:zoviet-france:

CDs:
Garista (80), Hessian (81), Norsch (82), Mohnomishe (83), Eostre 
(84), Loh Land (83-84), Shouting at the Ground (87), Look Into Me 
(88), Is It All Just An Illusion? (89), Shadow, Thief Of The Sun 
(90), Vienna 1990 (91), Collusion (92, compilation of compilation 
appearances)
(There's a bunch more LPs and tapes that I don't have.)

     Primitive, sensual, and rhythmic are probably the best words to 
describe :zoviet-france:. They have been (perhaps unfortunately) 
marginalized as being "industrial", but I think their appeal is far 
wider than that. 
     Their instruments include pennywhistles, thumb pianos, the 
"key-monica" (one of those cool kids' toys with the brightly-colored
buttons on the side), toy cymbals, tablas, beer bottles, chains of 
beads, and just about anything else that makes a vaguely interesting 
noise. I saw them live once, and the array of things that made noise 
that they had laid before them amazed me, as did their show, which 
pretty much defined "trance" for me.
     They mix small, cut-up snippets of these instruments with 
ambient noises (street sounds, wind, factories), run these noises 
through much reverb and delay, and then let the result permute for a 
while. Their earlier records made much use of locking grooves, and 
the frightening thing is that you can find yourself listening to one 
of these loops for hours without noticing.
     The result is impossible to describe. Murky, thick, and 
subterranean, yet ethereal and disturbingly familiar. Samples are 
slowly processed until what seemed clear is now foreign (an example 
is "Is it all just an illusion?", which permutes to "Like a wall
around you", from _Is It All Just An Illusion?_). One of their stated 
goals is to reduce their listeners to a state beneath emotion, and 
they often succeed.
     "Shouting At The Ground" or "Look Into Me" are perhaps the most 
fully-realized examples of their sound, but for sheer drone 
"Mohnomishe" will blow your mind. Snippets from "Look Into Me" and 
"Mohnomishe" quite often find their way into my mixing, and they give 
a pleasingly exotic feel to my sets. Almost all of their CDs are 
available on either Staalplaat or Charrm records, neither of which 
are noted for widespread distribution, so you may have to root around 
a bit. If you get really stumped, try The Ozone, in Portland, Oregon, 
which is generally an excellent resource for industrial/experimental 
music.
     I absolutely worship this band, and was quite upset when I 
heard that they dissolved. However, their offshoots, Rapoon and
Horizon 222 are said to be in an "Orbish" ambient-house vein (I still 
have not yet heard either), so the techno community wins overall.
     In conclusion, let me include an essay I wrote, which was an 
attempt to describe their sound:

     Let me tell you about a place. Not just any place but a special 
place. My favorite place. A place not just in space, but in time. A 
place that really exists only in my mind.
     I am young and walking through the forest with my mother. It is 
cloudy, and mist shrouds the tops of the tall, thin firs. Wind is 
blowing through the trees. They sound like the ocean, which is not 
far off. We are in the coastal range of Northern Oregon.
     When I walk through the forest, the wind through the trees 
sounds like the ocean. When I am on the coast, the mist so thick that 
I cannot see the waves even though the sand under my feet is wet, the
ocean sounds like wind through the trees. It is impossible to say 
which is more real - wind or wave.
     There is a bird associated with this memory - a raven. On the 
surface, a raven looks like a crow. But a raven is to a crow as an 
eagle is to a robin. Ravens are large, majestic, and powerful birds. 
They are prominent in the mythologies of the natives of the Pacific 
Northwest, sometimes as benevolent demigods, more often as 
mischievous tricksters responsible for things in the universe that 
cannot easily be explained. Unlike the awkward croak of the crow, the 
raven has a piercing, powerful cry. You will often see them perched 
in the fir trees of the coastal range, giving you a look that is both 
oddly and disturbingly wise before they take wing, proving their 
wisdom.
     There are colors that belong to this memory - grey, green, and 
brown. Grey for the mist that shrouds the treetops. Grey for the dual 
impenetrable masses of sky and ocean, seemingly stretching to 
infinity. Green for the fir needles, bristly and sharp. Green for the 
huge ferns that carpet the forest floor. Brown for the tree trunks, 
rough and deeply textured. Brown for the earth, a rich reddish soil 
unspoiled by pesticide or fertilizer.
     But most of all, there is the sound, the sound of wind and 
water and tree and sand. Echoing without limit, unchanging and 
infinite, this sound has reverberated in my ears ever since I first 
heard it, and it continues to color everything I hear.
     This first most aesthetic experience in my life has forever 
colored my perception of beauty, nature, and their corollary, art. 
Anything that brings me closer to that primitive and almost 
preconscious state is something to be treasured. I would like to live 
in that place, but if it does not exists, I will be content to 
occasionally visit it in my mind.