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Southern Lord
This year's Malevolent Grain EP was a brilliant and brief distillation of everything that makes Wolves In The Throne Room a great band, so it is confounding and disappointing that their newest full-length is less melodic, features less dynamic variation, and is twice as long. Of course, they are still absolutely ferocious and heavy as hell, but Black Cascade offers little that their earlier albums didn't already do more compellingly.
"Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog" begins the album explosively with furious tremolo-picking, shrieking vocals, and a frenzied blast beat before shifting into a slower, more melodic interlude that uncharacteristically features a guitar solo (these guys are not big on frills). A lot more happens after that, which is the primary shortcoming of the album: no song is less than ten and half minutes long. I have no problem with extended song lengths, but I am afraid Black Cascade is not multifaceted enough to pull off such a feat. Frustratingly, the individual components of each song are often excellent, but their power is diluted by the endless back and forth between frantic intensity and mid-paced melodicism. The tempo and the actual notes may change, but the omnipresent amelodic throat-shredding vocals and distorted, frantically strummed chord progressions create an inescapable feeling of sameness.
"Ahrimanic Trance" follows essentially the same template, but with a much higher ratio of memorable parts to filler. Regrettably, it clocks in at over fourteen minutes, so it still overstays its welcome in spite of its many positive attributes. Nevertheless, there is an absolutely devastating section in which melancholy, elegant keyboards hover above the frenzied maelstrom and Aaron Weaver's drumming reaches almost jaw-dropping intensity that almost makes it all worthwhile. Unfortunately, the drums are the hapless victim of the second frustrating thing about Black Cascade: the production. Aaron Weaver is an absolutely stupefying drummer and probably could carry this album on his own, but he is hamstrung here by production that de-emphasizes the bass drum. His playing, while undeniably virtousic, is all snare and cymbal. A black metal album without rumbling double-bass is at a serious disadvantage as far as visceral, crushing intensity is concerned. Demonic mayhem and emasculation cannot co-exist.
The remaining two tracks do not stray much from what preceeded them, but offer up occasional welcome surprises regardless. For example, "Ex Cathedra" features some very effective dual-guitar harmonizing in the main riff, a mid-song ambient interlude, and an extremely cool outro. The closing track, "Crystal Ammunition" contains a somewhat dull acoustic guitar interlude, but later makes up for it with a lengthy and beautiful synthesizer and chorused guitar passage. Of course, both tracks are still very long, so there is a lot of unsurprising material as well.
Black Cascade is quite simply too much of a good thing (compounded by less than ideal presentation). There are dozens of great ideas strewn throughout this album, but their power is maddeningly diminished by lack of dynamic variety and overreachingly epic song-structures. While I am sure that I am not the target demographic for this album, I am also certain that the black metal genre is teeming with bands that are single-mindedly focused on speed and intensity and that the Wolves will have to be a bit more innovative and focused on songcraft than this if they want to maintain their place near the top of the infernal, blasphemous heap.
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My first thought upon hearing Carbeth was to wonder what the members of the Incredible String Band or Fairport Convention might have thought of this recording; with its moments of intense restraint and overblown beauty, slight nods to US country music, soaring voices, echoes of eerie plainsong, and vibrant, ecstatic choruses. I didn't have to wait long for something of a reliable answer, as no less an authority than Joe Boyd (producer of both those earlier groups) is very much in favor of Trembling Bells. And no wonder. Their overall sound sways close to that of an unfussy but expertly mic'd gig; the kind that Boyd consistently arranged.
