The iconic focus of rave culture, DJs increasingly became a marketing tool for the dance music industry. The phenomenon of the DJ mix-CD evolved out of the trade in mix-tapes. Sold in street markets, specialist record stores and by mail order, the mix-tape is usually of dubious legality, in so far as the producers of the tracks that the DJ mixes together don’t get a penny. The demand for mix-tapes is highest in anonymous hardcore dance scenes where the artists’ profiles are much lower than the DJs’. In early jungle, for instance, mix-tapes were popular because they contained a high proportion of dubplates: tracks to which only certain DJs had access, and which wouldn’t be commercially available for several months. You bought the mix-tape because you knew that you’d get a certain sound from a particular DJ, and the tape would provide all the current hot tunes in that style. The mix-CD simply took this idea and made it legal, by paying royalties to the track’s original producers and record company (paid per minute of usage in the long continuous mix). Most of these mix-CDs, however, are not documents of live mixing using turntables, but digitally woven together in the studio, achieving a pristine perfection but inevitably being somewhat sterile compared to the live DJ experience.
Alongside the mix-CD, the other big earner for the DJ is doing remixes. In the pre-rave eighties, a remix meant an extended, marginally more dance-friendly version of a pop song. Remixing involved hiring a well-known DJ to apply his specialized knowledge to the task of adjusting a song to fit dance-floor requirements, given that records originally mixed for radio or the domestic hi-fi sound tinny compared to records tailored to club sound systems. In the nineties, remixing evolved way beyond its early modest premises. Partly this was as a result of a business strategy of maximum market penetration: instead of just one remix on the flip, dance tracks began to come with a slew of reinterpretations in tow, each designed to appeal to a specific dance scene. These remixes, performed by DJs and producers renowned in those scenes, became increasingly remote from the original in terms of tempo, rhythm and instrumentation, so that only the key riffs or vocal hooks of the original track might be retained. Gradually, remixing became a creative activity in itself; the original track became the pretext and springboard for the remixer to create an almost entirely new piece of music which might contain only tiny shards and ghostly traces of its source. Indeed, when a remixer is hired they are typically provided with only a few sound-files – certain key hooks, riffs, samples – as opposed to the entire original track, because it’s assumed they will construct an entirely new groove. This is basically re-production rather than re-mixing.
In the more experimental zones of electronic dance culture especially, it became the norm for remixers to operate with an almost contemptuous disregard for the material. Yet this is sanctioned by the clients, who delight in the unrecognizability of the end product. This quasi-adversarial attitude of remixer towards remixee was encapsulated in one of the nineties dance scene’s biggest buzzwords: ‘versus’. One of the first examples occurred in 1990 when Mancunian techno crew 808 State transformed avant-garde trumpeter Jon Hassell’s ‘Voiceprint’ into a Latin-tinged house track; the credit ran Jon Hassell vs 808 State. There were sporadic sightings of the term in years to come, but the ‘versus’ trend really blew up in 1995 with Massive Attack vs Mad Professor’s No Protection and The Auteurs vs μ-Ziq. On the former, UK reggae producer Mad Professor created a dub version of Massive’s Protection that many fans and critics considered superior to the original album. Since Massive’s languid trip hop is deeply informed by reggae and sound-system culture, it wasn’t such a huge leap for the band to invite their hero to rework the album. But art-techno boffin Mike Paradinas of μ-Ziq and wordy songsmith Luke Haines of The Auteurs came from utterly opposed aesthetic universes, and Paradinas wasn’t shy about revealing his contempt for the material he was dealing with. The result was the merciless mutilation of Haines’s finely honed rock-lit. After this came a deluge of ‘versus’ records, which ranged hugely in the degree of devastation wrought upon the remixee. In some cases – Tricky vs The Gravediggaz, David Holmes ss Alter Ego – they weren’t remixes but artistic collaborations, or even (Freaky Chakra vs Single Cell Orchestra) split albums.
