Grateful

Peter Rehberg was many things — lifelong composer and improviser, frequent collaborator, occasional DJ, perpetual troublemaker. More than anything, he was enthusiastic, and his boundless enthusiasm made him a tireless champion of other artists and their work. His label Mego Publications it was home to artists working in many different corners of experimental music: Tujiko Noriko, Emeralds, Fennesz, Oren Ambarchi, Kevin Drumm, Stephen O'Malley — the list goes on. The label elevated these artists, gave them visibility, put the world at their feet. And once Rehberg had established a relationship with someone, he would often work with them again and again. One such artist is Klara Lewis, whose debut album Rehberg was released when she was just 21 years old. Lewis had first become aware of Editions Mego when Rehberg reissued an album by her father, Graham Lewis, of British post-punks Wire. But, he says, he had no idea who she was when she sent him her demo. He released six albums on Mego between 2014 and 2021, the year Rehberg died. Gratefulher seventh LP for the label, is her tribute to his friendship and legacy.

Anyone familiar with Rehberg's own music—particularly his landmark 1999 album album/get-out” class=”external-link” data-event-click=”{"element":"ExternalLink","outgoingURL":"https://pitaemego.bandcamp.com/album/get-out"}” href=”https://pitaemego.bandcamp.com/album/get-out” rel=”nofollow noopener” target=”_blank”>Go outreleased under his pseudonym Pita—will recognize his imprint Grateful. Rehberg tackled a lot of difficult music, but he could also be surprisingly emotional. Amid Go outdisorienting bursts of randomized noise, the untitled third track It's a haunting, romantic elegy crafted from a masked Ennio Morricone sample. shimmering like an oasis before being gradually engulfed by avalanche deformation during its 11-minute journey. “Thankful,” Lewis' album opener, is an obvious homage to Rehberg's track (the closest thing he ever got to a hit). Lewis' track begins with an elegiac procession of slow-moving, minor chords that might be a few cut-and-screwed bars of Arvo Pärt or Henryk Górecki. For more than 20 minutes, they move and stir, unchanged except for the placement distortion that has been inflicted on them. It's an incredibly simple piece, but much like Rehberg's, it has an inexplicable power, one that doesn't just feel like a function of its bleak progression or fiery overdrive. Listen closely as it builds and thickens, and you'll sense undercurrents, aural illusions, ghostly trackers sneaking across the charred backdrop. There's another crucial similarity between the two tracks: Like Pita's “3,” “Thankful” skips the expected climax with abrupt silence.

Lewis follows this monumental record in the most contradictory way possible: with a 76-second ukulele sketch—slow, ruminative, slightly subdued, with no added bells or whistles, unless you count the sound of a body shifting in its chair as suddenly the tremor goes away. An unvarnished, acoustic extract of four-string verité, it's unlike anything else in Lewis' catalog. Her work has typically focused on shadow loops, scratchy percussion, and other staples of the post-tech, post-industrial electro-acoustic toolbox. He quickly changes course again with “Top,” another short track—just two and a half minutes—that mimics the raucous screams Rehberg was often known for. Running a pulsating rhythm through the increasing distortion, he sculpts the feedback and ramps up the tension until the whole thing hits like a demonic anthem. She may be imparting a lesson she learned from her mentor: In the self-serious world of experimental music, a little sass is always welcome.