Music

Underworld: The Riverrun Project

Whether they've truly subverted the label dynamic by going online-only, or simply succumbed to the long fade of dance music, this three-piece-suite offers both the best and most dreary of Underworld's once-vital work.


Underworld

The Riverrun Project

US Release Date: 2006-06-05
UK Release Date: 2006-06-05
Internet release date: 2006-06-05
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iTunes
Underworld

Lovely Broken Thing

Contributors: Part of the multi-release Riverrun Project. - PS
US Release Date: 2005-11-09
UK Release Date: 2005-11-09
Internet release date: 2005-11-09
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iTunes
Underworld

Pizza for Eggs

Contributors: Part of the multi-release Riverrun Project. - PS
US Release Date: 2005-12-07
UK Release Date: 2005-12-07
Internet release date: 2005-12-07
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Underworld

I'm a Big Sister, and I'm a Girl, and I'm a Princess, and This Is My Horse

US Release Date: 2006-06-05
UK Release Date: 2006-06-05
Internet release date: 2006-06-05
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iTunes

Dance music at present has all the street-cred and cache of country, without any of the extenuating circumstance. Country, regardless of its relative merits, has rarely been worn as a badge of cool nor wielded as a weapon of teenage rebellion, whereas dance music -- and you'll have to reach your own conclusion as to what fits beneath that particular umbrella, since we won't deal in self-strangulating sets and sub-sets here -- dance music served up nothing less than wholesale revolution less than two decades ago. Indeed, for a time, dance culture was arguably the most pervasive and influential youth culture spanning the entire globe, and its influence on the way music sounds and its use of technology was, and is today, impossible to overstate.

Today such halcyon days feel long gone. That was then and this is now, and you don't see too many T-shirts bearing the claim "My Boyfriend is a DJ" anymore. Mostly, those decks that were pony-ed up for a few years ago are either boxed-up and gathering dust, or else going for a lot less than they once were on eBay. Any way you look at it, the world of dance music has been one of diminishing returns for some time now. Commercially, it's largely a generational matter, a question of fashion, as a new youth culture roundly rejects the previous generation's tastes as folly. Well, same as it ever was. Creatively, though, it's more a matter of imagination having played catch-up with technology, a ceiling being reached in terms of creating something that sounds wholly new. Beyond that initial giant leap, revolution happens in small increments, quietly and in ways more difficult to discern. It isn't that new and interesting work suddenly ceases entirely... more that it develops in the shadows, away from the limelight. And so to Underworld, and the recent Riverrun Project.

Underworld's last full-length studio release, A Hundred Days Off, was released to an almost deafening silence from punters and pundits alike. In many ways it was symptomatic of the dilemma facing even the most significant dance music artists. Regardless of the work's merit, few people seemed truly open to hearing new work of this type. In fact, the album received a lukewarm critical reception when it was reviewed at all, but though it hardly represents Underworld's best work, it wasn't exactly the enormous falling off it was perceived as, either. Having taken one direction to its logical conclusion on Beaucoup Fish, A Hundred Days Off at least had the courage to travel new roads, and visited several worthwhile destinations along the way. But when news arrived that Underworld's next release would be made available only online, one wondered whether the band's members, Karl Hyde and Rick Smith, weren't in some way hoisting up the white flag, playing their own version of 'If a tree falls in the woods, does anybody hear?' At the very least, surely the band was preaching to the choir... weren't they?

The Riverrun Project comprises three suites, each in the region of 30 minutes in length, available by download only via www.underworldlive.com (each suite includes a visual gallery of digital images, unavailable on the review copy). The first of these suites, Lovely Broken Thing, was released on November 9, 2005 and did not portend well. The opening track "JAL to Tokyo" opens with rhythms that are instantly recognizable as belonging to Underworld, but descends into garish mannerism from the moment Karl Hyde's heavily treated vocals intrude. The vocal treatments are cartoon-like, and the phrasing itself parodies Hyde's own signature style. It doesn't get much better. "Peggy Sussed" sounds like dance music gone glam rock, horribly so, with Hyde's vocal tics again proving an annoyance. In fact, only in the last few minutes of a seven song set, via the propulsive energy of "Monkey Wink" beautifully contrasted against the melancholy of "Witness", is there relief in any form.

