Electronic

Im always surprised that Duke Dumont has been able to cross over to America to the extent that he has. The UK producer was mentored by Switch, and came up with post-house UK producers like Oliver Dollar and Route 94.His music is great. Its lite, melodic and floating electronic pop, with maybe a little bit of camp thrown in. Its late-afternoon festival music. This is a great mix of his Blasé Boys crew, though it strangely spends the first four tracks on Aki. Duke has one of the most active Spotify accounts though, and its worth a look to check out all his playlists.

Since they released their debut album on the Anjunadeep label in 2011, the UK duo Dusky have been associated with house music at its most moodily atmospheric. Even when theyre at their most energetic, their music swirls with watery chords, deep shadows, and a pervasive air of melancholy. So its no surprise to discover that the two producers are stalwart fans of ambient electronica, as they prove in an extensive collection of favorites on YouTube. Heavy on the sounds that were floating through the UKs chillout rooms in the 90s, their list contains plenty of stone classics that no ambient survey could be complete without. Canonical cuts from The Orb, Aphex Twin, and Future Sound of London are all represented, but its in some of their deeper, more obscure picks—the leftfield of the leftfield, if you will—that their playlist really serves as a stellar resource. Even serious heads are likely to discover something new here, or at least be reminded of an old favorite theyd forgotten. Bookmark this one for late nights and early mornings.

Resident Advisor’s playlist curation is excellent, and Early Electronic Music is no exception. A far out descent into analog-generated squiggles, bubbles, percolations, and sine waves from the genre’s formative stages, it successfully demonstrates how electronic music was born out of a unique intersection of novelty and avant-garde. After all, Raymond Scott and Perrey and Kingsley, both active in the mid-20th century, used cutting-edge technology to make silly pop throwaways. At the other end of the spectrum there’s Morton Subotnick, a serious composer who recorded for the classical label Nonesuch. RA also deserves props for diversity. Their tracklist contains a cut each from Daphne Oram and Delia Derbyshire, two visionary female composers who largely were written out of electronic music’s development. It’s worth noting that the playlist focuses on pieces made by electronic processes exclusively, thus explaining why hybrid examples, including Bernard Hermann’s theremin-laced scored for the science fiction landmark The Day the Earth Stood Still, have been excluded.

Remind us of why we were supposed to hate electroclash? Because it was cheap and disposable? Because it celebrated amateurism over art? Because it was a crude simulacrum of past musical innovations? Well, they said the same things about punk when it first hit. And, like punk, electroclash is the passing fad that never went away. For a sound that supposedly died out sometime in late 2003 in the clogged-up bathroom at some Vice-sponsored after-hours party in Williamsburg, electroclashs cocktail of primitive synth-pop, ripped-stocking attitude, and sexually charged provocation has become a permanent strain in the DNA of post-millennial indie.In its primordial late-90s state, electroclash represented the playfully scrappy antidote to the increasingly slick and aggressive nature of popular electronica, and a flirtatious, fashion-forward affront to the deliberately drab, self-effacing nature of wool-sweatered indie rock. Following a decade where A&R scouts were desperately seeking the next Seattle in Chapel Hill, Halifax, San Diego, and all points in between, electroclash represented perhaps the first instance of a post-internet, non-localized scene, with adherents springing up everywhere from New York (Fischerspooner) and Toronto (Peaches) to Munich (Chicks on Speed) and Liverpool (Ladytron). And by foregrounding female and queer voices, electroclash initiated a crucial early step in chipping away at the boys clubs that have traditionally dominated both indie rock and electronic music, a process that continues to this day.Like any hyped-up movement, electroclash was rife with flash-in-the-pan phenoms that time and Spotify have forgotten. (Pour out your complimentary energy drink of choice for W.I.T. and Ping Pong Bitches.) But you can also draw a direct line from electroclash to some of the most important artists of the 21st-century. This playlist compiles electroclashs definitive names alongside the established bands that stripped down their sound in response (Elastica, Broadcast), the seasoned DJs who embraced the neon vibe (Felix da Housecat, Ellen Allien), and the game-changing artists (M.I.A., The Knife) who elevated electroclash into a permanent feature of the modern musical lexicon.

