Someday soon, when ape-like creatures with digital watches
are rummaging through the artifacts and wreckage of our civilization, the music
of Synthetica will serve as a fitting
backdrop. Synthetica is a blast of pearlesque dissonance, of controlled chaos, of understated
beauty. I was moved. I parked in back of the Little Theatre Cafรฉ Thursday night
so I could inhale a brownie the size of my head without freaking out other
patrons and hitting them with chocolate shrapnel, but also to listen to the
band unencumbered by sight. In fact, I’ve opted for a black square in lieu of a
photo for this week’s column so you can contemplate the visuals that the duo
conjured for yourself.
Synthetica — made up of Eric the
Taylor and Sonam — paint in wide sonic strokes from a
collision of swirling electronica and analog punctuation. Taylor manned the
laptop and Sonam, in a sort of call and response,
plugged in organic sounds and passages from an impressive arsenal that littered
the floor like a Gypsy garage sale. Taylor’s wall of sound was as soothing as
it was unnerving as it occasionally threatened to take off. Sonam
riffed, mixing a cast of tones and characters from recorders, conch shells,
congas, cymbals, a busted accordion, and a trumpet. It had me dreaming of Bix Beiderbecke thumb-wrestling with Lenny Bruce in the
Vatican as a chorus of swimsuit models sang Sophie Tucker tunes in pig Latin.
Alas, there were no vocals (none with words, anyway) so the
pictures you saw in your head (if you had, ahem, shut up long enough to listen)
were different from the placid Polaroids that this
duo planted in mine. You might call this outfit weird and abstract, but by not
adhering to conventional structures, Synthetica’s
layers and passages conveyed some of the most beautiful sounds I’ve heard.
This article appears in Aug 29 – Sep 4, 2012.
