Robert Rich - From sleep concerts to the dark ambient of Risveglio

Inventor of the sleep concert – a night-long event in which the audience experiences states hovering between sleep and wakefulness – Robert Rich confirms himself, 41 years on from his debut, as one of the greatest ambient artists of all time, part of that second wave which splintered into even more extreme subcategories than the ideas first put forward by Brian Eno, the genre's original genius theorist.

Despite tracks and albums stretched out over more than generous running times (consider the eight hours of "Perpetual-A Somnium Continuum" from 2014), the Californian composer, born in 1963, places the core of his worth in detail: the pinpoint sampling of an ambient noise, the fragment of an ethnic rhythm hybridized with space music, a move beyond new age that opens onto unfathomable universes tinged with crepuscular hues. His ecstatic power matches that of Britain's Lustmord, the "godfather" of dark ambient, and he can also boast collaborations that have gone down in history, such as the masterpieces made alongside Steve Roach, "Strata" (1990) and "Soma" (1992).

From Rich's discography, which continues to this day across dozens of generally high-level productions, one should savor – to cite one of the most rarefied titles – the "echoes of small things," grandeur rendered microscopic, demanding trust and diligence from the listener. Once the casket is forced open, a legacy of striking complexity unfolds before us, testimony to a talent that, through a strenuous, almost mystical will, sacrifices everything to reach the very center of sound, the point where musical perception triggers, in the initiate, the experience of Awakening.

Robert, you debuted in 1982 with "Sunyata"; what were the less obvious influences that led you to that promising first work?

Many of my influences were non-musical, related instead to psychology, to the conceptual art of fluxus and minimalism, to ethnography. I hoped my debut would be an artistic statement going beyond mere style, focusing instead on states of consciousness. At the time I was playing strange experimental music, improvising with my friends Rick Davies and John Spencer; our group, Quote Unquote, had very little discipline though, and an eccentric sense of humor, and that adventure didn't reflect the more introverted side of my personality. So I started creating very long drones and ambient landscapes, using a modular synth and pre-recorded sounds. My musical influences included Tibetan ritual music and chant, Annea Lockwood, the drones of Maryanne Amacher's collaboration with John Cage on "Empty Words-Close Up," and Terry Riley's performances for electric organ and tape loops. Then, of course, the more obvious influences are the psychedelic rock of the late 1960s and the space music of the '70s, but if you look closely there's no clear imprint of those on "Sunyata," which instead sounds rarefied and stripped-down. In truth, my greatest inspiration comes from listening to birds, frogs, rain, insects and the breeze.

One of your lesser-known influences is indeed Amacher, a composer still almost unknown in Italy.

I loved her approach to sound, the way clouds of drones filled space and inhabited the world within our ears. Her compositions were pure psychoacoustic phenomena. I met her about 25 years ago, at a concert put on by CCRMA, Stanford University's music department. She and Naut Humon came to sit near me, and Naut introduced us. Naut is an old friend from the San Francisco music scene – I'd recommend his project Rhythm & Noise, an artist specializing in immersive audio technology. We chatted for quite a while, and I got the chance to tell her how inspired I'd been by her "Close Up" and by the "Sound House" installation she had set up in 1980 in St. Paul, for the New Music America festival.

What was she like?

When she started talking about what she was working on at the time, I honestly couldn't follow the flow of her thoughts; she had a strange way of using language. Her mind worked, so to speak, on a different plane from ours. Truly one of the most unusual and stimulating artists of the last century.

Let's stay in 1982: thinking back to the first historic "sleep concert" at Stanford University, what images come to mind?

It was a very bare-bones performance, free of charge, and it was the first time I'd ever performed in public. I chose the lounge of my dormitory as the location; at the time I was an eighteen-year-old freshman. Before that I had only performed during an improvisation with Quote Unquote, on a local radio station's broadcast. I promoted that date by putting up photocopies of a handwritten flyer on the campus noticeboards and kiosks. Fifteen people showed up, half of whom lived on the floor above the dormitory lounge. I won't hide my surprise at seeing anyone turn up to such a strange event. I remember, in particular, the struggle of dragging the synths down from my room, which was on the third floor, to the lounge, along with the stereo system I used to amplify the music.

What instruments did you choose for the occasion?

I played the dormitory's piano at the start and end of the performance, the following morning. Then there was a series of bells I had built using car parts and scrap metal. Then there were recordings of abstract sounds, made with a synth I had assembled myself, and drones produced with the Prophet-5 synth, which absolutely refused to stay in tune. The real problem was how to fill eight hours of performance; I put together a detailed program split into 90-minute sections, drawing on the fact that after 90 minutes the brain enters REM sleep, a program that mapped out precise moods tied to different moments of the night, an idea borrowed from the ragas of Indian classical music.