There's a good contrast between Neilson's thinner voice and Lavinia Blackwall's amazing, almost operatic singing. Their shared vocal duties are particularly good on "I Took To You (Like Christ To Wood)," a track which, after the pair wail "I am getting out of Glasgow...into the endless night" erupts into an unrepentantly full-on reel. The charm of their a cappella piece, "Seven Years A Teardrop", has eluded me so far, but it does provide contrast. Blackwall has also been compared to the unique Sandy Denny, but I can't go along with that. Although she is pretty marvelous here, and does have a similar mournful purity, Blackwall fluctuates sharply between a warbling soprano and a deeper, atonal moan, sometimes in the same verse. When she flips betwen the two, especially on the fabulous "Willows of Carbeth," it's as if she's channeling Judy Collins one second and Nico the next. This song is the obvious highlight, not least as the lyrics hint at mythical or metaphorical transformation: an old device, a staple of North European folk music, to describe the madness and magic of love and reveal the mystique of everyday topics (or cloak them in it). In the song, Blackwall remembers a walk with a former loved one who was naming trees, her favorite being the willow sheltering other couples beside a river. Suddenly rejected, she fails to numb her mind with alcohol and instead recalls little things which remind her of those blissful times, before likening herself to the weeping willow, now merely standing by and watching others love.
All the playing is excellent and well-judged, as is expected from such reknowned improvisers as Neilson. Just as admirable is the firm grasp of simplicity and the mostly non-abstract nature of these songs. "The End Is The Beginning Born Knowing" is a good example of Trembling Bells' approach. It incorporates rapid stream-of-consciousness lyrics and a looping melodic theme, but feels like a remake of some ancient music. Many of the pieces on Carbeth have several changes of pace and cleverly appear to have been cut-up and reassembled in a different order- either with chorus preceeding verse, or slow intro coming at the end of the song, as wistful coda. "Summer's Waning" is one exception, maintaining a slow, almost blues-like dirge, close to the style of (1960s UK group) Chicken Shack, from it's first note and memorable opening line: "Summer's waning, I was drinking, to your heath, while mine was fading".
As I'm a sucker for wry, romantic folk, I don't expect to hear a more rewarding record this year and thoroughly enjoyed the rambling references to poets, herbs, crimson lips, blood, dreams, pilgrims, kingdoms, smoking, drinking, stars, trees, nights, incantations, memories, people flying, burdens, the foolish and the wise. But even if these topics don't appeal there's an undeniably satisfactory jangle, crash, and thump to these tracks which will draw in a wider audience. The only complaint with this release is feeling obliged to list the members' impressive other projects! Drummer Alex Neilson backed Jandek on his first live gigs, collaborates with Richard Youngs, has assisted Alasdair Roberts, Ashtray Navigations, Six Organs of Admittance, Will Oldham, The One Ensemble, Baby Dee and Current 93, and has founded Scatter and Directing Hand. Singer Lavinia Blackwall is also in the Pendulums, Black Flowers and Directing Hand. Guitarist Ben Reynolds previously worked with Neilson in Motor Ghost and his solo album How Day Earnt Its Night is out next month: on this showing I can't wait to hear it! Bassist Simon Shaw was the driving force of Lucky Luke, and additional players George Murray (trombone) and Aby Vuillamy (viola) were in the aformentioned Scatter and The One Ensemble.
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The first disc, To the Last Man, features a lengthy presentation of seven pieces each exploring a similarly shaded demeanor materializing and decomposing tonal matter. The shimmering bell-like resonances of "To Touch the Sky" writhe uncomfortably above the dark underpinnings of drone that situate themselves amongst an almost Gothic sonic backdrop infested by gargoyles and ghosts alike. It is a strange, unnerving approach that manages to paint new material with old techniques.
The filmic quality of much of this material is undeniable considering the strength of its spare and evocative mood setting. With delicate placement, each piece here finds new corners and awkward, creeping modes of the same general tone. As the previously mentioned track slips into "Ennoæ," a distant hand drum rhythm brings new color to the bleakness, adding an echoing force behind the thick swabs of blackness being worked with. When a series of pipes come in, the work begins to resemble a mini percussion orchestra, riding atop some steady drone that bobs up and down in untended black waters.
