It's Artificial

From Anjunawiki
Jump to navigation Jump to search
It's Artificial
by Andrew Bayer
Released 25 July 2011
Andrew Bayer chronology
It's Artificial
If It Were You, We'd Never Leave
(2013)If It Were You, We'd Never Leave2013

One part heaven, one part hell, & six parts quite earthly indeed.

Track listing

1."Nexus 6"5:58
2."Dedicated To Boston's Waste Management System"4:05
3."Counting The Points"8:22
5."A Drink For Calamity Jane"6:54
6."Paper Cranes"7:18
7."From The Earth"5:33
8."We Will Return"4:08
9."A Faded Memory (Bonus Track)"4:05

Nexus 6

It's not good unless it's risky[1], & both his albums have more risk than opening the screen door in a cracked submersible in Lake Karachay. For instance, this winds up very slowly from abject silence, to watery innocence, only suggestive & insubstantial, then exosphering into the most twisted wreckage in music. The transvolution rolls into a tune, the whole perplexperience deftly detailing his jazz influence. N6 opens IA rightly, with his desponding intrepidity improving as the song progresses. I don't know what makes this not an intro track, but it's pathetically[2] luxurious anyway.

Dedicated To Boston's Waste Management System

DTBWMS is as incongruous as its name. The unthinkable bells reign here, & with the superb violin syrup, climax smoothly after some dried patches, though at least it's daring. The final punch is such a hitting clearing, that it makes up for the journey: it's usualler & gloomier, working in the bells to more than merely tolerable. Despite all this, it was remixed.

Counting The Points

Bayer's first solo Anjunabeats release soloed this intrepitude from his first album. Not only did A & B allow him to go wild, but he went wild. True to his final form, AB dripped upwards from quiet beeps to a louder circumvolution, winding & twisting into dekeract knots, the funebral electronica rising to the top of Anjunabeats, the cream of music about to get creamier. As it fades into the distance, another empire rises: the thundercrack of Anjunabeats, apotheosis cubed: this second tune is moer than another continent on a gold planet. The endless thrilling fields don't stop! thalassic & classic, his electrofuture relents nothing in the path to Elysium. The tantalising waves hit less & less softly as they tsunamise against all, a vigintillion-wide black hole, with a slight uptick at the end of the ride, always assaulted & caressed by a piano dissociated from the song & reality, yet rooted in humanity. Sparkling effortlessly, heavier-than-uranium flight is beyond done with the piano's forte against the forte's piano.[1] The keys shatter titanium with their lightest touch, making this the most transcendental point in all of Anjuna history.

The Entry

That's right, this transition from one tune to another is so good, it needs its own header. 2:29 is the most psychostimulant neurocution of all time: the feeling of breaking into a new multiverse, from the paleo to the deo, is the most futurist wall-dissolution of the mind, cognitive distance & anticonsonance. Back to the rest.
This is the highest conception of the future, the hupokeimenon of quiddity being flayed in front of us, the noumenal haecceity roasted beyond recognition. This is the highest praise I can give.
The revoluting & revolutionising slope rains up & higher, the first tune snaking its way back & around, where their conthesis powers higher & up & bigger, bowing out for another quirk, this one the aberrantest, starting with maniacal, jutting chords, then flipping out into an electronik funkfest.


Monolith is a shining example of dull corruption. This is the third & last single from It's Artificial, & it came out nearly a year after From The Earth, & after two more songs. It was not worth singling out.
This is an obnoxious waste of nine minutes. The length alone is not pretentious, but combined with this muck, it is. Bayer has displayed his own crepitude. It is exheartening to go from aurum to santorum. The wiggling basslet only whines without accomplishing a new way, the worst attempt at an earworm of 2012. Wriggling like a worm trying to get into a liver, Monolith eventually drops the Polylith'-like electrowire for an empty facade of sombre, contemplative spacepiano[3]. As in spaced out. The whole planarian is given space, & any space is too much. Don't give it any.

