Underexposed Albums is a series devoted to uncovering albums lost, neglected, or forgotten by the wider music community. Albums must have fewer than 5000 listeners on last.fm to qualify.
Last.fm listeners: 1,534
A few entries back in the Underexposed Albums series I wrote about Zoviet France’s A Flock Of Rotations, and this time around I’m focusing on a former member of the mysterious group: Robin Storey, aka Rapoon. The album is question is Tin Of Drum, his 1998 release on the Dutch label Staalplaat. The album’s liner notes refer to Storey’s affections for the American ‘deserts and the stars in the deserts’, and this is the immediate location conjured up by the sonic journeys on Tin Of Drum. This record is spacier than his other, more Orientalalised forays on The Kirghiz Light or Cidar; the ambient dread which bubbles to the surface is agoraphobic with the desert night, rather than oppressive with the heat haze and sand storms of the East.
Rapoon continues the Zoviet France trait of manipulating esoteric samples; a post-apocalyptic mood is given greater gravitas by mysterious spoken word references to the specific date of 4th January 1958, which is never explained. The only event of note I can find for that date is the re-entry of Sputnik 1, the first artificial satellite. Given that this album, in typical Rapoon fashion, is coloured by an aura of paranoia, that choice of date suggests the birth of the technoscape – 4th of January 1958 heralding the dawn of satellite surveillance, of constantly being watched, of a surrogate war, with the dread of the atomic bomb at the heart of it.
The album is a fragile centre between sonic forces. On one hand there is an ironic, corporate (and very 1990s) New Age vibe, as the album begins with a voice intoning ‘This is not the time for you to think about the past. Drift through your mind and away…” The same voice later repeatedly advises: “The longest journey starts with a single step”. The calm delivery is entirely at odds with the pitch-black, after-hours jungle rave backdrop, which momentarily lifts for the gorgeously ambient ‘Between The Hours’. The 90s vogue for the banally exotic (feng shui, anyone?) is undercut by a music which repeats with a violent intensity, subjugating you to its will.
As with most of Rapoon’s output, you shouldn’t listen expecting anything quicker than glacial progression in these tunes. But that doesn’t mean ethno-ambient noodling of the kind which people in Native American headdresses peddle to you on the High Street. It is easy to cobble Rapoon together with soundscapists and droners who lack the talent or know-how to use rhythm, but this would overlook his control over it which was evident as early as Fallen Gods. Tin Of Drum is a knowing pun, as its tracks rely so much on percussion. Kraftwerk’s ‘Metall Auf Metall’ is channelled via some ingenious ‘banging’ samples in ‘Arguing The Theological Toss’ – a show of strength from a hammer and sickle against the almighty dollar perhaps – and the 8 minutes plus durations of ‘Not The Time’ and ‘Beneath The Sky’ pass by in a flash as they are driven so propulsively. Both of those feature a steady crescendo of tribal drums and incantatory singing, like an uprising from the jungles of Guatemala, through the Sonoran desert, to the American heartland the liner notes evoke. Elsewhere in those notes Storey rails against how in revisiting the American landscape he found it more ‘homogenised’; his reclamation of homogeneity is a fusion of pan-American identity, drawing on the mystery of its land, its buried civilisations and religions.
The last track is the half hour long ‘Southbound’, a tour de force of Storey’s skills in sampling percussion. From echoic drums at the start, through woodblocks blowing up from the forest floor, to the tinny train track percussion at the climax (very reminiscent of the close of Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s ‘East Hastings’), ‘Southbound’ is reminiscent of Kraftwerk again, this time ‘Autobahn’, in its feeling of a journey underscored by devious sliding between different tempos and timbres. If I had one criticism of it, it would be that the beginning and are so strong that the middle sags a little, as if figuring out where to go.
Rapoon’s hybrid of world music, (dark) ambient, drum and bass, and the possibly nonsensical genre of ‘Isolationism’ is difficult to describe, let alone sell. So if you’re new to this game, try it. What you will be rewarded with is sound unlike anything you’ve ever heard, a much stronger sense of place than any other form of music, and one which is content to remain mysterious and defy easy explanation. I came to similar conclusions with Zoviet France’s A Flock Of Rotations, but it is worth repeating: in a globalised world (quasi-exceptional rainy islands like my own notwithstanding), where a Spotify user by the name of Kellz Charisma can hook me up with a playlist of the hottest Zambian jams, Rapoon is one of the few artists who preserves the essential mystery of geography through a sonic medium.