IDM, or Intelligent Dance Music, has undergone many interesting transformations over the years. It originated in the early nineties, and was used to described modern electronic music that eschewed the dancefloor bombast in favor of a more experimental interpretation of the medium. The term was used to describe artists such as Autechre, Aphex Twin, LFO and Luke Vibert. Theres a lot of space between all those artists -- and the term was always problematic -- but a few of the common aesthetic currents included jittery arhythmical backdrops and airy and at times noisy atmospheric embellishments. The artists also tended to be more conceptual, and were also generally better versed on the history of electronic music BH (before house). Of course, tagging a genre as being uniquely "intelligent" was always going to be problematic, and it was (rightfully) met with scorn by many critics and fans who thought there was nothing inherently dumb about most dance music. But the term persisted, and the music evolved. In many ways, it became a more specific aesthetic than its cousin "electronica" (which was also effectively a genre largely for people who werent into mainstream dance music) and it also outlasted its 90s peer trip-hop in terms of general relevancy.Few people are more qualified to provide an overview of IDM than Philip Sherburne, and his "essentials" article focuses on the more melodic side of the heady microgenre. Its a fun, non-intuitive take on the music, and the tracks by Gescom, Atom TM and Ms Jynx were all pretty great and unexpected. It also makes for a great playlists, especially if youre looking for a more wallpaper, background playlist. Philips sequencing is pretty spot on as well, and it represents a pretty good synthesis of his expertise as a renowned film critic and a DJ.

Germany’s DJ Koze makes the type of sweeping, kaleidoscopic electronic that sheds easy genre definitions or quick reference points. When he released his 2013 masterpiece Amyglda, some positioned it next to Daft Punk’s album from that year, Random Access Memories, as the go-to electronic release of that year. Coming from a hip-hop background, I detected the influence of Madlib in Koze’s whimsical, slightly stoned collages, and that sense of playfulness and culture spelunking extends to the artists on Koze’s Pampa label. Philip has captured the “pleasure of small surprises” that is essential to label’s charm. It’s an amazing, frequently silly and always surprising collection.

Andy Beta strikes again. This time around fans of Pitchfork’s Essentials series are treated to the music journalist’s historical romp through pop’s love affair with the vocoder and talk box, repurposed chunks of communications technology that transform the human voice into cyborg speech and frog croaks. His track list is a veritable house party packed with bouncing dance jams, from electro, hip-hop, electronica, and funk. A cunning curator, Beta has the chutzpah to actually leave off Kraftwerk, one of the vocoder’s most high-profile pioneers. He adds crate-digging obscurities from Can’s Holger Czukay and French disco freaks The Rockets instead. Neither is essential in terms of historical importance, yet they’re so deliciously novel that it hardly matters. Just turn them up and have a blast.

The electropop of Australian producer/DJ Flume certainly moves—the tracks on his latest album are full of dizzying drops, deep, tough rhythms, and gorgeous, sky-climbing pop hooks—but there’s a sludgy textural element that adds weight and helps him stand apart from the pack of superstar DJs. His latest album, 2016’s Skin, is a perfect piece of post-everything pop maximalism, and his hand-curated Spotify playlist serves as a virtual index to his influences. Jeremih bumps up against MF DOOM, while Boyz Noize share airtime with Sigur Rós. The assortment would make no sense unless you’re familiar with Flume, but, for the initiated, it’s damn near perfect.

At the time of this writing, the primary Spotify playlist by Four Tet (a.k.a UK producer/DJ Kieran Hebden) spans 599 songs and runs over 51 hours. By the time you read these words, it will have probably grown. Over the past few months, it seemed to serve primarily as a vehicle for Hebden to build anticipation for his ninth long-player, New Energy. At one point, the title of the playlist—typically an evolving string of emojis—was recently updated to include the album’s release date (Sept. 29), and he’s been adding tracks from the record as they’ve been released, mixing them in with songs from peers (Bicep), inspirations (Sly Stone), and aliases (um, 00110100 01010100, which is the artist page stub where an album of Four Tet b-sides resides in Spotify).Prior to that, the playlist garnered a bit of back in January, when Hebden used it to compile songs by artists from countries impacted by Donald Trump’s travel ban, including Syrian-born singer Omar Souleyman, whose album To Syria, With Love was produced by Hebden. "Its basically a place for me to share things Im listening to, and is becoming a good personal archive of music Ive enjoyed," Hebden told NPR about his playlist at the time.That’s about as coherent a definition as you could need or want. The playlist isn’t a mix and it’s not designed to be; while it flows together in parts, it’s capricious by design. It works reasonably well if you listen to it on shuffle, though expect to be taken down some pretty dark alleys, such as “3” by noise unit Pita (a.k.a. Austria’s Peter Rehberg, who runs the Mego label), which is a boss tune and a personal favorite of this author, but likely to clear a room with its jet-engine feedback shrieking. That “3” is flanked here by everything from Joni Mitchell to CAN to Coltrane to Autechre to Burial to Radiohead to HAIM to Prince to Seefeel... well, the sprawl is precisely the point. (It’s two whole days worth of music, after all.)DJ mixes are a dime-a-dozen, and it’s not hard to find plenty by Four Tet out there in the ether. (This Tokyo set from Dec. ‘13 is particularly smokin’.) What’s much more rare to find is such a comprehensive compendium of all the sounds that go into an artist’s aesthetic. For a veteran like Hebden, an experimental cosmonaut who’s as likely to fold 2-step garage into his music as he is ‘70s jazz fusion or Nigerian funk (or...Selena Gomez), a standard 15-track playlist simply wouldn’t capture the breadth of his tastes. Hell, 10 of those wouldn’t. At 599 tracks and counting, this mix is at least beginning to come close.

