A Closer Listen
Are you ready to take a ride on a 55-year old train? When Mirian Kolev (E.U.E.R.P.I.) first boarded this train on Bulgaria’s Gabrovo – Tsareva Livada line, he was fascinated by the sounds he heard. This was clearly no modern train, but one with character and experience. The comforting chugs were not the only audible sounds, but choruses of creaks and whirs, clanks and whistles. These betrayed the train’s age in the same way as creases and dark spots on a human face. Returning numerous times, recorder in hand, he began to chronicle these accumulations of time and sound. One can only wonder what the artist’s fellow passengers might have thought as he dipped between carriages, marveling at the vibrations that might have kept others awake.
The clacks and whirs, rhythmic repetitions and sounds of acceleration and deceleration sing of a different age, in many facets pre-electronic, demonstrating metalwork and craftsmanship. They conjure images of other trains: not simply this Soviet artifact, but an entire history of transport, including sleep compartments and dining cars: a lost era that some might consider quaint, others might mourn and still others might rue. By subtly adding musical textures, Kolev makes the album an ode. This particular train might last for a while, but its days are numbered, and its siblings are members of an endangered species. Modern passengers seek not only speed, but the greatest possible eradication of sound; one passenger’s comfort is another passenger’s annoyance.
Once upon a time, this train was constructed in a Riga factory, leaving the line shiny and new, unblemished by graffiti, untouched by rust, nary a dent or worn circuit. One can intuit the old beast winding down. Those of a certain age may identify with its frayed edges. If trains were sentient, this one might be starting to feel obsolete. Enter the composer, sonic notebook in hand, eager to transcribe the stories of the engine, the carriage, the wheels. While much press is given to the loss of human languages and the cries of extinct creatures, little is given to the diminishing of specific industrial sounds. The 25-minute opening piece is a suite of admiration, while the later, shorter pieces are like testimonies at a retirement party, offering different perspectives: the drone of “2,” the squeaky chorus of “3,” the cricket-like placidity of “4” and the haunted beeping of “5.”
Whenever one hears the train slow, one fears it will be taken out of commission. When this eventually occurs, something precious will have been lost: not only a collection of sounds, but a conglomerate of experiences. We credit Kolev for noting not only the train’s value, but its precarious existence, and for preserving its untranslatable words. (Richard Allen)
Sat Jan 25 00:01:27 GMT 2025