#william fields

[weepingwidar]

William Fields (American, 1940) - Simon Magus 'Friends in the Beginning' (n.d.)

[redpanther23]

Tonight I saw an improvisational electronic set at Squeezbox Records in Wilmington, DE. It was experimental, hypnotic, raw - it sounded like a UFO was taking off in the room!

From left to right: Adam Arritola, Chaka Benson, William Fields, Jair-Rohm Parker Wells

You can hear the show I was at, and check where some of them are playing next here:

[stealfocus]

ARTIST: William Fields

[burlveneer-music]

William Fields - Fictions - continuing to push the boundaries of generative music, making it sound both introspective and playful

William Fields, the electronic musician working in areas of algorithmic composition and improvisation, makes his debut on GOTO with “Fictions”. Continuing a slew of releases across labels such as Superpang, Tokinogake and Conditional, “Fictions” is a perfect slice of Fields’ computer music – never robotic, constantly shifting and, at times, straight up jazzy. Fields is keen to state that these pieces are performed, with several of the tracks taken directly from public live appearances. Nevertheless, each composition retains structure and familiarity, both somewhat rarities in the majority of music made via similar processes. The eight tracks here display a wide range of aesthetic approaches, however, ranging from the raucous, freeform “Febih” through the computer jazz of “Obu” to the more luscious atmospheres of “Athal” and “Ifotux”. Fields has been working in electronic music since 1998, performing regularly between the United States and Canada. A frequent collaborator, his work has received high praise from peers internationally. For several years, Fields has developed his own music software, “FieldsOS”, from which the majority of his output is produced. A particular highlight in the construction of “FieldsOS” was a weekly spot on Resonance Extra in 2019, where the system generated an hour of algorithmic music each week, broadcast without any edits. As time progresses, so does Fields’ “music system,” with “Fictions” exhibiting some of his most organic machine-music to date. May William Fields guide you through his world of musical spaces and systems. Performed and mixed by William Fields. Mastered for compact disc by Finlay Shakespeare. Artwork by Meggie Wood.

[ladytrist]

I’m also lowkey kinda dreading if school bus graveyard will go on hiatus again 😭 if so, then I feel like it’ll take another year.

I don’t know what to read anymore.

[ego-meliorem-esse]

July 13th, 1917

Be it from a sense of paternal concern or simply patriotic duty, Arthur made sure to leave his soldiers in the charge of an older Corporal and made his way to the quite pathetic excuse of a medical section where his son was left to rot.

Arthur had heard about the attack. He had been informed the day prior.

He had seen war and famine and sickness, but never like this. Arthur wasn't young, in any sense, and what wonders and strong political oppinions young men had, had left him a long time ago like a ship leaving the harbour in a hury to claim new land. This though, had left shock echoing within his tired, millenia old frame. He wasn't used to this.

Arthur made his way through the trenches with soldiers from every corner of the globe instantly stopping whatever they were doing prior and saluting him as if etiquette and rank mattered in hell. As if it was more importaint to greet the Higher ups than to survive long enough to even write a letter back to family. Arthur did understand that though. Routine and rules were the only thing keeping these poor and wretched souls from being consumed by thoughts of an imminent death.

The path to the section where Matthew was held was quite straightforward and quite familiar. He had marched to and from it hundreds of times and had a sort of automatic rithm in his step. Arthur made his way to the small and damp room with a fast pace indicative of familiarity, only to stop in his tracks in the shabbily built doorframe at the sight that awaited him in the corner.

Matthew sat in the corner of the sad makeshift medical section of the trenches, his back firm against the cold, damp wall.

His once-piercing blue-grey eyes were now clouded over with milky white cataracts, rendering him completely blind. The newly used gas had stolen his sight. His skin, once tanned and healthy, now bore the sickly pallor of a much older man who had endured unimaginable suffering.

Matthew's uniform, discarded in favour of his worn down undershirt, was now a tattered and stained relic of his time in the trenches. The not-white-anymore shirt clung to his emaciated frame as if decency still mattered in hell. The physical toll of the war was clear on his body. Not that Matthew would have to worry about seeing that any time soon. His hands, which had once held a rifle with resolve, now trembled even while resting on his thighs.

Despite his physical and emotional anguish, Matthew remained seated upright, his back pressed against the unforgiving, stained wall. A testament to his resilience if there was any left, a silent protest against the horrors that had taken his sight and left him broken in body and spirit.

As he sat there, his spirit reduced to a hollow shell, Matthew's face bore a mixed expression of utter defeat and complete indifference. His lips were drawn into a thin, lifeless line, and his cheeks were gaunt from the weight of his suffering. His blank, unseeing eyes stared into the abyss, as if waiting for answers and also hoping they'd never arrive.

