Mikroton’s releases have been repeatedly pleasuring these ears, the artistic consistency virtually negating any chance of a less than satisfactory experience. On the other hand, it just takes a look at the label’s roster to realize that, in terms of impressiveness, a faux pas is unlikely. Ground is a fine example of Kurt Liedwart’s penchant for publishing material that responds to the strictest demands of exploratory profoundness. His electronic devices, in conjunction with Günter Müller’s iPods and Norbert Möslang’s marvelously defective circuits, reveal the nature of electro-acoustic investigations which contradict any risible speculation related to theoretical “harmonic laws” in the so-called great scheme of things.
This music’s kinetic mechanisms are determined by its congenital pulsations; the aural nourishment includes everything between monstrous subsonics and bizarre ultra-acute tweets similar to those of a deranged shortwave emitter. Occasionally, the merging constituents originate a magnificent portentousness: for example, around the twelfth minute of “Below Ground” an out-and-out alien chorale arises amidst all sorts of sonic protrusion. Of course, it’s the fruit of psychoacoustic imagery; still, the matter is there to be molded into whatever shape our momentary mindset wishes. It’s part of the process of acknowledgment of a deeper level of intuitive activity.
Ultimately, the term “ground” expresses concreteness in its most common acceptation. But if you think of an electric hum, it becomes the indication of a physical signal that extracts consciousness — in intangible ways — from an instinctual diagnosis. As frequently stressed by this writer, confronting unconventional agglomerations of frequencies and their inherent tempos represents the lone possibility of actual growth for masses of cells stuck in the fictitious marshlands of divine sublimity. Müller, Liedwart and Möslang keep reminding us that apparent difficulties and unexpected twists are exactly what gives life to what is lifeless.