Neither Nor

The Noise Made For People is one of those albums I’ve always reflexively reached for when I’ve been in the mood to listen to something comforting and familiar.  Its mod-spy bubble-chair vibe  always feels inviting, and of course there’s Trish Keenan’s voice.  I had the pleasure of writing about “Come On Let’s Go” for The Pitchfork 500, and while that little blurb could probably use a rewrite or 12, I still can’t think of a better way to describe her voice than “earthly” and “matronly.”  That folks like Nitsuh Abebe and Tom Ewing have shared their thoughts on Keenan’s passing, never mind the other writers that have put finger to key about Broadcast, probably means there are more than a few descriptions better than mine out there, but that’s a given. It’s also a given, in hindsight especially, that I was probably the wrong Pitchfork guy to say Thing One about Tender Buttons, a (seemingly) much-beloved album that I just couldn’t get into.

The Broadcast I love most is the one that took lived-in space-age sounds and imbued them — those oddly shimmering tones, the plushness of the drums, those thick and resonant bass notes — with a spectral warmth.  I can respect Keenan and friends (or, in the case of Buttons, friend) for wanting to move away from the retro and delve into sounds and constructions less immediately comfortable & comforting, but those latter albums just don’t hold the same pleasure for me that Noise does.  However, listening to it today (which I did after hearing the sad news), I was struck by how alien the music sounded; I’ve always been too wrapped up in my enjoyable memories of the album to take time and realize how unsettling Noise can be.  It’s certainly an inviting album, but its invitation is akin to the one offered by the open doors of a dimly lit and dilapidated house.  Maybe it’s in poor taste to say that Keenan haunts these songs, though her presence is certainly an airy and ethereal one, to a point.  I guess this is where my “matronly” adjective earns its paycheck — unlike someone like a Nika Danilova, who can be considered “ethereal” but in a more menacing and aggressive manner, Keenan’s voice soothes and comforts.  It might be a wolf in sheep’s clothing in some cases, but the wool is so soft and warm that any potential intent to harm is a tertiary concern.  Even in the more fragmented work she was pursuing on an album like Buttons, where that soothing aspect was seemingly at odds with the music being made, her voice always shone through.  Please note, though, than I’m working off my memories of Buttons, a record that (like the other Broadcast work I’m not that familiar with) I’ll be revisiting soon enough.

I haven’t yet read any of the remembrances or memorials regarding Keenan’s untimely passing, so please forgive me if I’ve stumble over ground that’s already been covered by others, but I was surprised by both the groundswell of condolences and mourning that sprung up after the news of her passing became public, and how affected I was by this news.  As my blathering in previous paragraphs suggests, Broadcast was a group that I appreciated more than loved, though I’ll always treasure their interest in pushing their own boundaries and their love of discovery.  It’s sadly appropriate for a performer who once sang, “What’s the point in wasting time on people that you’ll never know?” to have that rhetorical question answered by the collective voices of all those that were touched by her music.