The idea of ‘versus’ comes from the reggae tradition of the soundclash, an event where sound systems competed to attract the majority of the audience to its end of the hall or enclosure. ‘In the early days of reggae, you might have Kilimanjaro vs Jah Love Music,’ says reggae historian Steve Barrow. The nineties vogue for ‘versus’ chimes in with the widely held belief that dub pioneers like King Tubby, Joe Gibbs and Lee Perry are the founding fathers of today’s science of ‘remixology’. Tubby and Errol Thompson (Joe Gibbs’s engineer) were the first remixers, claims Barrow. ‘At first dubs were just called “instrumentals”, then they started calling them “versions”. Gradually, more effects were added – echo, thunderclap, etc. – and dubs got closer to what we now think of as a remix. By 1982 dub had run its course in Jamaica, it had become a formula.’ But this was just the moment at which dub techniques were being used by New York electrofunk and disco producers, in remixes and vocal-free B-side instrumental versions.
Dub’s repertoire of tricks – dropping out the voice and certain instruments, extreme use of echo and reverb in order to create an illusory spatiality, mixing board treatments like phasing, the use of sound effects – still permeate dance music. They’ve also become part of the arsenal of post-rock, the genre of experimental guitar bands who’ve abandoned the model of recording as a document of live performance and embraced the studio-as-instrument aesthetic of hip hop and techno. On ‘remix albums’ like God’s Appeal To Human Greed, the subtext is always ‘versus’: the remixer, usually a kinsman from the world of post-rock, is given licence to deface and dismember the track to the point where there’s no discernible relationship between the original and the new version. When Kevin Martin from God and Techno-Animal hired arty junglists Spring Heel Jack to rework ‘Heavy Water’ he told the remixers ‘they could leave nothing of the original if they wanted. They were astounded!’
Post-rock’s passion for remixology is more than just a knock-on effect of their interest in club-based and post-rave musics. ‘People have lost respect for the heart of the song,’ Martin claims. Instead of a finite entity, he argues, the song is treated as a set of resources that can be endlessly adapted and rearranged. This notion of music as process rather than object underlies two of Martin’s most successful projects. The compilation series Macro Dub Infection tracks dub’s spread as a ‘subcultural virus’ throughout nineties music culture, contaminating everything from hip hop and house to jungle and post-rock. Techno-Animal vs Reality is a sort of post-geographical, virtual jam session. Five guest artists (Porter Ricks, Alec Empire, Wordsound, Ui and Tortoise) supplied Techno-Animal with ‘minimal material’, to which Martin and his partner Justin Broadrick added rhythm tracks. The results were then handed back to the guest artist, who transformed it into a finished piece of music; Techno-Animal also produced their own version of each track. The subtext of both Macro Dub and Versus Reality, says Martin, is ‘just how important the processing and treatments have become in modern music – it’s almost like musicians are accessories to the process now.’
While remixology has rejuvenated left-field rock, there are times when you have to wonder if the fad hasn’t gone too far. Is there perhaps a case for a neoconservative stance – the idea that it’s time to bring back remixes that enhance the original or bring out hidden possibilities, rather than dispense with the blueprint altogether?
You also have to wonder if remixology isn’t often just a giant scam. There’s a story, possibly apocryphal, concerning Richard ‘Aphex Twin’ James – a highly sought-after remixer, even though he’s infamous for obliterative revamps that bear scant resemblance to the original. Hired by a famous band’s record company to do an overhaul, James agreed, then promptly forget all about the assignment. On the appointed day, a courier arrived chez Aphex to pick up the DAT o
f the remix. Initially taken aback, James quickly recovered his composure and scuttled upstairs, rifled through his massive collection of demos and unfinished tracks, picked one at random and handed it to the messenger. Band and record label both professed themselves highly pleased with his reinterpretation! True or not, most of James’s remixes might as well be all-new compositions. The scale of devastation is in ratio to his estimation of the band. Curve and Jesus Jones got absolutely decimated. But post-rockers Seefeel received loving, respectful treatment, with Aphex’s gorgeous remixes of ‘Time To Find Me’ retaining most of the original track.
