I’m not sure where to start on this one. Goldmund is the alter-ego of Keith Kenniff, a Boston-based musician who’s done some superb electronic work for Type over the last couple of years. I ordered this sight-unseen, and although I expected something different, this took me completely by surprise.
Kenniff’s discarded all his computerized trappings in favor of an album of mostly solo piano. There are thirteen short tracks, unified by the influence of American Civil-War music. It’s an odd, elegaic and beautiful record, and certainly the last thing I expected.
I’m not sure what to compare it to. “Ba” opens with a skeletal melody floating over an ostinato, sounding something like Chris Clark’s “Pleen 1930s” or some of Richard James’ work on the much-lamented Drukqs. At other times, the sparse, quiet pieces like “Marching through Georgia” are remniscient of A Silver Mt. Zion or Robin Holcomb’s wonderful Little Three.
Kenniff keeps the microphones closely placed, and you can hear his fingers tapping the keys and the hammers striking the strings. It lends an air of intimacy that keeps this music from fading into the background, and it makes you lean forward to hear every nuance.
I’m used to listening for small details and variations in timbre, but where such elements can be strictly controlled in electronic music, they take on a different character in a live recording. The creak of the sustain pedal and the legs of the stool scratching on the floor become a random but integral part of the music.
On “My Neighborhood” and “25 Thousand Miles,” Kenniff adds slight guitar and bass accompaniment, and in a way the added textures are jarring and almost intrusive. After being isolated inside the piano for several tracks, it feels like the room has opened up to a vaster panorama. Looking back though, it’s the same small room, just with a bit of air let in.
Apparently, most of these songs were written in just a few minutes, and committed to tape in one take. As a result, the performances, while very well done, come off just a bit rough and naive. That’s hardly a criticism: the pieces are so slight and fragile that a slick recording would have sapped the life from them.
My only complaint is that there are some truly great pieces, such as “Larrows of the Field,” but there are a few throwaways. There’s no shortage of ideas here, but some songs start on a tenuous motif and simply go on too long. “Anomolie Loop” and “Parhelia” both start with great promise, but they don’t have the impetus to carry on, and they end up fading into the background, which can be fatal to music this delicate.
Still, at only 42 minutes, Corduroy Road makes its point, and it does so often compellingly. It’s a warm and welcome surprise, and it should be heard by fans of John Fahey and traditional American music.