Perhaps at this point it might be worth remarking upon Underworld's own reasons for the 'Internet only' releases. To Karl Hyde it represents a means of "taking music from the studio and putting it into the world in a matter of seconds... kind of like selling twelve-inch records out of the back of cars in the early '90s." Of course, with music being purchased online as often as on the high street now, this may not seem such a radical step; that is, outside of the fact that, for now at least, these particular tracks may only be purchased on Underworld's own website. Yet it may also be worth mentioning here that there's been dissent on the message boards from a small number of dedicated audiophiles, griping that the quality of the downloads isn't as pristine as it might be. Personally, I imagine the quality to be perfectly adequate for the majority of listeners, but for now, back to the music...

Pizza for Eggs, released on December 7, 2005, represents the best and loveliest work Underworld has done in years. From the grand, sweeping majesty of "Food a Ready", shifting through the warm dub glow of "Back in the Fears", onwards through the almost mystical transcendentalism of "Vanilla Monkey" and "Ancient Phat Farm Coat", this is Underworld at their most sublime. After the disaster of the previous set, Karl Hyde's elusive and allusive lyrics, along with his delivery, sit perfectly here, embellishing hypnotic rhythms that constantly move and change shape, though you're hard pressed to keep track of where and how. "Ancient Phat Farm Coat" in particular recalls "Pearl's Girl" and other work from the Second Toughest in the Infants era. Lay back and listen, see if you're not helpless in allowing your mind to simply drift away. The set closes with "Pig Play", a melancholic, bitter-sweet homecoming -- "I love this town / Bricked-up low-grade buildings / Architecture for the blind / The numb-zone excites me / Everything simple / No cheap thrills / No frills/ No flash distractions". The whole suite is lovely stuff, and I'll take twenty-five minutes of this over any faux-current post-punk, '80s re-hash band you care to mention.

Whether it constitutes 'dance music' is another story. Again, the labels hardly matter, except that I recently read the Prodigy's Liam Howlett quoted to the effect that of all the major dance music acts, Underworld in particular exist primarily in clubs, on the dance floor, the idea of which struck me as absurd. For my money, Underworld have always been the most heady act of their type (for one thing, the cerebral impulse and the impulse to dance being, in a certain sense, opposite). Underworld's work holds up away from the dance floor better than that of most of their peers, and much of their slower, more ambient work appears to me to be amongst their best (though I am prepared to admit to holding the minority view in this latter aspect, at least).

The final installment in The Riverrun Project is titled, naturally, I'm a Big Sister, and I'm a Girl, and I'm a Princess, and This Is My Horse. Well, really, what else would you call it? It opens with "11 Hundred Hz", which was perhaps born from, or at least echoes, Underworld's superb "soft" re-mix of Depeche Mode's "Barrel of a Gun". With its intermittent plaintive horn, it sounds a little like something from Bowie's Low updated, streamlined, until it slips gracefully into the next track, the more proto-typically driven "Peach Tree" (and, as with the previous two suites, I'm a Big Sister... is elegantly mixed, in much the same fashion that Underworld mixes tracks throughout their redoubtable live shows).

This last in the series, then -- released June 5, 2006 -- opens brightly enough, but begins to drift, losing the same intensity of focus of the previous set around the fourth or fifth track. It isn't bad work, but in this respect perhaps it most accurately reflects Hyde's claim for the series: a means of releasing work of interest without all the necessary pressures of a full label release. Like any car-boot sale, this one provides mixed offerings, and although this last set falls somewhere in between the two previous releases in terms of quality, on July 10 Hyde and Smith released a thirty minute retrospective mix from the completed project, free to download to anyone who bought the three previous downloads.

Quite how many people get to hear The Riverrun Project is open to question, but what remains unchanged is Underworld's commitment to forward motion, their desire to make bold experimental music, and their wish to challenge philosophical conceits of how audio-visual projects might be pieced together, made available, and shared.

6
Culture

Spawning Ground

David Antrobus

In this ancient place of giant ferns and cedars, it seems the dead outnumber the living; the living fall away too quietly, too easily, taken away by stealth. There is tremendous natural beauty here, but its hold is tenuous, like moss clinging to rotting bark that will ultimately break and sink into the forest floor.

If I were to choose a visual symbol of my adopted home of Mission, an average-size town in the impossibly green western Canadian province of British Columbia, I would probably come up with a rotting carcass in a verdant pasture, a vision of death amid life. If this sounds harsh, hear me out and I'll tell my own truth about this place.

