Paul Fuchs/Zoro Babe - Ascolta

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More by Paul Fuchs/Zoro Babel/Hariolf Schlichtig:

I listen to Ascolta and answer with speech, writing down words.
The language is far away. The space between language and fox' and Babel's blasts, knocking signs and blowballs is not marked on any map. But also the space between it and Schlichtig's strokes: Sometimes a quotation flashes up there, yet it does not want to be named. My ears thought they heard the woodpecker in the forest, but it was a Morse telegraph. The bleating of buffalo, but it was the bubbling of the volcano. And it was Vulcanus they heard while forging the lightning and thunder arrows for Jupiter, but they thought they heard the iron ore mining of the Etruscans. Then it was seagulls who came to warn against a murder in a silent movie, but in the sky were propeller planes from a world war, they called themselves mosquitoes. They heard the demonstration of the Faraday cage in the German Museum, but it could have been the work of the shunters of a large freight yard. A windmill, like a cement mixer, but it was a wooden hand. And in the meantime, the musicians' game sounded like soccer, with different signs, with an unbalanced ball, possibly with round edges ... which cannot exist. Or can there be? Run, run! A pass, a run, a storm, a shot, a final whistle, an instruction, a discussion, but always: Go on! A permanent birth takes place in the ear: a new being is born, and yet it is not new, the new child is already "ready. Arisen long time before, during the sexual act. But no, even earlier, much earlier ... even a quickly said word has a history, even if the consciousness for it is gone: no word comes from nothing, but also no sound ... yes where does it come from, what was before? It is the will for creation itself, which is audibly manifested here in every beat and every shake, and yet it is subject to the logic of a domino perpetuo. Thus the play of Babel, Fuchs and Schlichtig follows a spontaneous giving and laying, as well as decades of preparation, production and experience. Here the eye falls on the material: wooden hand and cables, fox horn and fox tuba, bull ballast string and bronze drums, rubber boots on springs and spirals made of cane rods (gardener and gardener's dream), wooden block wagons and slate granite plates, drums and thunder plates, oscillators and motors, contact microphones and a memory module. They all condense into a playing field, transforming the house in the Colline Metallifere of southern Tuscany into a sound studio that itself becomes an instrument. Finally, there is the image of three men standing in a gallery room playing their game. It is the last picture that comes to my mind, and although it corresponds to the records, it appears to me on hearing it as a fake. A freely invented, made-up picture. Federico Sanchez