In genres like trip hop, house and jungle, the simultaneous release of a bunch of barely recognizable remakes by several different remixers (four, six, sometimes more!) is a common occurrence. Dance music has its own ‘remix albums’ – DJ Food’s Refried Food, Bjork’s Telegram – where one artist’s album is reworked by a stellar cast of guest producers. The Shamen’s CD-worth of remakes of the same song ‘Move Any Mountain’ also included a disassembled version that isolated the components of the song, so that listeners could construct their own remix. Another variation is the ‘remix tribute’ album, where instead of covers of songs by the original artist (as with the rock tribute album), illustrious ancestors like Chris & Cosey, Yellow Magic Orchestra and Can get their classic remodelled by their aesthetic progeny. (The Can remix record second-guessed the diehard’s knee-jerk response, with the title Sacrilege.) And increasingly there are auteurist collections that corral all the remixes done by a renowned producer and present them as just another crucial facet of their artistic output, such as Aphex Twins’ cheekily titled 2003 remix anthology 26 Mixes for Cash.
Of all the genres of nineties dance, jungle took remix-mania the furthest. As a result, the genre had a fluid, hazy-round-the-edges notion of authorship. Often, a track will be popularly attributed to its remixer; generally, remixes are so dramatically different from the originals that this seems only just and proper. For instance, Omni Trio’s ‘Renegade Snares’ is often regarded as a Foul Play track, owing to their remix and subsequent ‘VIP’ re-remix. Jungle has introduced some new twists to remixology. There’s the ‘VIP Remix’ (basically a marketing buzzword), and there’s the sequel, on which the original artist reinterprets his own work. For instance, Goldie followed his Metalheads darkside classic ‘Terminator’ with ‘Terminator II’, but on a different label (Reinforced) and under a different name (Rufige Cru).
Posing questions about authorship and attribution, remixing also problematizes the notion of copyright. If, in the age of ‘versus’, the remix is tantamount to an all-new track, why should the original artist get all the royalties? At the moment, copyright still generally remains with the original artist, and the remixer gets a flat fee. (In more underground or esoteric scenes, no money changes hands – instead artists do ‘swaps’, taking turns to remix each other’s work.) But there are cases where remixers have gotten percentage points in the contract, earning royalties, and even occasionally getting a publishing credit in the new version of the song. ‘Then again,’ suggests Kevin Martin, ‘with so much of this music being sample-based, you could argue that neither the artist nor the remixer are “creators” in the traditional sense. It’s more the case that both the artist and the remixer act as “filters” for a sort of cultural flow.’ This metaphor of filtering fits Brian Eno’s notion of the modern artist as no longer a creator but a curator. In the age of information overload and artistic overproduction, Eno has argued, ‘it is perhaps the connection maker who is the new storyteller.’ This is exactly the role that DJs fulfil. As archivists who trawl the stacked past and tastemakers who sift through the present deluge, they possess the skills required both to represent other people’s work in an aesthetically coherent context (the DJ set) and to reproduce another’s work altogether (the remix).
The gap between remixing and DJing is narrowing; recreating other people’s tracks in the studio and recombining them in the DJ booth are gradually merging into a single continuum of mixology. Most mixers come with ‘kill switches’ and EQing, functions that allow the DJ to alter the frequency levels on records, thereby enabling the DJ to engage in live remixing. Used during the transition between two tracks when both records overlap, kill switches cut out entire frequency bands. The DJ can combine, say, the bass of the first track with the treble and mid-range of the incoming track; the resultant mesh is basically a new track that lasts the duration of the mix. EQing (boosting or lowering the frequency levels) can also be used to add extra dynamics to the experience, in the mix or at any point in the record. DJs are also increasingly using effects processors with functions like echo, phasing and reverb, or deploying drum machines to add an extra tier of polyrhythm, or programming mini-samplers to throw simple beat loops or riffs into the mix.
Turntable manufacturers are continually coming up with new DJ-friendly functions, like a button that makes the turntable go backwards. ‘If you were just playing records backwards once in a while, that wouldn’t be so interesting,’ says Richie Hawtin. ‘But as soon as you add the element of EQing and effects on backwards records, you’re getting into really uncharted territory.’ Then there’s the CD mixer – long resisted by DJs, because of their attachment to vinyl. The latest high-end CD mixers can mimic most of the hands-on techniques DJs use to manipulate vinyl discs, such as scratching, and have a number of advantages, like looping functions and the ability to adjust a track’s speed by a factor of plus or minus sixteen without altering the music’s pitch, thanks to a time-stretching/time-compression chip. CDs have another advantage – they are much lighter and more capacious than vinyl records, and it’s far cheaper to burn prerelease tracks onto a CD than to press up a dubplate.