Clinging to the swift-scoured, salmon-haunted northern bank of the mighty Fraser River like an ailing lamprey to the deadly smooth flank of a Great White, this town, situated about 70 kilometers east of Vancouver, owes its entire existence to the water of its rivers and lakes, and to the wood harvested from the dense, surrounding forest. Settled in the mid-19th century, Mission has managed to survive despite two serious floods, a bridge collapse, the ominous early signs of malaise in the natural resource sector (did we really think the salmon and the great conifers were infinitely, magically renewable?), and a general reputation for unfocussed, redneck belligerence.

It all comes down to the Fraser River. The river has brought both food and trade; it provides a thoroughfare upon which the people of Mission (among others) float the great log booms that are the defeated renderings we humans fashion from the vast tracts of coastal rainforest (cedar, spruce, fir, hemlock) in our seemingly inexhaustible compulsion to exploit her resources and bring Mother Nature to her matronly knees — in part because (we believe) we can.

But the details about life in this town — the jeweler murdered in a robbery, the pretty high school graduate killed by a drunk driver, the 14-year-old suicide — in fact, all the jostling narratives crowding like paparazzi, each insisting on exclusive front page drama, bubble and coalesce and ultimately conspire to reveal the hidden Mission. There is a dark vortex lurking beneath the seemingly placid surface; the ominous shadow of something ancient beneath sun-dappled waters. Even the countless apparent banalities playing out on the town's rural borders disguise something deeper, more clandestine: the hobby farmer up in MacConnell Creek bemoaning his exhausted well; the entrepreneur hungry for an investment opportunity, eager to transform the hillsides of quiet, bucolic Silverdale into sudden, lockstep suburbia; the hiker mauled by a black bear in the mountains north of Steelhead. And always, the numerous lives derailed by marijuana grow-op busts. For all the gradual liberalisation of laws at the consumer end of this local economic rival to wood and water, those who supply the celebrated crop usually feel the full force of Canadian justice, anyway. There are times when nothing in Mission seems devoid of some kind of meaning.

A monastery sits above this town, a Benedictine haven of alternating silence and the evocative clatter of Sunday Matins bells. Its tower is phallic and disproportionately defiant, rising above the landscape like a giant darning needle, casting its intrusive shadow over the patchwork quilt of human settlement as if to stitch a final tableaux, symbolically and definitively, of the history of the original inhabitants and their mistreatment at the hands of the white settlers. Said inhabitants were (and are) the Stó:lo people (their language, Halq'eméylem, was an exclusively oral tradition, so the words are spelled phonetically nowadays). Stó:lo territory stretched along the river valley from present-day Vancouver to Yale in the Fraser Canyon, a 170 kilometer swath of virgin, fecund land, teeming with such totemic creatures as salmon, ancient sturgeon, deer, black bear, cougar, coyote, beaver, and wolf.

The Stó:lo, a Native American (or First Nations) people belonging to the larger group of Central Coast Salish, settled this area around 10,000 years ago. Europeans, attracted by rumours of gold, arrived in the 1850s. The resulting clash of cultures did not work out well for the indigenous people, and today they are still recovering from the trickle-down effects of at least one generation having been torn from its extended family. Residential schools, for which the monastery in Mission is a present-day symbol, were sites of a particularly virulent form of cultural genocide. First Nations children across Canada were taken from their homes, often exposed to physical and sexual abuse and occasionally murder, their mouths scoured with soap if they even dared to utter their own languages. St. Mary's in Mission, founded in 1861 and relinquished in 1984, was the last residential school in Canada to close.

There are 82 Indian Reserves in the Fraser Valley. There are eight correctional institutions, two in Mission alone (Aboriginal people represent around four percent of the Canadian population, yet account for 18 percent of the federally incarcerated population). Somebody — something? — really likes to control and segregate people, around here.

This fragmentation is reflected in the odd demographics of the town in general. Leaving their multicultural mark have been, at various times, Italians in Silverdale, Swedes in Silverhill, the French in Durieu, the Japanese in the early years of the fruit industry (as in the US, the Japanese were rewarded for their labours by being sent to internment camps in 1942), and immigrants from India in the early days of the shake and shingle mills. (The Western Red Cedar, with its straight grain, durability, and imperviousness to the incessant rain, while inspiring Native culture with the quixotic grandeur of totem poles, grabbed more prosaic European imaginations in the form of the shake and shingle industry, which provides reliable roofing and siding components for homes.)

