FLAC allows the listener to “peer into” the mix. You can isolate the growl of the bass clarinet in the left channel, the frantic brushwork of the drummers in the center, and the atonal piano clusters on the right. When the brass section erupts at the 12-minute mark, the FLAC encoding captures the air around the instruments—the spit in the trumpet, the rattle of the sax keypads. These are not imperfections; they are the artifacts of a living, breathing organism. Centipede was a monster of flesh and bone, not a synthesizer. The lossless format respects that physicality.
The true genius of Tippett’s arrangement lies not in the individual solos, but in the collective texture. There are moments on Septober Energy where five different instrumental groups are playing five different time signatures simultaneously. On vinyl or compressed digital audio, this often congeals into a pleasing but indistinct sludge. Centipede Septober Energy 1971 FLAC
The 2024 FLAC release, likely sourced from the original master tapes (or a pristine analog transfer), removes these physical constraints. The deep, roiling bass of Roy Babbington’s double bass is finally present, anchoring the chaos. The stereo field is vast and unnerving. The result is a revelation: what was once dismissed as a “difficult listen” is now an immersive, almost hallucinatory experience. FLAC allows the listener to “peer into” the mix
Septober Energy is defined by its extremes. It lurches from gentle, pastoral piano and voice (courtesy of Julie Tippetts) to a brutal, dissonant full-orchestra assault within the space of a single bar. The work is structured in five interconnected movements, yet it defies traditional suite logic. It is a swarm of ideas: a gentle, folk-inflected melody might be suddenly trampled by a section of screeching brass, a rumbling double bass, and overlapping, polyrhythmic drumming. These are not imperfections; they are the artifacts