Fazio's greatest abilities lie in his decisions, as each work displays many that point toward a general caution executed in the creation of his pieces. Never one to overindulge himself, Fazio's textures and patterns service the tune far more than any egotistical self-journey. There is a meditative, almost minimalist effect to many of these, as the carefully produced sounds bounce in and out of the mix with trance-inducing effect.
Yet Fazio's signature sound seems to stem far more from Arvo Part than Reich or Glass, while also interweaving an almost proggy sense of the dramatic. "Ecquænam" may be short, but it has enough dramatic flourishes to make it an ample close to the first disc. "1/1" opens the next disc in a seeming homage to Eno's Music for Airports, a connection made stronger by the title of the disc and its close approximation to Eno's collaborative effort with Robert Fripp on "An Index of Metals." If greater convincing is required, then it can be found in the ambient structures constructed throughout, as the aforementioned proggy elements are brought to the fore and coaxed into writhing electronic sculptures that bend and sway against the skies.
The two discs represent a fine and strongly crafted construction that, though quite a lot for one listen, serves its listener well over the course of numerous re-dippings into the cold waters. That these are as beautiful as they are only makes the darkness more alluring, as the closing "1/3" certainly displays. Almost a half-hour long, the piece builds slowly through static mine fields and church bells. It may be intimidating, and it may long, but the allure of such a mystique can't be denied.
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![cover image](/brain/images/nana_april_jun-the_ontology_of_noise.jpg)
As the songs are purely digital creations it is tempting to try and imagine what analogous forms the sounds might correspond to in the natural world. The study of correspondences between various categories and classifications of being is considered an art form among alchemists, and themes of alchemy, metamorphosis and perception form a perennial thread spun through the course of the album. For Nana April Jun the studio has become a laboratory where the principles of art and science that make up the Great Work can be tested and applied, and by bringing the scientific method to bear he underpins the five pieces with a quality of clinical detachment.
“The One Substance” is one of the shortest songs on the disc, making it a more simple matter to notice the acute changes in dynamics and sonority that occur over the course of its three+ minutes. An oscillating beam of supercharged particles radiates out from the opening silence as microscopic loops of tight knit feedback swim back and forth between the speakers before gradually fading to a low whine. Digital signals are then transformed into menacing open chord guitar strums that leave me feeling jarred. These chords repeat, gradually fading over a resonant abyss. “Space-Time Continuum” evokes the howling wind of the arctic north. Heavy gales of rain are heard splattering across the pavement; waves crash on a rocky beach at high tide. At least that is what my brain imposes on these auditory abstractions. This song is very soothing and meditative, and well placed as the bookends on either side are unnerving. “Sun Wind Darkness Eye” starts with a low rumble augmented by a slow fizz of white noise. Together these two sounds swirl around each other as if they were vapors bubbling up from an alembic. When the low-end bass thumps arrive, I am driven into a trance state through the process of entrainment, and the other sounds are buried in its wake.
With noise as a focal point for philosophical inquiry, this album finds its perfect home on the Touch label. This won’t be something I keep in my player for weeks on end yet I will come back to it when a mood conducive for the darker side of solitary introspection is required.
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Of course Kozlov isn't without his influences, and much of his strength lies in his willingness to incorporate the techniques of past exploratory rockers such as Parson Sound and Hawkwind, as well as '70s modal folk material, through his own lens. That Kozlov does it all alone with overdubs and loops is all the more impressive, as what results has none of the repetitive tendencies of most one man bands, instead sounding far closer to a taut and unified rock band than a one man unit likely enacting its prowess in said musician's basement.
Both discs presented are three tracks in length, each beginning with its shortest and ending with its longest piece. And I don't use piece lightly here; these are too vast to be considered songs, yet far too together and constructed to be considered jams. Call them suites if you will, but each number here is infused with pockets and pockets of ideas held together through the sheer momentum and energy of their construction.