In that moment, Matthew was not a representation of Canada; he was a young man who had been scarred and broken by the senseless brutality of war. The trenches around him buzzed with activity, but he remained isolated in his silent world of darkness and despair. The young medics job was done. He had patched Matthew up and left him to his own misery. Matthew was grateful.

Arthur stood there silently under the doorframe for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few seconds. A strange and unfamiliar twinge of emotion plucked and pulled on his conscience. He hadn't felt guilt in quite some time. This feeling was reserved for drunken nights spent in solitude with the doors to the room he resided in firmly locked so that his sliver of self-deprecating emotion wasn't witnessed by any but himself, while he drunk himself to unconsciousness.

He preferred the emotional solitude to this.

Arthur had believed himself to be capable of most things. Especially conversation and confrontation. He was quite good at those as centuries of existence had proved. He believed himself quite skilful with words. Most of the time he knew what to say and when to say it without it resulting in unwanted and unforeseen consequences, while still making sure his opinion was heard.

Arthur had no words forming as he stood in that doorframe. If Arthur was a good man, his reasoning would be that he felt such strong empathy and sadness that words wouldn't be enough to express the sorrow he felt at that moment. If Arthur was a good man he'd run to his son, assure him that this wouldn't happen ever again and that he was safe. If Arthur was a good man he would fall on his knees in front of his oldest son and beg for forgiveness.

Arthur wasn't a good man.

He could admit to his shortcomings, but to act on them was not in his nature.

So he stood there for another 5 or 6 minutes watching his son shallowly breathe in and out, hearing the boys lungs struggle to keep up with his muscles contraction and need for air.

He must have made a noise, as Matthew's head tilted slightly to the left, almost looking at Arthur but definitely not seeing him. Arthur looked back at him.

The room was quiet, save for the desperate plea of Matthews lungs to be put out of their misery.

Sensing nothing after a few moments, Matthew turned his head back towards the blank wall ahead.

Arthur silently turned his frame around and slowly started walking the path he had taken to get here. As he took a few steps, he released the breath he didn't know he was holding.

How he longed for that whiskey bottle and that dark room where he could lock himself in and slowly drift out of consciousness instead of facing his own mistakes.

Arthur definitely was not a good man.

[huariqueje]

 Autumn Field - William H. Hays , 2022.

American, b. 1956 -

Colour linocut ,  12 x 9 in.  Ed. 100.

[tetheredbysin]

just saw someone defend their favorite f1 driver with "well, the rules are the same for everyone".

my sweet summer child, no. it's the exact opposite. f1 is notorious for the rules not being the same for everyone.

[coldarena]

mota uniform studies + a very good boy

[18catsreading]

Oooh, planning for nuclear meltdown round two!! Good thought Tula - "what kept the humans away for 20 seasons" and Ava whipping out "they were in truck and they suddenly started bleeding all over"

[azertyrobaz]

Saved my life.

[livelovecaliforniadreams]

2x22 | 3x13

[burlveneer-music]

William Fields - quube

The limits of control. Turning the idea of 'limit' on its head - taking it as a generative, rather than a destructive approach. A dream that - if impossible to reach in human societies - has its natural space in algorithmic artistic practices. Here, paths can be created, drawn and followed on the borders of control - lines of code, functions, variables. William Fields' latest EP, quube - to appear in April 2024 on SØVN Records - traces pathways through this dream in four pieces that were recorded with the attitude of a dancer rather than that of a composer: following and constantly reinterpreting the performative flow. The music in quube, drawing from a relatively restricted palette of simple waves and minimal processing, is often exciting - conveying an urgency similar to the one which is felt in a free improv concert. It is not surprising, then, to learn that the four pieces were recorded as a live take, with no editing or overdubs. The flow of sounds becomes almost playful in its enthusiastic impatience, eager to cross the limits of control only to bounce back for another unexpected dance step. William Fields is an electronic musician from Philadelphia, USA, working from 30 years at the intersection between algorithmic composition and improvisation. His music has been described by the legendary Richard Devine as “some of the most mind-blowing algorithmically generated music I'd ever heard” and has been published by - among others - SUPERPANG, tokinogake, EVEL, 3OP.

[disease]

WILLIAM SCOTT / "UNTITLED" / 1959 [oil on canvas | 44 1/10 × 34 1/10"]

[bluesakura007]

*Cruisin On Down Main Street intensifies to the DW theme’s beat*

[citizenscreen]

Sally Field and Robin Williams for MRS. DOUBTFIRE (1993), directed by Chris Columbus