Four Tet (nee Kieran Hebden) has said that he wants his music to tell the story of his life, and his tracks do occupy the same psychic space as a certain class of Instagram pictures: the sun-dappled portrait taken on a mountaintop, or the early morning shot of the steam rising off an alpine lake. These are the sort of moments that are too slippery to adequately capture in a caption, though, invariably, we try. A lot of musicians spend their career chasing a sound, and while Hebden does have a certain sonic palette -- one that is inordinately taken up by anything that chimes -- the listener gets the distinct impression that, more than anything, the British producer is in search of a feeling.This is true of the work he does on remixes. Hebden is not only one of the most prolific remixers of his generation, but also one of the most catholic. He’s remixed Riri as well as the Australian avante-electro-jazz quartet Tangents. And while his remixes generally correspond to the stylistic shifts and whims of his own work, there are times when they precede his own transformations, seemingly blurring the subject and object. In many ways, these remixes provide an alternative history of Hebden’s own music.One thing you’ll notice is that while Hebden’s sound is unmistakable, he rarely transforms the tracks he remixes, at least not entirely. There is an occasional bit of brinksmanship with the source material -- for Bonobo’s early track, Pick Up, Hebden takes the originals dusty breakbeats and adds a stuttering, polyrhythmic pounce; and the fact that he would remix half of Madlib’s Madviliany album feels somewhere between an homage and a dare -- but, for the most part, Hebden’s remixes are retellings of the original, albeit a bit refractured. Hebden latches onto a specific idea, melody, vocal line, or beat in the source material, and tweaks that according to his own muse. He’ll add a bit of electronic swirl to the spacial post-rock of The Drift, draw out the pinging keys of Matthew Dear’s “Deserter,” or tuck a thumping disco beat and skronky sax line beneath Nenah Cherry’s after hours swinger “Dream Baby Dream,” though, ultimately, the focus of that remix remains on Cherry’s smokey voice. Similarly, his remix of The XX’s 2002 “Angels” adopts the original’s chimy key drops and maintains the vibe of post-coliatal emotional surrender, but Hebden flips the melody and adds in airey textures that make the track more tender than sensual. It feels as if two artists are viewing the same scene -- lovers, naked, intertwined, near daybreak -- and coming to slightly different, though complimentary conclusions. Hebden is also very savvy when it comes to selecting the tracks he remixes. It’s easy to understand why Radiohead commissioned him to remix “Scatterbrain” from the band’s 2003 album, Hail to the Thief. With its spare, hypnotic guitar figure at its core, the original sounds like a daydream -- albeit a particularly dark one -- and in many ways it matches with the more pastoral, delicate electronic music that Four Tet was making at the time. But Hebden has mentioned that he very quickly came to resent the folktronica tag that critics and fans applied to his 2003 album Rounds, and he quickly pivoted to a new sound. This remix could be a early indication of that transformation His remix takes the track into an entirely different direction.Thom Yorke’s vocals are sliced and reprocessed, and paired with a jittery drum pattern and (towards the end) atonal, skronky sax outburst, which hints at the IDM-tinted free jazz experiments of Hebden’s middle period work.As Hebden’s own sound evolved, from the more acoustic/organic work of Rounds to the dancefloor-ready tracks of his later work, his remix work gained a fuller, more bass-heavy sound. A great example of this is his remix for Scandinavian nu-disco DJ/producer Todd Terje. The track starts out with a swell of chiming synths (of course), and the motif pops up repeatedly through the track, but the song soon settles into a four-on-the-floor dance groove, giving the track an immediacy that balances out Hebden’s more delicate tendencies. In some ways, Hebden’s work as a remix is just as satisfying as his own solo work. Yes, the latter feels more high-stakes and substantial, but his remixes are oftentimes more playful and experimental, as if Hebden is testing out ideas and aesthetic masks. Yes, to an extent, the payoff for these are his full length albums, but, as with many things in life, the journey is oftentimes more fascinating than the destination.