What is a "sleep concert" for? Sleep, perhaps, is the least interesting consequence of it…

My hope was that sleep concerts would encourage people to explore their own inner world within a communal setting. I wanted to foster the possibility of incubating within oneself dreamlike as well as hypnotic experiences, bordering on "trance," by creating a special environment, an acoustic space that felt welcoming yet mysterious at the same time. In my intentions, I hoped it would become a kind of modern shamanic ritual.

When did you realize you'd found your artistic identity?

It might have been in the early 80s, when I recorded "Oak Spirits," a 43-minute piece in which I played a single dissonant chord on the Prophet-5; it was an improvised overdub laid on top of a cassette recording of a stream running near my grandparents' house. That piece somehow illuminated the place "beyond music" I'd been searching for. It was something closer to meditation than to a normal musical performance. But maybe the real discovery happened a year earlier, when I was 17, and I tried to set up the synth so it would produce, let's say, "autonomous" solutions. What a pretentious teenager I must have been! I called that approach "self-determined synthesis," and in that mode I generated strange forms, like sea creatures from other worlds. Sometimes I'd let those sonic combinations resonate for days, trying to get them to interact without my direct intervention, using only stochastic processes or letting electrical impulses drift on their own. Even today I use some similar procedures to create organic sounds that aren't of this planet.

"Strata" and "Soma", made together with Roach, are undoubtedly masterpieces. What made that collaboration so effective?

Well, first of all, Steve and I are still good friends today. In fact, we'll be performing together this coming December. That said, we have very different personalities, and maybe that's what makes our two albums together so special. Steve can be impetuous, like an avalanche, so sometimes I choose to play a slightly more subordinate role, if you will, to highlight his strong drive and instinct. Working with him is smooth, enjoyable, fast, letting intuition lead the way. Thanks to "Strata" and "Soma", we discovered new voices within our respective vocabularies, touching on unprecedented dimensions of the shamanic role that music can take on. What makes those recordings special is the excitement of discovery: on the first album you can feel that raw sensation typical of exploration, while on the second we reached a further stage of maturity.

Are you satisfied with your collaboration with Lustmord? Your "Stalker" doesn't seem to add anything to your solo albums.

Making "Stalker" was a pleasure. It gave us satisfaction both at the time, in 1995, and in retrospect. We were genuinely surprised by its impact on an audience that was clearly looking for immersive, high-intensity music. Brian (Williams, ed.) and I felt we'd discovered a fascinating shared landscape. That work stands out as a unique expression of our meeting, a collaboration in which neither of us felt we were competing with the other. And I don't even see it as a particularly dark album; if anything, what I recognize in it is a kind of mysterious energy.

Which musicians do you see yourself collaborating with in the near future?

Almost all of my collaborations start out as friendships. I never think "I'd like that musician's sound on this track," but rather, "I'd like to spend time with that person, to explore some ideas together." So it has to start with a sense of friendship, mutual respect, shared worldviews, and a desire to learn something from each other. I've recently been in touch with a few people about possible collaborations: we'll see how things develop. You know, sometimes I can be a bit of a hermit, so it also depends on whether a new friend wants to come visit me, to explore our creativity together.

What was the concept behind such an ambitious album as "Somnium"?

I wanted to make a sleep concert available that anyone could experience from their own home. In 1996 I traveled all over North America, giving more than 24 sleep concerts broadcast through various college radio stations; the effort of staying awake through those grueling marathons pushed me to look for an alternative to live performance, in order to reach as many people as possible. The DVD seemed like a suitable format to hold such extremely long music, although in practice it turned out to be a project full of challenges. Years later I found a better outlet through downloading and streaming; it took me a long time to put together the elements needed to make "Somnium" work, but by the end of the Nineties I managed it, and even today that work enjoys an excellent reputation.

What intrigues you about Gaudí's architecture, to the point of dedicating your notable 1991 album of the same name to him?

More than an architect, Gaudí was a student of nature. He found a way to emulate the complex mathematical patterns of living beings using thoroughly intuitive techniques, arriving at organic, highly expressive forms in a way no Western architect before him ever had. Just think of his idea of hanging interconnected cords from the ceiling, attaching weights proportional to the desired effect in order to simulate, in reverse, the shape his buildings would take; he'd then photograph the result, flip the image upside down, and use it to study the natural curvature of the various arches, so they could bear the weight of the building stone. Those unusual "natural" curves look more like tree trunks than Gothic arches. How could such an approach not inspire me, knowing that the realm of mathematics underlies the organic realm, and that we can connect these two realms through a holistic, imaginative leap of thought? It's no longer about keeping nature and construction separate, no longer about setting intuition against logic — we're finally talking about a common language that unifies life and the maps of experience.

