I've always considered folk a sort of private music, which goes against most of what I've read about it; in general, traditional folk music is described as "of the people" and representing universal experiences of pain, love and the otherwise mundane. Yet folk music almost always seems tied to a particular time and place, often indelibly related to the person making it. I hear Elizabeth Cotton's motherly, eternally optimistic plea, "I don't wanna be treated this old way," and think of all the crap she must've gone through; I hear Leadbelly throw down lines like, "Shot James Brady, gonna shoot him again," as if he'd killed a hundred men without a second thought. Even Dylan spouting "I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard" rings true with me. In all of these cases, I'm struck by the universal sentiment, yet the songs are nonetheless distinctly individual.

In this way, folk music has always had an effect on me similar to free jazz, musique concrete or even noise: they all channel a desire to express what is generally considered inexpressible, though just as often, they represent the radically subjective. When Dylan spouts, or Stockhausen splices primitive electronics with German radio broadcasts, there's a tangible divide between what would be absolute truth and complete alienation. It's tough to stand on the fence with that music, even more so when it's decades removed from its birth. Of course, folk, in all its forms, has endured, and if there really is a relationship between the music of Dylan and Stockhausen, it is that practically anyone is invited to join in (if not necessarily to hum the same tune).

Electronic and found-sound experimenters Alejandra Salinas and Aeron Bergman seem to be on a similar trajectory as the aforementioned musicians. Taking elements of mundane existence from kitchen scatter to storefront hustle to parlor room piano, they cut and filter with laptop precision, arranging the sounds into an almost documentary narrative; their music is folk merely by proxy. On three records prior to Bousha Blue Blazes (including the ethnomusical document Folklore, Vol. 1: La Rioja, source material for their Ruinas Encantadas disc), the Spain-based duo collected sounds familiar to almost anyone and manipulated them into music that, while culled from the mundane, was decidedly abstract. Their latest release uses most of the same tactics, but rather than proceed as an experiment in sound, it feels to me like a labor of love and loss, one of considerable depth. Simply put-- and despite my fear that it could fairly easily polarize listeners-- it's an incredibly beautiful set of music.

The story of Bousha Blue Blazes is that Bergman's grandmother Bousha visited his home in Spain during Christmas 2001, and that all sounds on this record are taken from that time. After the very brief, laptop-manipulated guitar fanfare of "Ánimo", "Humming Radio Caro Cariño" sneaks in with distant violin and guitar pluck; soon enough, Bousha's passive, pleasant singing arrives, joining an old tune on the radio. Very quickly, the comfortable milieu of their living room is established, but it's just as quickly detoured by soft, high computer tones and a repetitive guitar figure. The tones float alongside, but rarely interrupt the trio, as the piece glides in and out of focus. "Thanksgiving Going on Anyway" begins on a stuttering, almost glitch pulse when all of a sudden, what sounds like a wine glass being shattered in the right channel introduces a muffled crowd of people, presumably sitting down to dinner. The broken pulse recurs now and again, and sometimes sine beeps (and lots of other unidentified noises) punctuate the mix like glitter on a tapestry. It's a very highly detailed music, but it doesn't overwhelm the senses-- in fact, like the best moments on this CD, it invites you to move closer.

Since many of the tracks feature vocals, they often resolve into semi-songs. "Amapola Dust" features Bousha's refrain "I love you" over shimmering, sliced cymbals, vinyl crackle, and its own echo looped and considerably processed. "I Don't Know" is actually a straight song performed by Bousha, and sounds unaltered. Apparently, she had been a professional singer in the past, and although a few years removed from the stage may have taken strength from her voice, she's still graceful. "Know I Don't" follows, and the title suggests it may have taken source material from the previous tune, though its construction is obviously laptop-generated. Two minutes in, the voices and piano drop out for a cavernous, bottomless trip into the black abyss. Quiet but weighty ambience surrounds, and it almost feels as if I've plunged into the deepest regions of a northern river, unable to sense much but my own helplessness. There is no sound but the still, consonant roar of the beyond; in music it's sometimes hard to tell exactly where I am, though this place seems close to birth, or perhaps death.

Of course, Bousha Blue Blazes is the kind of record that could inspire completely different impressions from someone else, or even myself at a different time. Like the best folk, or any other purely expressionist form of music, it not only relies on the methods and particular point of view of the performers, but on the hope that someone will intercept its transmission, thereby magnifying the impact. As I see it, Alejandra and Aeron's remarkable achievement is not only in the unique way they translate the warmth and wisdom of an otherwise completely unfamiliar woman and location, but in how they did it with such ingenuity. Far from a private experience, music like this stays alive as long as it has an audience with which to connect.