Take the opening "Jahendra Shitzaga," for example. Beginning with an encroaching two-note bass line and drifting vocals, guitars sprawl out above before Kozlov's drums come pummeling forward. While much of this could more or less been assembled strictly through loops however, it is clear from the bass alone that Kozlov really played each part through, making it nearly impossible to decipher the kernel from which he started the track but infusing it with a live and elastic in-the-moment quality that too often is lacking when there are only two hands at work.
Those two hands sure do work however, and both Kozlov's drumming and guitar work are magnificent. Everything here seems driven primarily by rhythm, which serves Koslov well as he has a knack for a hard hitting, in-the-pocket approach that drives the work far beyond mere pummel and into the depths of a more lively experimentalism whose sights are set on the outer reaches rather than the inner head-banger. It is, it seems, this rhythmic component which is always at work. On "Kilobelnaya," the 20-plus minute closer to disc one, a modal folk grows and grows, heading toward a pulse and, once finding it, riding along it with enthusiastic delight. Some of the production here even comes across as a bit dubby, everything drifting off and into itself as each element is treated with spatial regard to everything else.
Closing disc two, "Emptuhi Campusabba" is a broad and far-reaching piece that perfectly encapsulates all that Kozlov achieves here. With odd vocal utterances that might well be Pandit Pran Nath had he endulged in a bit too much cough syrup, the work's flutes, guitar and rambling spaciness pulls from so many sources that it treads a fine line between sounding at once familiar and entirely distinctive. This is, perhaps better than anything else, as fine an indicator as there could be of Kozlov's talents. Never the imitator, Kozlov is absolutely aware of his predecessors, and using that knowledge with skill and honesty is too rare a thing.
Also of note here: the album, released by Stunned, is highly limited, as only 100 copies were made. Too often this is seen as an indicator not of limited budgets and homegrown operations, but of sub-par quality releases undeserving of greater distribution. As Stunned and Kozlov have proven repeatedly however, some of the most viable and exciting music coming out is done so on these labels, whose lack of overhead cost allows for an experimentalism that commercial requirements too often quell. Truly a find, and one which will someday surely be regarded with great reverence, so long as people are given the opportunity to hear it.
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Airaksinen’s output since his return to releasing music in the 1980s has been quite varied (veering into new age, house, and electro-jazz) and, by his own admission, occasionally trivial. Mahagood, however, is a wholly different animal. For one, Airaksinen has completely eschewed traditional instrumentation and has instead improvised an eclectic and plunderphonic avant-garde collage. Secondly, he has nostalgically cannibalized his early influences (swing jazz and early electronic music) for the bulk of the source material.
The album’s first track, “Water Is Best,” is built around a lurching and relentlessly deranged repetition of a big band saxophone snippet that is constantly intruded upon by discordant flutes, manipulated drums, and kitschy organ interludes. These themes (abruptly stopping and starting jazz loops, odd juxtapositions, and unexpected stabs of dissonance) remain consistent for the rest of the album. In fact, they are so consistent that the second track, “Nobody Is Free,” is almost indistinguishable from the first, except that it is enhanced by funky stand-up bass and builds up to some alien metallic dissonance before segueing into the beautifully disquieting and somewhat harsh path of “Let Your Anger Die Before You” and “Waves Follow Waves.”
Airaksinen threatens to return to a groove again with the blues-appropriating “Once I Was In Their House,” but deep foreboding strings and eruptions of dissonance quickly pervert the ebullient cut-ups into something entirely nightmarish before fading into the haunting ambiance of “Why All This Prelude.” Immediately afterwards, “Don’t Educate Your Children Too Smart” delivers exactly the sort of unsettling nocturnal jazz expected to be playing in the background at the brothel from Twin Peaks. The album is concluded with a palate-cleansing double-dose of violent surrealist sound pile-ups (the two-part “My Tongue Swore, My Mind Didn’t”) that make it quite clear why Stephen Stapleton would be a fan.
