When I purchased a copy of 'Matmos Live with J Lesser' by post, Matmos enclosed the note above. The note, dated 5 May 2002, reads:
Mr. Summers,
Thank you for buying
our CD. Please enjoy
listening to it alone
or with a friend.
Tell us what you think.
M.C. Schmidt
I saw Matmos perform live for the first time last night. The venue was unexpected for an electronic duo: the Rio, a small cinema near our home.
A few hours before the concert, I showed my wife my CD of the band's 2001 album A Chance to Cut Is a Chance to Cure, which I'd bought with her not long after we started dating.
I showed it to her because I'd tucked a couple of keepsakes into the CD booklet: the receipt from the Baltimore record store where I'd purchased the album, plus the note from Matmos that I'd received the following year when I ordered their live album—the note at the top of this post.
My wife read it and said, "You should take that tonight. Show it to them. Maybe the other Matmos member will sign it too."
+ + +
Matmos often builds their albums within a constraint. They've built albums entirely from recordings of plastic (Plastic Anniversary), their washing machine (Ultimate Care II), or—in the case of A Chance to Cut Is a Chance to Cure, the album that first drew me to them—sounds recorded from medical procedures.
At their show last night, they were promoting their new album, Metallic Life Review, constructed from metal-based sounds collected over the duo's life together. The metallic sounds ranged from cymbals to bowls from their home to cemetery gates in cities they'd visited while touring years ago.
The band was on a small stage in front of a full-size cinema screen, their computers, samplers, and metal objects carefully arranged on tables forming a square. During the performance, one half of Matmos, M.C. Schmidt, played metal pieces—he banged, tapped, bowed, struck, plucked and threw objects, dragged and scratched textured metal, or simply drummed bowls, lids, metal tubes, and cymbals. His partner, Drew Daniel, captured these sounds, fed them into software to loop, stretch, and layer the recordings into tight, groove-heavy, beautiful, shapeshifting, often chaotic electronic music. The hour-long show flew by, a playful, curious, inventive set of four or five songs.
+ + +
After the show, M.C. Schmidt was just outside the theater, near the bar area.
"Go talk to him," my wife said. "He'd like that." She ducked out to check on our son, who was at a friend’s house around the corner.
Schmidt was seated at a table, speaking with a couple of fans. I waited my turn. After a few minutes, the other fans left, and he said hello to me.
I complimented him on the show and told him how much I enjoyed it. "I have something I'd like to show you," I said, handing him the note.
"This looks familiar," he said, inspecting its front and back. "Is this from us?"
"You sent this to me when I ordered a live album from you several years ago."
He pointed at his signature. "Yes, that's me," he said. He then looked at the date, 5 May 2002. "Oh my, that was, what, 23 years ago? You were just a child back then."
"Ha, yeah, I was in my twenties," I said. I chuckled and shook my head briefly. "I thought it was such a nice touch to include that with the album."
"I'm glad you thought that."
"I brought it tonight because of this line," I said, pointing to the final sentence of his note: Tell us what you think.
He looked at me with surprise—as if to say, Alright, at last: Tell us.
"I loved the album," I said.
He smiled and held out both hands. I shook his right, and he clasped our handshake with his left. With everything Matmos have done over the years—an impressive, varied body of work, plus teaching at Johns Hopkins, releasing fifteen albums—he seemed genuinely delighted to meet someone who’d held onto a note from him for 23 years, carried it across countries and life changes, and still knew exactly where it was when the right moment finally came.
He flashed a broad smile then said, "Well don't wait 23 years to talk to us again."
