An improvement of sensual enjoyment - Frisk Frugt - IN SEARCH OF SPACE #151

Has it been four years? It feels like a lifetime. The world situation is so nervous and wrong that my ongoing quest to bring, through music, the return of thoughtfulness and deep feeling and real connection with our own and each other’s emotional and sexual cores seems to be at the most hopeless place. Perhaps it’s being more aware of the restless world, or perhaps the world is getting inexorably worse. Even as asteroids rain from the skies we’d rather look at the pavement, and people seem keen on accepting the illegality of drugs in order to focus on the things that can bring no happiness. Addictions to alcohol or nicotine, the two legal recreational drugs and the two which achieve precisely nothing spiritually and actively impede traditional communion with the Godhead through dance and deep feeling. People pursue with great vigour the institution of marriage for all, forgetting that marriage is chiefly concerned with land rights and love is all-powerful and all-flowing. Instead of seeking acceptance with institutions who have written their hatred of you into their sacred texts, seek to transcend life in a way those who hate cannot comprehend. Traditional beat-driven musics fall away in favour of memetic fads which satisfy in immediacy but gauge a deeper void in retrospection. I have been listening to a new album by Frisk Frugt, and I implore you not to explore it because it has made me depressed. It is elegant, energetic, beautiful, varied, a great potpourri that by turns recalls the classical seventies rock musing moments of Yes and Cream, and seas of originalities too deep to comprehend, but simply float on the surface of them and look down into the depths and think. It’s depressing because it is beautifully elegant music, deserving of a more refined and perfect world.


“The ancient tradition that the world will be consumed in fire at the end of six thousand years is true, as I have heard from Hell.
For the cherub with his flaming sword is hereby commanded to leave his guard at the tree of life, and when he does, the whole creation will be consumed and appear infinite and holy whereas it now appears finite & corrupt.
This will come to pass by an improvement of sensual enjoyment.
But first the notion that man has a body distinct from his soul is to be expunged; this I shall do, by printing in the infernal method, by corrosives, which in Hell are salutary and medicinal, melting apparent surfaces away, and displaying the infinite which was hid.
If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite.
For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narow chinks of his cavern.” William Blake, the Marriage of Heaven and Hell.

Anders Lauge Meldgaard in Oslo.
Frisk Frugt wants to bring an improvement in sensual enjoyment. Y’know why you feel a tendency to get naked when you’re high? A desire to touch, and have better sex? Increased reception, heightened perception. You don’t drop out of life, you wake up to it. It has brought such an improvement of sensual enjoyment to me that I feel compelled to write about it. I have been away from the keyboard for altogether far too long for my own self-purging (we overcome by spewing forth) and I am sitting over my keyboard, fingers poised as the music of Frisk Frugt courses around me, waiting for the perfect moment, the words to express it. It’s pure Afrikaans that’s been out to see the world. Synthetic manufactured electronic sounds bandy with pure organic home-made instruments and fizz together in a fabulously unique lemonade that’s leaping and jumping to make acquaintance. It’s drunk in just the right way, when all the world is a friend and opportunity is abounds. Fresh is a useful adjective, Frisk Frugt is Danish for ‘fresh fruit’ and the audio carbohydrate of this record is choking.

I’m going to make a declaratory statement, experimental Danish artist Anders Lauge Meldgaard is a genius. The record is a car crash mess of psychedelic paint and ancient log cabins, African beats and flashes of high-tech silicon valley techland shit. Heavy doses of pure composition, of the sort seen in addictive 8-bit video game soundtracks. Composition is Meldgaard’s strong suite, he is currently part of research into whether flora can create music. Meldgaard is the hero of the album, and a modern music lover. In accounts of his live rites he has been known to abandon planned sets to use available instruments. At a Quietus sponsored night in Oslo he treated the audience to an evening of improvised ecclesiastical organ wails; on a trip to Africa he played with Burkina Faso’s street musicians. He plays on children’s instruments, as well as those he has constructed himself. To describe this record is to waste my time and yours. I would urge you to seek it out, but you’ll look around after listening to it, and think ‘we have not earned this’.

You can it it all here. It's just been re-released in Britain on pure 180g if you're into the artefact business.

Written under duress by Steven.

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