Halim El-Dabh

Much like in the dis­co­very of the deca­ying Victorian-life films of Mitchell and Ken­yon, came the unearthing of a series of expe­ri­men­tal sounds by Halim El-Dabh recor­ded through 1944 to 1959. The par­ti­cu­lar elec­tro­nic con­coc­tion res­pon­si­ble for my wide eyed grin is the “Wire Recor­der Piece” (1944), a two minute para­nor­mal head-fuck (to be frank) that pre­da­tes the first known ‘techno’ track by two years, this is the track avai­la­ble above. A sur­mise of the ghostly atmosphere seems futile; it is the sound­track of an asy­lum; echoes of lost voi­ces rebound from cold ste­rile sur­fa­ces as if evo­ked by the dead. Indiana Jones has unvei­led the holy grail of noise; it is ghastly and awe-inspiring.

A collec­tion of these old tapes were relea­sed under the mis­gui­ding upbeat moni­ker of “Cros­sing into the Mag­ne­tic Elec­tro­nic”. The first nine tracks con­ti­nue in the same vein as the recor­der piece – an explo­ra­tion of the ins­ti­tute if you will. “Michael and the dra­gon” pas­ses an ope­ra­ting thea­tre tes­ting a new electro-shock-therapy pro­ce­dure – a deathly wail is detai­ned by the rever­be­ra­tions of alter­na­ting current that char­ges and con­demns; “Medi­ta­tion in White Sound” sees a pad­ded cell and straight jac­ket, a drug­ged out inva­lid ree­ling from wha­te­ver it is he is ree­ling from. “Pirouette” sees a rus­ted whee­led bed pass us com­plete with res­trai­ning cuffs and stai­ned sheets. The tall murky win­dows, high cei­lings and smell of disin­fec­tant are all too appa­rent in “Ele­ment, Being and Pri­me­val”. To say that I am pain­ting a pic­ture too bleak is to say that medi­cal holes in the trenches of The Great War lac­ked hygiene. “Elec­tro­nics and the word” is our final the­rapy ses­sion with the doc­tor before “Venice” sees our brief epiphany.