In “Presque rien n^o 2” the microphones and tape recorder go out in search of the different elements that make up the ‘soundscape’. The composer, along with his ‘abetter’ Brunhild, comments on his rovings, his movements, his aims. Admittedly, the words are hushed, confiding, as it were, and are as sparing as possible so as not to destroy the magic of the piece. Nevertheless the listener is not alone: he is accompanied on a guided tour and the presence of the roving recorder is made quite clear.

After a long sequence, during which we discover the various sounds of a nocturnal landscape — crickets, night birds, a distant bell, a dog barking, a symphony of insects… suddenly everything begins to change. The night has caught the composer unawares, making its way into his head, and in the course of his work in the studio, he suddenly gives free rein to his subjectivity, transforms the landscape of the night outside into a sort of ‘psychoanalysis of his own landscape at night’. This phantasm continues, reaching its peak in a nightmarish frenzy of storm and rain, and an insistent beating of electric notes. Absorption in an idyllic natural setting could only avert the violence, wars and injustice that surround us just long enough to provide a glimpse of hope beneath the stars.

[source: Réseaux des arts médiatiques]

Premiere

• November 14, 1979, Festival d’automne à Paris: Luc Ferrari, Centre Pompidou, Paris (France)