Discussions and dissections of the phrase, “the whole is
greater than the sum of the parts” can be traced to Aristotelian times of far
greater simplicity and wonderment. Mathematically, the whole and the sum are
identical. Psychologically, many would argue the whole and the parts are
different entities entirely. But forget metaphysics. Musically, this phrase has
never held more true than in the record Music
Has the Right to Children by the electronic duo Boards of Canada. The album,
a brilliant culmination of synergetic interactions between unremarkable pieces,
provides a blueprint for any musician that aims to hide significance inside
simplicity, and meaning inside melancholy landscapes.
With traces of influence from the electronic
trailblazer Aphex Twin as well as pop-rockers Devo, Michael Sandison and Marcus Eoin refuse
to be typecast, instead embracing the isolation that comes with standing alone
in producing their specific sound. The uniqueness of Boards of Canada stems
from an unwavering focus towards a cohesive theme and purpose in their music,
typically evoking a sense of nature helped greatly by a consistently searching
aura. The consequence of approaching music as the broader creation of sound (a staple
of genres like ambient music and lo-fi electronic), is a product that
challenges convention and opens the doors of creativity. The obvious example in
this case is the extensive use of sampling techniques throughout the recording
process, pairing excerpts of anything from National Geographic documentaries to
radio tunings with synthesizers and rudimentary analog setups. This takes the
duo back to simpler times of exploration in their youth, and the intentional
imperfection preserves a personal connection that allows ideas to unfold.
“Wildlife Analysis”, the opener, introduces bright, but
unfamiliar territory, then quickly dissipates into an eerie interlude of
layered snare drums and cloudy melody called “An Eagle In Your Mind.” As the
album progresses, moods shift between downtempo and thought-provoking, and
head-bobbing and rhythm-driven. In this way, one’s perception of the music’s
purpose shifts in tandem, more methodical and dark sounds seem to extend
infinitely and the pulse of drum machines suggests an intention to cram as much
feeling into a few minutes as possible. The record’s second side opens with two
songs of a similar duality, the first exhibiting an expert use of analog
synthesizers, and the second song a dampened, foggy melody underscored by
subtle, looping percussion.
The samples, which vary from subtle to striking throughout
the record, seem arbitrary, but upon further probing are simply another cog
artfully intertwined in a resolute message- that everything from the samples,
to the track titles, even the band’s name, are meant to sound simple and
unassuming, almost strangely so. Asked to describe why samples are so important
to the sound, Eoin was quick to identify the intentionally open-ended nature of
their music, stating, “The experience is different for everybody; we hope to
just introduce an idea with our samples and titles that bring about some kind of
further thought. Maybe it means something, maybe it doesn’t.” This notion, that
people can hear the music, completely absent vocals (excluding the samples, of
course), and feel personally connected to its emotion, is what separates the album
from one that only sounds good to one
that also feels good.
The textures that permeate throughout, particularly on the
record’s second disc, highlight an unbelievable balance struck between the
individual sparks created in songs like “Rue the Whirl” and “Aquarius” and the
smooth transitions that can convince the listener the piece is nothing more
than a singular endeavor into unchartered sonic waters. Unchartered, in large
part, because electronic music often consists of rhythm-focused, busy, and
dense compositions. A concerted effort to prioritize melody over rhythm helps
classify Boards of Canada, despite the pair’s resistance to more stringent
confines.
In the end, the album defies confinement and convention. After
all, how often is music foreign and familiar at the same time, unsettling and
comforting alongside each other? It’s a walk around the block in your mind,
beginning and ending in the same place but far worthless. It’s a ride through
the countryside, with despair and enlightenment equally likely. It’s trivial,
and irreplaceable. It’s whatever you want it to be. In each case, most
importantly, rewardingly authentic and refreshingly simple.
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