Which album by another artist was your gateway to discovering ambient music?

It's a term I can't quite come to terms with, since to me it doesn't mean anything. There is one album I remember, though, released around 1972, called "Wind Harp-Song From The Hill". It consists of two tracks of drones produced by wind blowing through an Aeolian harp. When I first heard it (I found it in a bargain bin, it must have been '76), it felt like I'd discovered the music I heard resonating in my imagination. A very intense experience. Still, I was glad when, in the mid-80s, people started using the term "ambient" coined by Brian Eno, because it distinguished the music I was making from new age, which had religious connotations that felt foreign to me. The problem arises when you associate the word with "background" listening. Later on, "ambient" was also adopted by the dance crowd to describe certain music played in chill rooms, but to me that seems more like lounge music, really. I work in different territory, hypnotic territory, but I've never found a proper term for what I do. So I've tried to spread the term coined by Pauline Oliveros, "deep listening," which at least gives the listener precise coordinates for how to best experience the sound.

So, what is ambient music to you?

If you mean the musical genre, well, I don't really have an opinion on that. Let me repeat: technically, ambient is considered background music, and I aspire to the idea that my music could be something more than a device for setting the tone of a room. I care about creating experiences that are engaging, psychoactive and energizing. When someone's honest artistic expression seems to resemble a category defined by others, let's remember that such a resemblance mostly stems from generational and cultural artifacts, from a given context, from categories derived from previous experiences. In emptiness, nothing exists, at least not as we understand the concept of existence. And so we should avoid imprisoning an individual's creations within desiccating categories. Maybe my music sounds introverted and quiet because I tend to be hypersensitive to external stimuli. I experience a kind of tactile synesthesia, and sound can affect me too, on a skin-deep level. An aggressive sound can give me physically painful sensations. And that's why I make music that makes you feel good when you listen to it: I want to generate a virtuous circle in myself and in others.

What do you think is the intent of the dark-ambient subgenre? Certainly not to induce a state of calm in the listener.

I don't really think in terms of a "dark" or "bright" style, although, I suppose, starting the creative catharsis process with a style firmly in mind could be a source of inspiration for some. For a work to express any kind of beauty, it must contain the memories of existence's many facets, and therefore birth and death, joy and dread, wonder and fear, as well as those ecstatic feelings that find no place in verbal language. Because every time we bask in daylight, we also see shadows. Without contrasts, everything blends into gray. And besides, look, I could point you to certain so-called "meditation music" that makes me want to tear my ears off, just as certain death metal grindcore only makes me laugh.

Do you still use analog equipment?

Not for recording, no—I gave up tape since I'm quite satisfied with 24-bit digital recording. By the mid-90s I had already sold my analog reel-to-reel recorders. As for analog musical instruments, well, I use those, and how, whenever a track calls for it. On "Neurogenesis", released three years ago, there's generous use of analog modular synth. That said, instruments aren't everything—the music always makes the difference. It's true that I gravitate more toward acoustic instruments, which allow for a direct emotional connection with the unconscious, especially when they have a timbral palette that recalls the human voice. Electronic instruments play a more material role, suited to building textures. I often use the modular synth as a kind of "sandbox", enjoying experimenting with it. In any case, electronic timbres (including analog ones) are clearly part of my language.

What qualities must a new track have for you to decide to release it?

It depends on the album. I often build albums as a single entity, along a long timeline where each section is part of this larger story. I use different criteria each time to decide whether something works or not. First and foremost, it has to be something I myself would want to listen to, that I like, that gives me chills down my spine or evokes a sense of wonder in me. I try to think more like a listener than a composer.

What role does noise play in your aesthetic?

"Noise" is just a reference term, a word commonly used when something doesn't have a well-defined tonality. Music offers a home to any sound that has a reason to exist.

When does noise stop being artistically interesting?

Personally, when I don't feel like listening to it. Or when it's at excessive volume. But you could say the same about harmonically and melodically pleasant music too. Noise depends on the ears of whoever's listening.

How do you effectively compose organic ambient music? Some people just overdub sounds of streams and breezes...

You have to learn to listen, and to understand and respect the ways sounds coexist and relate to one another.

What's the most extreme musical choice you've ever made?

Maybe composing "Open Window" twenty years ago, an album for solo piano. I was afraid to release it, because some might have perceived it as a tired, overused cliché. But all things considered, it's a good work, closer to certain things by Terry Riley and Gurdjieff than to George Winston's performances. It was quite a gamble. Or maybe it was deciding to also be my own manager, driver and roadie on tours across North America. Or maybe the most extreme thing was when, in Morocco, I put on a Mexican wrestler mask and performed at a death metal show alongside a group of heroin-addicted bikers.

