Double LP
First time vinyl edition of what is inarguably one of the great recordings of the 20th Century. Please don't debate me: i'm immovable on this point. Recorded in 1974 with the S.E.M Ensemble and Eastman himself on piano, Femenine remained unreleased until Frozen Reeds issued a CD in 2016, and with it putting in motion what now feels like an ever-accelerating interest in the generally overlooked, unheard and hugely underappreciated work of what we're all starting to realise now was one of the most radical composers of his era. That Fememine was recorded live by World of Echo co-producer, Steve Cellum, feels significant, for there's an obvious analog between Eastman and Russell, highly innovative and prolific artists both with tragically cut-short lives who would find more recognition in their absence than when alive. As a gay black man active in the 70s, Eastman's music feels institutionally resistant, though it carries with it the craft and studious invention equal to any of, say, the Mills College alumni or his conservatory peers - for example, i can't help but hear his use of mechanised sleigh bells as motif as similar to Reich's use of marimbas. And his practice might arguably be understood as presaging that of Russell, Chatham or even Branca, each pioneering operatives in post-minimalism. But why even compare? Surely the point of this re-presentation of Eastman's considerable work is that it acknowledges the forgotten author, gives voice to that which lay silent, an especially important pursuit when considering what was being articulated, here and on numerous other recordings, were highly radical political statements for the unseen and marginalised. Fememine was remarkable in '74, as it was in 2016, and now with this vinyl release in 2023, we're reminded again of the eternal power of this music. That we may have never heard it is bordering on criminal (and probably systemically prejudiced). That we have the chance to now forever is an unheralded blessing. Impossible to overstate the value of this work.
