shanghai, China. His current releases include They (D Force, 2017), Dong 1 (D Force, 2018), Pro Rata (ANTE-RASA, 2019). Gooooose's 2019 SVBKVLT–released RUSTED SILICON received positive reviews from media including boomkat, Resident Advisor, Dusted Magazine, and The Wire. Gooooose has performed live at CTM (Berlin, 2018), Nyege Nyege (Kampala, 2019), Soft Centre (Sydney, 2019), Unsound (Kraków, 2019) and Recombinant (San Francisco, 2019).
Harmony Holiday is a writer, dancer, archivist, director, and the author of four collections of poetry, Negro League Baseball, Go Find Your Father/A Famous Blues, Hollywood Forever, and A Jazz Funeral for Uncle Tom. She lives in New York and Los Angeles.
Haroon Mirza is an artist who intertwines his practice with the role of composer. Mirza considers electricity his main medium and creates atmospheric environments through the linking together of light, sound, music, videos and elements of architecture. Regularly showing internationally in group and solo exhibitions, Mirza’s work has also been included in the 7th Shenzhen Sculpture Biennale, China (2012) and the 54th Venice Biennale, Italy (2011), where he was awarded the Silver Lion.
James Rushford is an Australian composer-performer who holds a doctorate from the California Institute of the Arts, and was a 2018 fellow at Academy Schloss Solitude in Stuttgart. His work is drawn from a familiarity with specific concrète, improvised, avant-garde and collagist languages. Currently, his work deals with the aesthetic concept of musical shadow. James has been commissioned as a composer by ensembles including the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra (Glasgow), and Melbourne Symphony Orchestra, and regularly performs in Australia and internationally.
Jen Callaway is a Melbourne musician, sound and performance artist, photographer, and community services worker raised in various parts of Tasmania. Current projects include bands Is There a Hotline?, Propolis, Snacks and Hi God People; and upcoming film Here at the End, by Campbell Walker, as actor/co-writer.
Jessica Aszodi is an Australian-born, London-based vocalist who has premiered many new pieces, performed work that has lain dormant for centuries, and sung roles ranging from standard operatic repertoire to artistic collaborations. She has been a soloist with ensembles including ICE; the Melbourne, Sydney and Adelaide Symphony Orchestras; and San Diego and Chicago Symphony Orchestras’ chamber series. Aszodi can be heard on numerous recordings and has sung in festivals around the world. She holds a Doctorate of Musical Arts from the Queensland Conservatorium, an MFA from the University of California, and is co-director of the Resonant Bodies Festival (Australia), and artistic associate of BIFEM.
Kt Spit (Katie Collins) is an artist and musician based in Narrm (Melbourne). Lyrically and visually her work explores subcultural narratives and challenges dominant representations of loss, grief, and true love. In 2015 Kt independently released her debut album, Combluotion, and in 2019 will release a visual album entitled Kill the King.
Lucreccia Quintanilla is an artist, writer, DJ and PhD candidate researcher at Monash University. Her writing and art have been published and exhibited both within Australia and internationally. Quintanilla’s practice is a collaborative one that manifests into outcomes within galleries and also as events and performances outside of that context. She regularly speaks at panels and symposiums on themes within her research, has received grants for her projects and residencies, and has taught at university level.
Mandy Nicholson is a Wurundjeri-willam (Wurundjeri-baluk patriline) artist and Traditional Custodian of Melbourne and surrounds. Mandy also has connections to the Dja Dja wurrung and Ngurai illam wurrung language groups of the Central/Eastern Kulin Nation. Mandy gained a Bachelor of Arts (Honours) in Aboriginal Archaeology in 2011, worked for the Victorian Aboriginal Corporation for Languages for six years and is now a PhD candidate studying how Aboriginal people connect to Country, Off Country.
Mat Spisbah is a New Media curator with a unique portfolio of programming that seeks to integrate non-traditional artistic methods and emerging technologies. Having lived in Hong Kong for 14 years, he is connected to the region’s art and culture, and has created professional networks with artists, curators, galleries, promoters and industry professionals across Australasia. Portfolio highlights include the debut Australian performances of north Asian artists including: Howie Lee, Rui Ho, Meuko Meuko, Pan Daijing, Alex Zhang Hungtai, Tzusing, and Gabber Modus Operandi.
Natasha Tontey is an artist and graphic designer based in Yogyakarta. She is interested in exploring the concept of fiction as a method of speculative thinking. Through her artistic practice she investigates the idea of how fear, horror, and terror could be manifested in order to control the public and how fictional accounts of the history and myth surrounding ‘manufactured fear’ might operate as a method of speculative fiction that determines expectations for the future.
Neil Morris is a Yorta Yorta, Dja Dja Wurrung man. He is well known in Narrm/Birraranga for his musical project DRMNGNOW, a project built on subject matter tackling the colonial nature of the Australian construct and how that affects contemporary society upon this land. The work is unapologetic, clear, and deeply poetic. It hints toward Morris's extensive experience as a spoken word artist in Narrm since 2015. Morris's work is triumphant in the face of severe adversity often imbued in a quite fortified melancholy, a powerful marker of the survival of First Nations peoples in the now.
