Kerrie J Robinson - Submerged

A Closer Listen

At what point does sound become music?  This question is the starting point for Submerged, an EP that contains no instruments and fools the ear.  The illusion is so convincing that we felt compelled to double-check with the artist just to be sure!

The most popular ancestor of Submerged may be Coldcut & Hexstatic’s Natural Rhythm, which made the rounds on MTV’s Amp back in the day.  Kerrie J Robinson relies exclusively on hydrophone, as her subject is the waters of the Hebridean Sea.  Seven years of walking the Scottish shores have led to this sonic excursion, in which she collects sounds as one might collect seashells and sea glass, bringing them home to tumble and sequence.

While the original sounds have been “chopped and skewed, dissected and altered,” Robinson provides information as to their origins.  The premiere single, “Feamainn,” contains “the sound of crackling seaweed on the shores of Loch Sunart;” one immediately thinks of the pops and hiss of seaweed bubbles as they dry in the sun.  Much of the EP’s percussion comes from crashing waves and the amplified sound of melting snow.  Glass bowls filled with local burn water add melodic notes.  One must credit Robinson for being an excellent musician, as well as a field recordist and sound artist; the faster tracks, with minor tweaks, might be suitable for dance floors.

We have not yet answered the question, because by this point, these sounds are clearly music, beautifully arranged, with a full use of the stereo field.  The alchemy has occurred sometime in-between the early crackle of the opening track and the entrance of “bass drum” sounds.  As the natural glissandos unfurl, one is swept into the mix, amazed.  But one also wonders what these tracks sounded like before any knobs were turned or any samples were manipulated.

After listening to the EP, one becomes more attuned to the natural rhythms occurring in one’s own locale, or if one is fortunate, on a trip to the shore.  Brine shrimp offer light drone, waves a reliable rhythm.  Birdsong repeats, often at regular intervals.  Still, there is little in nature as consistent as the tempo of “Hellir,” a seaside symphony of (perceived) bongos and keyboards; or as industrial-sounding as “Fuath,” in which snowdrops bounce off leaves and create booms as cavernous as elephant pads.  The title refers to “malevolent spirits,” and the timbre is a match.

Robinson’s EP is a success on two fronts: she has made a water album disguised as an electronic album, and her music is compelling even without the concept.  We’re curious to hear more from these same sessions: perhaps a companion EP that travels in reverse, as tempos, beats and bowls dissolve in the sounds of seaweed and snow.  (Richard Allen)