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October 5 2016

With 13 albums under their belt, the Norwegian experimentalists continue to haunt the dark, underexplored basements of electro-improvisational music.

Supersilent's music exists beyondÂ any normal human activity, any comprehensible emotion. It's hard to imagine partying, housecleaning, or commutingÂ with it, asÂ its screeches, meltedÂ horn riffs, and creep-show keyboards bombard the edge of reason. Its rhythms hintÂ at continuityÂ and then peelÂ off in whateverÂ direction, perversely arbitrary, shunting theÂ flow. Imagine straining to hear a rustlingÂ through the keyhole of a door that might burst open to unleash a terribleÂ racket at any momentâthat's 13. When you listen to it, you can't really do anything but listenÂ to it. That'sÂ an advantage if you consider it as a sign of vividness, but perhaps a limitationÂ if you think about how often you sit by yourself andÂ do nothing but listen intently to music.Â

The precise numbering of Supersilent's recordings almost humorously belies their spontaneous natureâevery album is improvised. On 13, the trio moves from Rune Grammofon to Oslo's other leading electronic jazz label, Smalltown Supersound, but the sequence and the style areÂ unbroken. The group's distant roots are in free jazz, which they still stitch into abstract patchworks ofÂ ambient music and arrhythmic noise. Roughly, Arve HenriksenÂ coaxes strange tonesÂ from trumpets and woodwinds; StÃ¥le StorlÃ¸kken poundsÂ vintage keyboards; and Helge Sten, who also makes dark ambient music as Deathprod, at once encases and engages the improvisations with richÂ electro-acoustic atmospheres. 13 was performed over a PA system in a shared space, and it benefits from a sense of presence even at its most daunting.

Though Supersilent has gone without a drummer since 2009, they remain a highly percussive outfit because ofÂ the pops and crackles of the electronics andÂ the extended techniques usedÂ by the players. 13'sÂ opening track is described as "Indonesian ritual music heard from a Scandinavian mountaintop,"Â but you couldn't be blamed for imaginingÂ a rhythm section fallingÂ down the stairs into a basement full of broken computers instead. "13.1"Â lands on just the right side of the line between exploring and getting lost. Not every track does. These improvisers are goodÂ enough to bend something as unruly as "13.3" into an arc, butÂ it's still a gruelingly disjunctive go at it. And on the bumptious "13.5," weÂ remember, as we wholly forget during the most captivatingÂ passages,Â that this is essentially just some dudes getting together and jamming.

Luckily, "13.5" is followed by one thoseÂ velvety, far-off, lyrical trumpet solos familiar from Henriksen's wonderful solo albums,Â and there are other songsÂ like it hereâsmaller, shorter, and more subtle. Not a one is unwelcome. Aptly for such extreme music,Â 13Â is most potent when Supersilent either goes inward, as on "13.6," or goes all out, staying well clear of the noncommittal region in between. "13.7" might take this dictum a tad far;Â a screaming fireball that takes six minutes to strikeÂ spendsÂ six more wreaking almost unlistenable havoc.Â "13.9" is just as big and twice as perfect, rewarding anyone who'sÂ made it to the end with a cool-toned, hard-won, and not at all unnecessary refresher course on what music is and why peopleÂ like it. That's the fascination and the frustration of Supersilent: it's like theyÂ keep destroying the lineaments of formÂ just for the pleasure of vouchsafingÂ them to us again.
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