Sarah McCauley is a Melbourne-based music producer, editor and writer.
The Convoy conjure illustrious soundscapes from the abyss of chaos, revealing hidden worlds of the imagination as the performance takes form and infuses with subjective experience. Using instruments of sound, light and smell, The Convoy enchant space with themes of tension, evolution, entropy and regeneration. Sensorial immersion transports audiences through highly dynamic environments that shift and blend into one single, breathing moment. As entity, rather than singular, Immy Chuah is a guest within The Convoy on unceded land.
The sound of blood on the gums. Listening for when to run. Quietness begets deception. It makes space for plotting, for leaving in the middle of the night, for the crisp, crushed traces turning to ashes and daylight, consecrated formlessness. Hush makes space for devouring the nothingness of limbo and captivity as if it’s the cannibal, slaying the ghosts of sorrow with some blinding ecstatic resolve. There is ecstatic muteness. There is a level of attentive listening that is akin to running away, to leaving, to being gone, to upheaval, to the clandestiny that is exile, to being already there in an elsewhere beyond circumstance, a listening both paranoiac and propelled by certainty, clarity, and risk.
This inevitable clairaudience is situated in the Black body like knots of speaker system under the skin or what are in Sanskrit called nadi, energy centres that both absorb and emit frequency and vibration and translate into lifeforce. Both individually and collectively our whole bodies are always listening for our cue to leave or arrive or resurrect something haunting us and lay some treachery or trauma to rest through that confrontation with the unseen but always heard and felt. We become the site of our own exile and return, autonomous carbon territories arranging the environment with our sound even as it pretends hostility and indifference to our survival in it. We move through the world in and as sound, ours is an acoustic condition where humanity is redeemed in close and joyous listening, and fugitive sounds are those that move ahead on this reluctant path to an unknown elsewhere, or forfeit resonance for escape. Fugitive sounds are attacking sounds and retreating sounds. And fugitive listening is our carving out of these intimate sounds from the nagging din of the mundane, or how we construct new dynamics between sounds and therefore new music, Black music to stay with and run away with. Collective improvisation is fugitive listening. If you can’t improvise you can’t listen. If you cannot listen you will not know when it’s time, what time it is, what timeless grasp on the possible and impossible we have when we know our sound well, when we dwell and revel in our sound, when our sound is our first skin.
John Coltrane explains that to achieve his vastness of tone and timing on the saxophone, the sound grammar is, start in the middle of a sentence and move in either direction at once. This shredding Coltrane gathered in decisive ambivalence allowed him to both indulge and withhold definitions or anything definitive that might encroach on the sheer existence of his timbre, anything so sure as to become rigidity, any fixity, any rule that inhabited the urges of that unkempt movement/range/rage. Somewhere in the ambivalence was an exit door and the part of him that needed to see beyond earth sounds outran the part that wanted to be bound by the limits of earthly audience. Coltrane’s sound prepared his way out, it was declarative, had it been more obedient he might have quarantined himself here in an empty loop of ‘justice’ or revenge, been ravaged into the silence that rigidity is, and trapped there in one burdened register. To hear him is to hear freedom becoming itself. You begin to get ideas about where to go next because he is carving roads with his tone and never telling us which one to travel, just go.
Listening to Coltrane becomes a form of running and leave-taking that also does some of the running for us, we end up somewhere else, somewhere new and somewhere ancient at the same time. We multiply ourselves, the song clones us but also regenerates us and we develop a power beyond the singularity we possessed and held tightly before the song began. This mercy carries no grammar, but yes, and free jazz music promises to destroy language in both directions at once one day. To silence it all and to make it change while also ensuring its chatters and trembles. Black limbo needs this nowhere to expose the grammar’s burden and dismiss it. You listen like you’ve got somewhere to be and Coltrane is giving directions at the fuel station and the fuel is star and air, nadi and ain’t no way.
There’s little difference between hearing and overhearing things and making music. Sound you invent is really sound you collect, things you hear that are present but not audible or visible to others. This presence that music requires, this black vessel that hears the invisible and inaudible, begets a trajectory of fugitive listening from Plantation Blues to Sun Ra to mumble rap to whisper R&B. If you’re afraid of where the song is going it’s important to let it go there, to ride it either into oblivion or renewal. Either side of the pendulum inspires eternal return, return to make sure you heard the slurred cataclysm correctly in the event of oblivion, and return to attune to the regenerative when the joy of renewal is promised in music.
The return to solitude and the return to the crowd, alternating. The best songs and albums become incidents. Things that have happened to us, events in our lives, and when life is treacherous they displace or soothe some trauma, and when life floats such songs inject the rise with butterflies and flutter, the nerves of too good to be true but happening. And the music becomes a nervous system to supplant years of training ourselves to expect the wrong things. Music trains us to trust what we conjure when under duress, to know that in fury we summon angels.
Let’s say that the railroad underground is concert hall or phonograph and what’s playing this escape? What ruins of tapes of vinyl and tongue bits and moan omen have brought us through, have brought me through to this paradise of ruins where repair is possible and happening.
