Altered Zones

[James Ferraro at Neon Marshmallow Fest 2011 NYC, October 14th; photo by Erez Avissar]

By Max Burke

Day One

Earlier this year, I attended the Chicago edition of the Neon Marshmallow Festival. Across the country, it seems that every weekend there is a gathering of musicians joined under a loose aesthetic banner with filmmakers, fine artists, and DJs to round out a bill that is “curated” by an organization or individual. The story that the bottom has completely dropped out from recorded music sales is as tired as it is true, and as live performance increases, organizers, institutions, and promoters are more in demand to fill up the cultural calendar. It seems that every blogger with a modest following can launch their own "festival" by the seat of their pants.

In this climate, a festival like Neon Marshmallow becomes even more valuable. Organizers Matt Kimmel and Daniel Smith are guided by a particular vision, and their line-ups draw surprising connections between artists spanning generations. The opening act of the festival proper was James Ferraro, a signal figure in the current debate over the place of "hypnagogic pop" in the development of experimental music practice. Ferraro's previous group Skaters, a duo with Spencer Clark, was part of a loose collection of early aughts operators, including Yellow Swans and Axolotl, who pushed pure noise into the realms of the psychedelic. As a solo artist, his music is as diverse as it is abundant, ranging from abstract noise collages to half-formed, ultra lo-fi synth experiments. His set at Neon Marshmallow, however, was relatively subdued. Any concern that Ferraro trading in his signature denim jacket for a leather jacket indicated a return to a noisier past was quelled by the rudimentary click track rhythm and uncomplicated, Juno Di keyboard riffs. In a premonition of his foray into high resolution with his upcoming Far Side Virtual LP, there was even a laptop on stage.

As soon as Ferraro's performance concluded, Phill Niblock began his aural assault on the audience. The septuagenarian composer sat placidly behind the glow of a MacBook while manipulating dense washes of sound -- microtones apart -- and putting the more-than-adequate sound system through its paces. Accompanying his performance was a beautiful film -- Niblock's own, entitled Thir, shot in 1970. The images of rushing water against ice, bees, and rolling landscapes provided a perfect accompaniment to the hefty bass tones crashing against the rafters of Public Assembly, like so many waves against the shore.