Pardon?

No, come on, I made that last one up. Actually, most of my choices aren't extreme at all.

What would you have done differently?

Regrets? Who doesn't have any? Maybe, in my case, I wouldn't do “Eye Catching” again, the debut album of the Amoeba project. If I could change the past, I don't know what I'd fix. It's not that simple to change yourself, also because my art reflects exactly what I've experienced, as well as my search for meaning. I'd happily change the introverted side of my character. I'd also like to know how to value myself better. You know, I hate the work of self-promotion. In the end, all I care about is people discovering my work and being curious enough to dig deeper into it. I'm making music as if it were coming to me from some "other" place, a place whispers come from. And honestly, I don't know what more I could do, musically.

When your muse drifts away, what do you do?

When music feels distant, I explore painting, poetry, installations, or anything else that sparks my curiosity. I'm deeply grateful for all of it. I can't imagine a better life.

Western education systems still place huge emphasis on the importance of "using your head"; there seems to be no alternative to understanding reality except through reasoning.

It's not an either/or question, like "intellect" versus "emotion." It's more about integrating and incorporating life experiences with the curiosity typical of the intellect, about understanding the role the environment has on us and how we in turn change the environment. I'm talking about understanding our mortality, metabolizing concepts like aesthetics, humility, balance. I think about it a lot.

And where have your reflections led you?

For instance, my album “The Biode” came out of questions about the self and the mind, consciousness, sentience. We should also consider that we ought to become more aware of the likely sentience of other organisms and of the complex systems around us. This idea might seem entirely intellectual, but it stems from the observation that the mind extends beyond the "head" and even beyond the perceptions of the nervous system, reaching into the complex interactions of every form of energy with the life around us. "Using your head" could thus mean using every layer of experience, in order to arrive at a new kind of awareness. The challenge, then, would be to manage to integrate the many levels of conscious awareness that live within us.

As things stand, do you consider yourself a serene person?

Being serene is probably not part of my nature.

How would you describe yourself?

Rather restless. Most of my friends would call me a bit of a nerd and certainly prone to overthinking. I'm also very self-critical, maybe I suffer a bit from what's known as Impostor Syndrome. I also struggle to find inspiration for future projects; but once the insight arrives, I can throw myself body and soul into work for long stretches of time, experiencing a burst of creativity. But then I go back to being lazy, and, as a result, I scold myself for it. When I try to meditate, in the end, I just can't sit still; I'd rather walk for hours, maybe that's my ideal form of meditation. As you can see, these aren't the behaviors of a serene person.

Current affairs: what about President Biden's foreign policy?

I try to avoid talking about politics. I try to preserve the pacifist within me, even though, at times, I understand that silence can make us complicit. As an artist, I interact with people from all over the world, even when their governments make the wrong choices, as is the case with the United States government. It's worth remembering that the actions of individuals are not the actions of their rulers.

Even from a musical standpoint, for many decades now Europe has been giving in to the pull of Americanization. Why?

Is that what's happening? I hope not. On the other hand, a lot of people in the States want to Europeanize themselves, because they admire your way of life. Maybe it's a phenomenon tied to the fact that we love art created somewhere far from our own, believing it to be more worthy. Let's face it, the grass is always greener on the other side. We now live in a globalized world, not just in Europe and North America, but everywhere. Even from the standpoint of media power, everything has become uniform now, here as in Japan or China — we no longer hold any kind of monopoly on information, it's all in the hands of a few multinational entities. And we, as non-mainstream artists, have a duty to build a diversified opposition to the mainstream, strengthening a tireless, direct dialogue between artist and audience that shares the same vision of reality; only that way can we keep an alternative alive. So it's not really a matter of "US vs. Europe" but, if anything, "mainstream vs. independents", wherever you are. We need to honestly create art that represents different cultures and different ways of understanding the world, art that represents our native place but that also appreciates that of other cultures, sharing local languages in contrast to the prevailing globalized culture of this noisy modernity. I'm in favor of a mix of localism and love of the foreign. We need to establish a safeguard for the arts too, something like Slow Food.

What's the most extraordinary aspect of being an artist?

Being alive and, magically, finding ways to survive by expressing the beauty of being alive. Anyone alive in the world right now can be an artist, simply by paying attention, even though, it must be said, you have to work hard on yourself to truly exist. Many great artists hold on to a steady job to pay the rent, but that doesn't stop them from answering the call of art. Some of us, on the other hand, are simply lucky, not more talented, and our career consists of doing what we love. I'd swear to it: right now there are millions of people creating wonderful things, but we simply don't see them, because the world is so vast...

(19/11/2023)

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