WHYTE – Maim
Independent – 9 April 2021
The world of Gaelictronica is way bigger than you may suspect, with an abundance of artists: Niteworks perhaps the most prominent, sheltering under this techno-trad amalgam. Far from just being a handy name to encompass musicians who mix their pipes and fiddles with loops and laptops, it may now be considered the official terminology of this highland and island hybrid. Championed by Glasgow roots Gaelic organisation, Ceòl is Craic, clearly, it is the Gaelic language, and Gaelic song, that is integral, music being one of the most potent forces to the ongoing revitalisation of this once fading language. Of course, the language has long been part and parcel of the no longer quite so new wave of Scottish music, courtesy initially the output of Runrig and Capercaillie and their progenitors, there now being islands full of Gaelic folkers and rockers, fusing the traditions and instrumentation with guitars and drums. It is logical that the evolution should continue.
Whyte take the electronica step still further, with less techno and less emphasis on beats, offering more of an ambient, downtempo feel. A duo of Ross Whyte, from Aberdeenshire, who provides the electronica, having prior and alongside been an in-demand writer for film, theatre and dance soundtracks, and Alasdair C Whyte, from Mull, a 2006 gold medal winner for Gaelic song at the National Mòd. He was named Gaelic Ambassador of the Year by the Scottish government in 2019 and is a research fellow in Celtic and Gaelic Onomastics at the University of Glasgow, and in which area he has a doctorate. Unrelated, they have worked together since 2016, this being their third release, and is a somewhat different beast from their earlier ‘Fairich’ (2016) and ‘Tairm’ (2019).
‘Maim’ was originally commissioned by Theatre Gu Leòr, as a multimedia project covering live music, dance, spoken word and video, as a call to action, voicing concerns over the plight of Gaelic culture, language, tradition as well as climate change. For, make no mistake, however seemingly vibrant the Gaelic music scene might appear to be, and however many bands are producing music in and of that culture, overall the sense of and reality is quite different, the 21st-century investing little faith in that culture and heritage. ‘Maim’ translates as panic. Director, Muireann Kelly, already familiar with the band and with ‘Tairm’, could hear in that recording the atmosphere she was wanting, asking for the involvement of the duo. Some of the key motifs in ‘Maim’ come, revisioned, from that earlier album, alongside new music and songs, others drawn from the tradition, and with snippets of found sound weaving in and out for texture. The stage show was premiered last March at Glasgow’s Tron theatre, Whyte integral thereto, with Alasdair having written the majority of the script (with contributions from Elspeth Turner, Evie Waddell and Ross Whyte), and being the main performer, Ross similarly providing, onstage, the constant musical backdrop. The subsequent tour was inevitably scuppered by the virus, and will take place anon, but that situation serendipitously allowed the creation of ‘Maim’, the album, so much more than just a snapshot of that show. Within the extensive and attractive liner notes that accompany the disc, Ross Whyte lays out his thinking behind it, which goes some way to explain the resonating undercurrent of tension that perfuses the music. For him to cite Stephen King and John Carpenter may seem wayward influences but prove surprisingly apt.
Opening with ‘Oidche Mhath Leibh’ (or oml), comes first a backdrop of shimmering strings, with Ross’s piano cutting across with a spare minimalist repetition, allowing Alasdair’s voice to carry the traditional sounding air, electronic drums a steadying background pulse. The haunting melody is already invoking windswept rocky shorelines, ahead of a central section combining both the real strings and their synthesised equivalent, a quiet storm brewing as the singing continues. With the title track following, that sense of foreboding continues, simmering under some beautiful piano, calling to mind the style of Òlafur Arnalds, with again the violins aiding and abetting the subtle electronic palette.
A pause and a single muted chord invite in an extended spoken-word piece, “Maim-sle’, or torrent, showing the linguistic link between panic and fast-flowing water, with fluctuating background permutations framing the lilt of the words. I don’t have the Gaelic and I don’t need to, the sound and the phrasing sufficient to hold my attention, the sole English being the repeated statement that “Gaelic was never really spoken on Mull.” Having said that, I’m sure knowledge of the language would surely add another level. (It is something I am working on).
Track four, ‘Creach’, and we are back on the unsettled ground, a pulsing sonar with a gentler guitar soloing in the foreground, as lower register piano pounds in slo-mo, all adding to yet more intensity and anticipation, a disconcerting musical box starting towards the end and foreclosure. This is mood music of the highest order.
‘àill’ now breaks this reverie with song, the melody again unfettered by Alasdair’s soothing tenor, the innovational backing uplifts the tune with dashes of echo and barely-there backing vocals. This leads straight into a second spoken section that, in the overall build-up of the album to this point, feels well-timed and prepared.
Change does now come, an unaccompanied song (gur fad ’am thàmh mi gu tostach sàmhach – e1) demonstrating quite how and why Alasdair’s voice has won prizes. This has me hankering after his pre-Whyte work, a solo album, ‘Las’, and a joint project with Kirsty McKinnon, ‘Oran Ur Du Mhuile’, each of a more trad orthodoxy, very much akin to the best of Julie Fowlis. But any such thoughts are soon swept away, as an ominous swathe of keyboards and strings build underneath. A word here for the strings, a quintet helmed by joint fiddle royalty, Seonaid Aitken and Patsy Reid, assuredly maintaining a quiet presence that never oversteps the main duo of singer and keyboard, yet is integrally there.
A brief field recording of singing leads back into the most exquisite heart aching section yet, ‘Gloinne’, or glass, featuring near-solo piano. It is here any homage to John Carpenter becomes apparent. Towards the end, up come the strings, gloriously, and as with the track before, a little snippet of found conversation ushers in a reprise, part two, of that track, this time with Alasdair’s spoken word a honey unguent over more snatches of distant conversation.
The final track, ‘Mharbhrann’, brings back together most of the motifs earlier featured, the eerie vocal chorale of Elspeth Turner and Evie Waddell, here more prominent, as portentous beats shudder at the back, the strings and synths gradually finding each other and interlocking. It’s a stunning finale, the torture of emotions moaning within the mire of inevitability, found-sound suggesting destruction and demolition of the past. Clearance of culture by heavy-handed progress?
Despite the electronica label, this is music for late-night reflection, letting the sense of ill-ease take you out of yourself. Beautiful and ominous in equal parts, this is one of the most affecting pieces of music you will hear this year. But mind also the message. And the warning.
Maim is available to order via Bandcamp.