I’ve always found the word daddy tacky and infantilising. Maybe because mine is a dignified ghost and because so much of my youth was spent in the silence of that reluctant precocity/precarity. Maybe I knew that to call a man daddy is to give him a strange power over you and a power I do not cede even to my blood. Was this a kind of patricide? His voice hides a treehouse, a speaker system, and hand in hay and cotton ground, a wrist in gold and god bent over picking crip rose up, singing. Shield all around me he screams, your love is like a shield all around me.
And I wanna ride in singing those words, Billie Holiday once agreed. Women rarely write about music because part of the hedonism here is contingent upon us remaining its muses, it mutes. This mutiny is for you, daddy.
Sheeeeeeee done worked a root. This means sorry to this man but she had to put a curse on you, had to send you dealing with the myth. Had to bend your diffidence toward a bottoming out. In the name of love and war. D’angelo seduces me into the midnight forest for refuge. I listened to this album so much in the early 2000s that it grew eyes and became a kind of surrogate value system and vigilantism, waiting to see if I would cultivate my powers or just lend them to the song. There’s some deceit in the smooth beauty of this album, it forces you to embrace your shadow side, to examine what you might do for love and why roots are sometimes hexes and the helix smile when a spell becomes a song. This is an archive of warning cries. I love you/ I’ll ruin you if you violate it.
This is my paradise of ruins.
The cover of this album is an audible/vulnerable collage featuring black and white photographs of the band members positioned everywhere from the stage to the beach. A candid radiance makes them seem like family and the bond extends beyond the skin of the album to all listeners, it’s like being invited into their chorus of motives to begin again with them. This album came into my life around 2008, the heyday for jazz blogs that would upload private press and out-of-print or just hard to find LPs as MP3 files for those who knew where to look, to download and revel in. I spend that year as a student of those carefully maintained blogs, digging on the Internet and buying records when they were available, finally music lovers didn’t have to also be obsessed with the material acquisition of product, and work that would otherwise never be heard was resurrected. It was invigorating and forever altered the frequency of my lived experience, to have this relatively casual and immediate access to previously undisclosed intensities within the universe of Black music. I’d always loved jazz and listened and collected avidly, but this sub-genre that is deemed ‘spiritual jazz’ veers toward and past poetry with an ethereal choral approach to storytelling that allows for layers of meaning and feeling that are not present anywhere else. These were collectives.
The Beginning of a New Birth crescendos with song aptly titled ‘The Prayer’, silk skulls tilted skyward chanting a melody of ahhhhs in devastating unison for fifteen minutes straight. I listened over and over until it entered my bloodstream, this is some of the most beautiful choral jazz that exists, and its beauty endures in part because there are too many players and singers on the album to make it an exercise in making one artist famous. Another true Black Orchestra, like Sun Ra’s but not as sophisticated and much more anonymous. The album was recorded in the summer of 1975 but it is one of the rare timeless and beyond-time pieces of music we have, because it troubles genre. I discovered it when I most needed or maybe craved that troubling of forms and possibilities and it functioned for me like a gather of palms holding me up to some bright, bright light until I could withstand its glare, until I found it obvious and regular, mundane. It changed my sense of the range of song and poem and speech and listening can access, and it allowed me to float on an intimate skin of mood with no sense that I was under the kind of surveillance that one is under when listening to jazz that is known to be iconic.
I did not have the weight of its reputation in my body while listening, and that means a kind of freedom and refuge from any gaze. The patriarchal trivia tones that mostly men use to discuss and possess jazz with jargon and over-intellectualising of what is at base, play and improvisation, are always looming when listening to iconic albums. The lesser known jazz LP is a space of frolic and childlike joy. Encountering what is flatly labeled ‘spiritual jazz’ for the first time, through this album, was a rebirth for me. Between authority and authenticity in listening, there’s an unspoken chasm where we pretend that ‘good taste’ is always visceral, knowing that it is often adopted or stolen, like the music itself, to help listeners perform class and elitism. Relatively unknown but beautiful Black music is runaway music, it escapes the blasé fetishising of mostly white ‘collectors,’ escapes their accumulation strategy identities, escapes their definitions and critics and oppressive praise and fame-making, another way they attempt to take ownership over Black production, it escapes their phony doting, it escapes them. Listening to this music allowed me to learn what it feels like to engage with Black sound that hadn’t been completely adulterated by the white gaze, and how to keep making and upholding work like it in spite of that gaze’s near ubiquity, in form and in mind. This album marked my debut as a true fugitive listener in search of a new sonic territory which would be a new land.
The first law of this new land is, let it be a Black ruins, a dug up mass grave, let it say no to white modes of discovery with its landscape of runaways and runways, let it feel abandoned and eternally fertile and reckless and possessed with the gift of our collective chant transmuted into evidence of its power.
Harmony Holiday is a writer, dancer, archivist, director, and the author of four collections of poetry, Negro League Baseball, Go Find Your Father/A Famous Blues, Hollywood Forever, and A Jazz Funeral for Uncle Tom. She lives in New York and Los Angeles.