In some ways, Mission is a vibrantly conflicted example of Canada's multicultural mosaic. With just over 30,000 residents (of which 3,000 are First Nations) mostly crammed into a relatively small area, bordered by the river to the south and the mountains to the north, mill workers and biker gangs, artists and Mennonites, muscle car boys and summer folkies, soccer moms and Sikh Temple-goers, merchants and pagans, Freemasons and caffeine addicts, street people and Renaissance Faire anachronisms all rub shoulders with varying degrees of friction, occasionally achieving harmony in spite of themselves. Perhaps the relative accord is due to the overall youth of the population (73 percent are under 35-years-old).

Earlier, I mentioned the presence of death. Why? Because it is everywhere here, its proximity eerily palpable. It inhabits the sly rustle of the towering conifers. It taints the air with the swampy pungency of skunk cabbage in springtime. It hums incessantly in the sub-woofer buzz of the hydroelectric dams. It shuffles along in the downcast, scuff-shoed limp of a lone child returning to a chilly home. From a distance, even the monks in their dark cassocks, knit-browed and bound by their vows of silence, seem eerily close to the Reaper caricature. For actual evidence of its pervasiveness, though, one need not go far back in time.

The bodies of three women were dumped between here and neighbouring Agassiz back in '95. Suicides and the furtive aftermath of murder, barely registering in the town at all, have spattered Burma Road, a potholed strip of rocks and dirt skirting the shore of Stave Lake. In 1997, Doug Holtam of Silverdale (a small community west of Mission) bludgeoned his pregnant wife and six-year-old daughter to death with a hammer. Against all odds, his young son Cody survived the attack. In 1995, a drunk driver, leaving in his wake not only the proverbial outpouring of community grief but also a devastated twin sister, killed 18-year-old Cindy Verhulst during the week she and her peers were busy celebrating their high school graduation. There was the little boy who slipped away from his day care centre and drowned in the swollen Fraser River. The 12-year-old boy found hanging from a school washroom towel dispenser. The elderly pilot whose body was discovered in dense forest a full two years after he had gone missing. And there was Dawn-Marie Wesley, a 14-year-old Native girl who took her own life in the basement of her home after enduring relentless bullying at school; barely noticed in life, Oprah material in death.

As disturbing and tragic as these stories are, however, there was little precedent for the breaking news in the summer of 2003. This one will need a little background.

Since the mid-'80s, women have been disappearing from Vancouver's Downtown Eastside, Canada's poorest postal code. Partly due to the initial incompetence of the Vancouver Police Department and jurisdictional issues with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP), partly due to the amorphous (read: investigative nightmare) nature of the disappearances, and partly because so few people cared about missing hookers and addicts, more and more women went missing, with nary a ripple in the public consciousness (or conscience). In fact, as of this writing, a horrifying total of 65 individuals are currently on the Missing Women list. For years, law enforcement didn't even refer to their disappearance as crimes, and it wasn't until 1998 that an official task force was even assigned to investigate.

Finally, in February 2002, Robert William Pickton, a pig farmer from the Vancouver suburb of Port Coquitlam (approximately half way between Vancouver and Mission), was charged with two counts of first-degree murder of two of the missing women. More charges followed in the months ahead. Pickton currently faces 15 counts of first-degree murder with seven more expected. DNA samples of 31 women have been linked to his 10-acre farm. In short, potentially the largest serial murder case in Canadian history is now underway just 35 kilometers from Mission.

Given the frequent intrusion of death into the area, I suppose it should have surprised no one when, on 20 July 2003, the missing women's joint task force announced they would be searching an area of wetlands near Mission. Just south of Highway 7 (aka the Lougheed Highway) and the man-made body of water known as Silvermere (itself the subject of a delightfully creepy urban legend or two), the area is basically marshland bisected by a meandering slough. Immediately following the announcement of the search, the site was fenced off with temporary chain link, and the highway's wide shoulders — traditionally home to roadside fruit and flower vendors hawking their locally grown products — were suddenly and unequivocally off-limits.

Driving this formerly innocuous stretch of blacktop, especially under the after-dusk arc lights, with their swirling bug armadas and liquid island oases in the dark, now touched off an indescribably eerie feeling. It was a relief when, on 8 August, the entire ensemble of law enforcement personnel (numerous forensic investigators plus 52 anthropologists) took up their tools again and vanished. They gave no word of what they had uncovered or even whether anything had been found at all, leaving our community to its familiar, fitful dreams once more. Mission's part in this unfolding story, as it relates to the wider world, remains amorphous and indistinct, with its usual chilly glints of barely suppressed horror flickering amid the overall grey.

Here, it seems, empirical proof takes a back seat to rumour and anecdote every time.