A Drink For Calamity Jane

The first half is one milquetoast cup of water for Martha Cannary Burk. & that describes most of this album; creative, but forgettable. Even something as bad as From The Earth is unique; but mindblacking, it is not.
After the one minute wasteland, he started the tune without any lead-in. Most of It's Artificial is levitous piano meandering, & the only entertaining thing in the whole first four minutes of this is the snapping beat that kicks up at 1:43, led in by a dulcet snap back into action. There is something tolerable coming up at 4:01, though, namely a smooth vocal drop that counterposes wrath with sadness, like a song ought to, at the very least. 4:16 adds a threatening layer, to outbalance the pianist (lack of) misery. This is the sound that was needed from the start, & although it always feels like it's leading up to something, it's still enjoyable for its fierceness & despondence, which shines through its feeble exterior. This tune has few different keys, repeating many times over long spans, a crucial part of its tangy, desperate flavour. Unlike Counting The Points though, it's not the triumph of a planet; although this finely twined delicacy deserves a lot more, namely oomph. In any case, if you ever wanted a downbeat remix of Maor Levi's mix of Follow You, this is it.

Paper Cranes

This time, he had a better grip on the keyboard, since the notes brazenly journ to someplace, instead of wilting down to the floor. Again, the two worlds mesh like forks, lighting each other up with a typical side-by-side racehorseness. The first concept unveiled by PC is a solemn goodbye to joy, a slow & glum lake with a lily-pad every few hundred meters. This etude was filled with voids to give it the austere touch it deserved, but its not enough. As with most of this album, I'd like to like this, but I don't. It's a bunch of intellectual exercises, often without the emotional whack to make it worthwhile. It's not difficult to like what enters at 1:30, though: it's a snappy groove with some spicy kick. That spice is no ghost pepper, but it's an alright albino sweet pepper. Their conglomeration is what really takes them from spore to shroom, but not even these two combined can overshadow the real hero of PC, that eternal instrument, the wongy sping synth that kicks in at 2:15. This is the light of the life of Paper Cranes, attacking fiercelier than the bass, & feeling downer than the piano. This congress is what allows the piano to be resurrected as a force, a ghost towering above the action, a column reaching beyond the ground, although that is mostly in form only, & not so much substance. But it is a nice touch.
3:45 gives us the new attraction on the block. Several of these songs have independent tunes sandwiched in the bigger ones, making IA feel like a forest. It's such a pity the grove doesn't groove. Anyway, this is another piano-only, staccato piece with plenty of silence between notes to drive home the seriousness of the situation. It all gets back to normal soon enough.
In total, this is a grab bag of mediocre sounds & one good one that unite as a flurry of welcome energy. In other words, not even 0.1% of Counting The Points.

From The Earth

From that midpoint to this incruence: it's not mindripping enough to stay with you, but are accomplishments enough that since these mildly interesting tunes have been written out, humankind never needs to hear them again. Even the title is fittingly final & definitive: 'It's what we do', it says to us. 'This is humanity', it pontificates, explaining exegetically. 'This isn't great, but tolerable'. This is also another of his rippling, soft water lightcracks into heavier elektronika, as you saw in Nexus 6. This time, there's a new tinnitus to hurry away from, but at least the main bells peal with some pinch of a new direction. Best praise they'll get. The afterwash is best, simplifying to its extramundane roots. There is something good after all, so get free software to cut it.

We Will Return

Threats should be taken seriously from people like him. Although IIWYWNL did not copy IA's style, this is a great peak of this waste/wonderland that reaches for the supremity of the sequel. & suprematism is what it feels like: again, the base of this song is a directionless Pollock of sounds, so the real appeal is his bells, clinking out a reason for him to return. WWR is not the retrogression that most of the rest of IA is: the bells are so surrendering & hopeless, that 'bellyful' only pũts us in the right direction to describe it. Steaming ahead to capitulate, a white flag black with dried blood. He was right to end on this plutonic jewel.

A Faded Memory (Bonus Track)

Monolith, ADFCJ, & PC are on the album, & yet this is not. The Bavarian-American made many mistakes in this nine-track brief, & this was his biggest. Those three are disc-wrecking redactables, even without the exorbitant length the same sounds take up. AFM, per contra, was his first step into remembrance, & for good reason. His inspiration is Blade Runner, & that constantly comes up in his work. So memory should be his focus as well as sheep. Just as Electric Sheep is a notch off the top, AFM dries CTP's cement of Bayer's natural place as the Planck of pataphysics, a wizard of enrichcraft, a lord of mindwork. & he does it with a sole piano, though it was typically paired with a smudge of a violin. But nothing can prepare for thě serrated cut of the acerbic bloodshock of this small loop. Yet, every time is a new time, just as rude & agonisingly sweet as a first listen. Even an elementary basicness can redeem a life. & although Mono will never be improved, AFM stands as what could be, a inner anthem of futureness, & the rise of the world.

  1. "not really have any filler tracks or DJ intros or outros" he said. from
  2. sense 1
  3. thinking about nothing.