Mahagood works best when appreciated in its entirety, as there are constant revisitations of themes and samples throughout, but nearly all of the nine tracks are excellent when taken individually. Airaksinen’s masterfully kaleidoscopic shifts from playful mischief to disturbing darkness and back again are uniquely his own. This is a challenging and inspired work and I hope it finds the audience it deserves. Of course, Airaksinen probably won't notice if it does, as he will presumably be hard at work on the remaining nine hundred albums in his Buddha series.
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Sublime Frequencies
The title of this album is a bit misleading, as Raï music has been around in various forms since the 1930s. However, the "underground" part is entirely accurate: these recordings are from a controversial transitional period in Rai's history (the birth of Pop Raï) in which secular/Western influences and modern instrumentation began to take a much greater role. The genre's flouting of fundamentalist gender role restrictions and embrace of hipper lyrical matter naturally found a large following among Algerian youth, but did not win any friends in the Islamic government. In fact, the Algerian government even tried to ban Raï entirely in the late 1970s–early '80s due to its association with public female dancing and celebration of alcohol and consumerism, but it thrived in France and at home through black market sale and trade of tapes. Nevertheless, it continued to be a very unpopular musical genre with Islamic extremists for quite some time (Cheb Hasni was even murdered in 1994 for letting girls kiss him on the cheek during a televised concert), although government hostility eased in the '90s and Raï now enjoys considerable mainstream success.
Bellemou & Benfissa's opening track ("Li Maandouche L'Auto" or..um..."He, Who Doesn't Own A Car") begins in a deceptively subdued and droning manner, which makes the eventual introduction of the heavy, unruly, and thoroughly propulsive drums somewhat startling. The album doesn't let up at all after that. It is certainly clear how this sort of thing could result in something as unsettling as public female dancing, as the combination of deep, insistent rhythms and boisterous trumpets create a celebratory feel that must've made inhibitions damn hard to maintain (and rebelling against oppressive regimes is inherently pretty sexy to begin with).
There are no weak or filler tracks. I am quite fond of Boutaiba Sghir's "Dayha Oulabes" ("I'll Marry Her Whether They Like It Or Not"), which sounds like a melancholy mariachi band jamming with some African drummers. Sadness is a recurring theme throughout this album in both the vocals and omnipresent traditional violin/accordion melodies, but rather than drag the songs down, it merely adds some emotional heft to the awesome party that the rhythm section and trumpet players seem to be having. Cheb Zergui's "Ana Dellali" ("I Cuddle Myself") also warrants some mention, as it is the track that most conspicuously betrays a Western influence (featuring a funky bassline, wah-wah guitar, and an atypically laid-back groove). Incidentally, I think something may occasionally be getting lost in the title translations here.
As is often the case with Sublime Frequencies releases, these recording are raw (the drums kind of sound like buckets). The lo-fi production suits the music well, as all eight of the tracks here explode from the speakers and likely approximate at least some of the raw power that must have been present in Wahran's clubs. If I had a grievance, it would be that several of the tracks sound very similar, but that might just be the cultural bias of my boring Western ears. However, this only seems to trouble me when I am listening with extreme reviewer/music nerd scrutiny; this issue vanishes when I listen to this album like a normal person. Also, I was disappointed that no females were represented, given that they were essential (as well as the most endangered and oppressed) proponents of this outlaw culture. Regardless, Hicham Chadly and Sublime Frequencies have compiled some seriously excellent and instantly satisfying music that I never would have heard otherwise, so my quibbles should probably be taken as the irrelevant ramblings of a curmudgeon.
Samples:
- Bellemou & Benfissa - Li Maandouche L'Auto
- Boutaiba Sghir - Dayha Oulabes
- Cheb Zergui - Ana Dellali
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This is certainly one of my favorite recent releases from New World. The material was culled from a dusted off shoebox filled with over 30 cassette recordings in the possession of Tim Perkis, and 15 more from other band member Jon Bischoff. This collection comes 30 years after their initial formation, and is their first official release outside the appearance of a single track on a Lovely Little Records comp from 1980. James Horton, David Behrman, Paul Demarinis and Rich Gold were the other members who formed this notable collective. After the groups demise in 1983 when Horton's rheumatoid arthritis became debillitating, they all continued working in artistic, musical and academic fields with much mutual success.
