Olivia Block

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Since the late 1990s, Olivia Block has combined compositional rigor with an abiding interest in field recordings and improvisation. She works slowly (or at least doesn’t release too much) but her music is consistently provocative and rewarding. Aside from long-standing partnerships with Seth Nehil among others, Block’s own compositions have been her predominant focus, especially in the trilogy of works of which Change Ringing is the last (the first two—Pure Gaze and Mobius Fuse, both on Sedimental—are required listening as well).

Don’t be fooled by the fact that this piece is only 30 minutes long. It’s got more happening than most records twice its length. Block continues to incorporate horns and other acoustic instruments here (15 musicians are listed, among them trombonist Jeb Bishop, oboist Kyle Bruckmann, vocalist Carol Genetti, and saxophonist Bhob Rainey). But while it’s worth pondering the way in which reference functions in Block’s music—indeed, she’s not at all shy about incorporating obvious idiomatic gestures—what’s really lovely about her assemblage and reconstruction of hours of recordings is the way in which she absorbs source materials into a rich, seamless, percolating fabric that’s all her own.

This piece pops, burbles, pings, and chimes; Block herself regards it as a kind of fanfare to conclude the trilogy (whose earlier pieces were almost elusive in places, shying away from declarations of any sort). For its entire duration, the piece flashes with occasional ideas and allusions: a skipping stereo needle, distant strings coaxed, bowls being rubbed, or voices behind the wall. It’s as fascinating to track these details as it is to pay attention to the entire course of Change Ringing. One third of the way through, the bubbling optimism of the opening segment drops out to reveal a vast growing darkness below. A wave of noise crests quickly, a stentorian trombone at its heart. Lyricism rises again, unbowed but this time a bit more chastened. Ultimately what’s left is a muted forest of feedback with a dull thudding below (to me this passage recalls Robert Ashley’s Automatic Writing).

It’s in the final segment of the piece that the idiomatic materials are most provocatively announced—lush chamber arrangements for horns and strings, and crackling electronics—and disassembled. What’s left in the wake resembles the piece’s opening, plangent drones (occasionally flashing with instrumental properties) situated in a field of “nature” sounds that—whether flame, pond, or rushing air—continually call attention to their own artifice. It’s this almost self-reflective sense that, along with the circular properties of the piece—which at time seem to encapsulate the methodologies of Block’s entire trilogy—suggest an openness, a music of eternal return. Gorgeous, essential stuff.