Loops in indefinite time frames

I feel like I need to make a little point. Every Munich Night post is something important to me. Every night that I go out and go see a show, or two, and DJ sets and all that jazz, I make a choice amongst all the events happening that night, and decide to take the time to write about it. Because each Munich Night post is a reminder to myself of the emotions felt that night, the important new discoveries or the feelings of finally seeing a band live. So here we go, again. From Kullukcu Galerie to the Milla Club on a cold Friday night, a looped rhythm gets built on.

Pension Noise #3, an evening curated by Anton Kaun at the Kullukcu Galerie. Anton Kaun aka Rumpeln is one of the Munich artists I would follow to the end of the universe, because I trust his taste and work in the most total and complete way possible. A surprise Rumpeln performance opens the evening, filling the Galerie with a ceremonial feel. Most of the audience is sitted down, attentive, all gathered around the Turkish carpet that is the stage tonight.

There is no timeframe, tonight. How long is Rumpeln’s performance ? Are there milliseconds or minutes in the silences between his sounds ? The Noise Puppet throws its convulsing shadow on the Galerie’s white walls… or is it ? Maybe in fact, it’s Rumpeln’s own shadow, the truth behind the craftmanship, projected there.

With Hibouprofen, we fly. After a song, I close my eyes. Loop pedals are distracting : you understand too much what is happening and when. But with eyes closed, Hibouprofen’s work is a lenghty looped construction with only a slightly distorted rhythm as a base that builds up to melodic white noise territories, like a quest for the perfect sauce of frequencies (yes, sauce).

Terrine transforms the Galerie into an industrial amphitheater. She is solid like steel beams and oozes with badassery. An automatic ‘oh, I dig youuuu’ comes out of me… I say to the person next to me ‘She is FIRE’, as this diminutive frame of a girl produces glorious noises after glorious noises. She ends with a distorted balad that creates the biggest confusion in the audience, and it must be the punkiest thing I’ve ever heard.

And then I fell in love yet again. Kalalunatic’s work station is a laboratory of effects on a plywood plank on trestles, a minimalist support for minimalist melodies that glorify the poetry she sings. We are only a handful of French speakers tonight that can really dig how amazing the words she shares with us are. But still, the music in these words, originally from Ghérasim Lucas, is beyong any language.

Later, at the Milla, in some indefinite time frame, on a sparse dance floor fueled by Optimal DJs, there’s still French poetry resonating in my mind somewhere in the haze created by looped rhythms and the omen of a difficult morning after.