With the range of possibilities open to the DJ ever-expanding, and the cult of the utterly transformative remix showing little signs of waning, the idea of the dance track as a finished product has been obliterated. Not only is the moment of completion deferred, but the creative process slips back and forth between DJ booth and studio. For his Purpose Maker label, Jeff Mills makes ultra-minimal tracks that he describes as ‘DJ tools’. Essentially unfinished work, this music is only full ‘composed’ (put together) when it is meshed with other minimal tracks. Here Mills has only self-consciously highlighted what is the general rule in rave music: the vast majority of the tracks don’t make sense when heard in isolation, because really they are raw ingredients for the DJ-chef to turn into a meal. The DJ tests the material for its latent capabilities and applications, but in a sense, the material also tests the DJ, challenging his skills and spurring him on to new performance heights. This peculiar feedback loop between studio and booth characterizes all forms of techno, from house to jungle. There’s no definitive version, no moment of completion; everything remains in the mix, always and forever.
In the ten years since Energy Flash came out, music sequencing software that basically places a virtual recording studio inside your computer has become ever more affordable and widely used. In addition to dramatically expanding the options in terms of arranging and processing sounds available to your average producer, these technical advances have also spilled over into the realm of DJing. First came ‘virtual Djing’ programmes such as Traktor, which features graphic representations of turntables on the computer screen, but involves clicking and dragging the mouse to activate the onscreen controls like pitch-adjust. Then more tactile and physically engaging programmes arrived like FinalScratch and Serato Scratch Live. These work through the use of quasi-records placed on real turntables and manipulated by DJs using their traditional repertoire of skills.
Invented by the DJing technology company Stanton, FinalScratch led the way, but Serato Scratch Live, launched in 2004, seems to be catching on with the DJ cognoscenti on account of its greater stability (its relatively compact software programme means it’s less likely to crash your computer). The basic set-up is the Serato programme, a pair of ‘control records’ (the same size as a 12-inch single), and a
mysterious box connected by cables to the mixer, turntables and laptop. On the latter, the DJ archives thousands of MP3s (downloads, promos from other producers, or digitized versions of her old vinyl collection – which can now remain at home, safe from wear and tear or the risk of damage or loss). During the DJ performance, tracks are selected and ‘placed’ on two turntables graphically represented on the computer screen interface. And then . . . well, how does it work, exactly?
DJ Ripley, a San Francisco-based breakcore DJ and early Serato adopter, explains: ‘There is a click track on the control record telling the computer, via the stylus, “You’ve come this far along the track.” ’ Her partner Kid Kameleon explains that no sound passes through the stylus, just this time-code. ‘The platter tells the MP3 in the computer exactly where the stylus is to such a degree of accuracy, you can scratch. Move the control record back and forth in real time and it simulates the sound of the music going back and forth. So it’s like the sound is actually inside the platter but there’s not actually any music inside it at all.’
Like FinalScrtch, Serato enables DJs to transfer their hard-learned physical skills – cueing, mixing, scratching – to a new digital format that’s vastly more convenient in terms of storage capacity and portability. It also has a few extra computer-enhanced DJing powers. ‘You can have a track run backwards,’ says Ripley. ‘There’s a pitch adjuster within the programme, so you can adjust the b.p.m. within the computer as well as on the turntable, and that could give you a wider range in terms of speeding up or slowing down the music.’ The main ‘superpower’, though, is simply ‘the ability to have at your disposal 2,000 songs’ – the equivalent of twenty crates of vinyl. All that choice might create its own problems, of course, but with some ‘data management skills’, conscientious track labelling, and the advance creation of playlists to narrow one’s focus, it’s fairly easy to navigate the mire of options. ‘I don’t just turn up to a gig unprepared, but the beauty is I can abandon my set list if I want to,’ notes Ripley. ‘All my other music is there.’
Energy Flash: A Journey Through Rave Music and Dance Culture Page 61