Arising out of the Silicon Valley before it was even known as such, the exuberance heard on these recordings comes in part from the exploration of uncharted territory: no software, plugins, or presets were available for the Kim-1 which they learned to program for themselves in the 6502 machine language. The songs come from their many live performances in concert halls and art spaces around the Bay Area, from those played on the airwaves of freeform radio stalwarts KPFA, and the many sessions improvised at home. Occasionally, behind the oscillating din of singing circuits laughter and exclamations of an audience can be heard. People then weren't accustomed to the sounds of live computer music, which up until that point had been the province of a handful of university studios who committed music to magnetic tape for later playback and where the emphasis was more on precise control of the sound, as opposed to hearing what might happen when a bunch of computers are set up to interact with each other.
Networking their machines together, the League always played live, with nothing sequenced or pre-planned except for the programs each player had written for their station. The transmission of data between devices now linked together and modulating eachother gave the proceedings an element of indeterminacy, yet within the chaos of fluttering chords, degenerate blips and random tones there is an emergent sense of order. Listening to tracks like “Finnish Hall” is like taking a hallucinatory stroll through a basement arcade or visiting an electronic oracle whose voice is tweaked to a point beyond earthly comprehension. “Martian Folk Music” looks forward to a time after the Red planet has been colonized, when dulcimers and fiddles are no longer in the cultural repertoire, and when people square dance to the sounds of artificial intelligence improvising long glissando sweeps over a staccato pulse of gated, interrupted chords. “Oakland Four” consists of mysterious drones that gradually ascends an upward spiral of tone, joined by squeaking sounds, akin to those made by a rubber duck, and a low bass hum that keeps everything grounded. Each piece offers a different window into the various working processes of these hacker musicians who were engaged in a deep experimentation with the technology at hand.
My only complaint about this release comes from my greed: with so many tapes of music as potential source material, and with music this engaging, I wonder why it wasn’t expanded to be at least a double CD. Having been provided with these crucial sounds I want to hear more of what is on those tapes.
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Honest Jon's Records
Entertainment Weekly once proclaimed Honest Jon's "the hippest world-music label going" and there is a lot of truth in that, despite both serious competition from Sublime Frequencies, SoundWay, and Analog Africa and that particular magazine's historically misguided and unfortunate musical taste. If someone had told me ten years ago that Damon Albarn from Blur would someday play an integral role in shaping my musical taste, I would've dismissed them as a madman, but...damn, that guy seems to unearth some astonishing stuff. The 20 tracks of archival material collected from Egypt, Iran, Iraq, and Turkey here are ample proof of that.
There is a lot of instrumental variety displayed on the archival disc; I am not an expert on traditional Arabic music by any means, but I think I can confidently report that ouds, buzuqs, and violins are all heavily represented (and probably some quanun too!). The tracks vary quite a bit in tone as well, as blistering shredding (such as "Mavaraounnahr") coexists with mournful bowed strings and contemplative drones, but the performances are uniformly virtuosic. I was unable to track down any English language information about him, but multi-instrumentalist Nechat Bey seems to dominate the album, as he contributed five of the twenty tracks, as well as the album's most haunting moment (the achingly sad violin in "Husseini Taxim"). Even without him though, this would be an inarguably compelling listen; few tracks fail to evoke a sense of passion and timelessness.