Sometimes, while hiking alone in the tree-bejeweled mountains west of Steelhead, east of the dams, I have suddenly felt the fetid breath of graves, a harsh raven-shadow lurking behind the abundant emerald and olive greens of this sodden paradise. Inexplicable noises in the deep tangled brush; distant rending, gnashing. Something skulking and hungry. With all the assured rationality of the white male immigrant, I've been known to smirk at the idea of ghosts, and yet stumbling along a jade-tunnel trail bristling with old man's beard and devil's club, I've occasionally recoiled from something, the skin of my arms prickling with gooseflesh. There are spirits here, all right, something not too far removed from the capricious tricksters who inhabit indigenous myth. Spectres of a kind, nursing some nameless, hollow ache of unrequited need rendered manifest, paradoxically, by a landscape dripping with life.

The closest we Europeans get to perceiving this (however inadvertently) can be heard in the low extended rumble of the nighttime freight trains as they call out in the dark, hunching parallel to Railway Avenue long after most residents are asleep, lonely as a buffalo herd that's somehow seen and almost comprehended its own approaching ruin.

Of course, my telling is by no means the complete, illustrated history of Mission, a town that can barely hold onto its own name (since 1884, take your pick: St. Mary's Mission, Mission Junction, Mission City, Village of Mission, Town of Mission, and currently the District of Mission). Not by a long shot; this lurid splash portrays but a small corner of the canvas. How can any one person paint the full picture of a community, after all? No, despite my perverse zeal to stir the viscous mud below the bright surface, great deeds and happy memories adorn the history of this place, too, adding the sparkle and lustre of life above and hopefully beyond the stillness and silence. And yet, no matter how much joie de vivre this community may exhibit on its special days, like a red-carpet celebrity when the cameras start rolling — whether it be the laughing children with their maple leaf flags and pancake stacks celebrating Canada Day up at Heritage Park, or the benevolently stoned crowd at the annual Folk Festival, or even the choked air and sharp adrenaline at the Raceway — surely one thing cannot go unremarked: nearly half of those missing-presumed-dead women were of Aboriginal descent. This adds one more layer of indifference to a jaded populace apparently caught somewhere between the small town rural cruelties of its past and the uneasy suburban shrugs of its gathering future.

I know this. I worked with the street kid population here for years, witnessed their hardscrabble resilience. Few people ever gave a genuine damn about the plight of these children, even though some of the throwaways had not yet reached puberty. Two-thirds of street-involved youth in Mission are Aboriginal. Many are sexually exploited by family members, neighbors, pimps and selected citizens, but few speak of it. Some of these kids head west to Vancouver for a date with misery, stretching already tenuous community ties to the breaking point. My job as a street worker was to speak for these lost children, to ensure some semblance of the child welfare system would kick in through advocacy with social workers or teachers or families or counselors or probation officers. In a world in which the so-called "bottom line" — money and the politics of money — has become drawn too garishly, these already marginalized youth were, and continue to be, largely abandoned by a system designed to protect them. Sometimes I stand beside the town's failing heart, its run down main drag (1st Avenue), taking in the pawnshops and thrift outlets and dollar stores, and I'm convinced I truly hate this place... but only because I've loved it so deeply. In life: death. In death: life. The great inscrutable cycle.

In this way, the perennially troubled summer Pow Wow, always skirting the edge of ruin (corrupt, inept politics and sporadic funding, take a bow), yet often prevailing regardless, seems to me a far more accurate symbol of the clutching, ragged breaths that secretly haunt the sleep of this community. The fleeting vibrant colours of traditional dancers whirling in bright regalia — poignant as the plumage of endangered birds, flying amongst the high wailing melismas of the Northern-style singing and the vital, aorta-punching drums of the circles — somehow speaks more of an unavenged wound in time and place, set amid the cruelty that underlies so much beauty, than anything else this conflicted human settlement seems capable of offering.

An absurd contrast, really — this vibrant gathering and the judgmental silence of all those surrounding stories of the dead — the whole place holding its breath waiting for these mortal sorrows to purge themselves before the pristine lawns and asphalt and vinyl sidings are allowed to spread and eventually suffocate every fucking thing that ever felt like something here.

For here, tenacious as the town itself alongside relentless churning waters, the living will no doubt cling to hope and the perpetual dream of life until the muscled river — unnoticed, stealthy, taken for granted — wrestles away everything (horror, joy, splintered wood and the final word) at long last, sending it all tumbling toward the planet's dark and pitiless seas for good.

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