As for the second album....well, I have some mixed feelings about it. I certainly understand its inclusion, as it makes a case for the continued influence of traditional Middle Eastern string music. However, the presence of contemporary white revivalists here kind of cheapens the experience and ruins my music geek fantasy of embracing something forgotten and obscure. In particular, I found Rick Tomlinson's "Surfin' UAE" to be especially unwelcome and illusion-shattering (I suppose kitschy irreverence has its place and all, but a less forgettable track would have been a welcome substitution). Also, the Charie Parr piece ("Paul Bunyan's Fall") seems as heavily indebted to American blues as it does to the Middle East. It is not a bad track by any means, but I suspect there are dozens of freakfolkies who could've have contributed a more thematically pure work. Finally, the second disc feels somewhat unnecessary and anticlimactic because the evolution of the form has not been especially dramatic (except for production quality). Of course, all that is mere subjective carping- there are some very strong pieces by the usual suspects here (Sir Richard Bishop and Six Organs Of Admittance), as well as some more obscure folks (Micah Blue Smaldone). I even have to grudgingly admit that MV and EE's sitar drone ("You Matter, Sometimes") is quite good, even though they usually leave me rather cold.
While it would have been nice if the second album were optional (and if some information on the artists had been included), Open Strings is undeniably a wholly worthwhile release (and clearly a labor of love). Of course, if you are interested in music of this sort, the opinions of a reviewer are unlikely to sway you either way- this is ground that no one else is in a hurry to cover. Thus, by default, this is both definitive and essential (unless you are an extremely hip nonagenarian that snagged all these releases their first time around). I hope this series thrives and finds an audience, as the EMI Hayes Archives has certainly yielded quite a few forgotten gems and unusual listening experiences already and seems unlikely to be exhausted by a mere handful of compilations.
Samples:
- Sir Richard Bishop - Olive Oasis
- Moustapha Bey Rida - Taxim Hugaz Kar Wahda
- Abdul Hussein Khan Shahnazi - Mavaraounnahr
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This album was a surprise for me because I was under the impression that these San Francisco shows were live versions of Salt Marie Celeste along the lines of the Vienna concerts that preceded these concerts (released as Soundpooling three years ago). Although the familiar strains of Salt Marie Celeste does intrude several times during the course of this CD (a blend of both nights at the Great American Music Hall), Nurse With Wound explore very different terrain here compared to the other live performances I have heard (either in person or in bootleg). This is most likely because Nurse With Wound are credited as being a nine-piece band for these shows, a far bigger line-up compared to their other performances. As such, there are times when the music stops sounding like Nurse With Wound at all; electronic drones appear a few times that could be from Coil’s Live One recordings and later on in the performance there is some music that I believe is taken from a track on Irr. App. (Ext.)’s Perekluchenie.
One of the most striking features of May the Fleas of a Thousand Camels... is the use of Diana Rogerson’s vocal tracks that would later end up on her albums The Lights Are On But No-one’s Home and No Birds Do Sing. Here they take on a different character, melting into the abyss and then resolving into a crystalline clarity like a ghostly transmission fading in and out of contact. Unlike the more recent performances by Stapleton and company, there is little in the performance resembling humor (although the photoshopped sleeve art of Andrew Liles spanking Colin Potter is hilarious). As time has gone on, the group have incorporated more of Nurse With Wound’s absurdity into their live performances and it is obvious from this album and Soundpooling that the early performances were less light-hearted. The music here is strongly imbued with those dark hues that colour the more unnerving moments of Stapleton’s work. Due to this eerie atmosphere and the range of novel sounds and textures, this becomes less of a live document and more of a “proper” entry in Stapleton’s back catalogue.
May the Fleas of a Thousand Camels Infest Your Armpits is not only a good Nurse With Wound album but for geeks like me who like to chart when and where changes in artistic direction happen, it is a valuable record in showing how the “not a Nurse With Wound” ensemble that performed in Vienna became the all-singing, all-dancing Nurse With Wound experience that is now very much enjoying the limelight. Like Soundpooling, it is hard to hear that this is a live album as it sounds every bit as polished as any of Stapleton’s studio releases. The bass is booming and the mix is superb, every minute of the performance sounds as crafted as any studio project. Because of this, May the Fleas of a Thousand Camels... should not be discounted as just a live album but a release that sits up there with Stapleton’s best work of this decade.
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