- Administrator
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- Administrator
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- Administrator
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- Michael Patrick Brady
- Albums and Singles
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- Revolver - Heaven Sent an Angel
- Ride - Like a Daydream
- Drop Nineteens - Winona
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- Administrator
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- Administrator
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- Administrator
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Sound are the duo of Eric Lumbleau (of Vas Deferens Organization) and Joel Zoch. Their first release for Beta-Lactam Ring is the Screaming Zenith double LP beautifully packaged in a deluxe gatefold sleeve adorned with grotesquely distorted pornography. This is the first clue of the twisted sonic perversions waiting inside. The second clue is the dadaist song titles, full of goofy alliteration and lysergic wordplay. Sound's sound is a quivering gelatin of sinister whimsy: Aphex-style beat sequencing rubs shoulders with Numan-esque keyboards, fuzzy Western guitars, creepy voice loops and sudden, terrifying plunges into ring-modulated, echo-chambered oblivion.Beta-Lactam Ring
"Resplendant [sic] Vistas of Viscous Treacle" creates a burbling horror-movie landscape of dilapidated video arcades filled with ominous cocaine cowboys. It's a weird trip that takes in Ennio Morricone, Black Light District-era Coil and Fields of the Nephilim and comes out the other side sounding like, well, Sound. The production is influenced by the sonic inventions of Steven Stapleton, but Sound have an abiding fetish for early-80's darkwave and goth, so they are equally as adept at invoking Tubeway Army as they are Nurse With Wound. "The Tickly Pistons" utilizes dark, Wagnerian strings, reminiscent of Death in June's Nazi sound-loops on Take Care and Control. A wacky chorus of squiggles, squeaks and squishes coelesce into a Mouse on Mars-ish breakbeat on "The Taffy Rapids", even as the song's tempo is alternately sped-up, stretched, delayed and perverted beyond all recognition. These songs gradually build up layers of noise and reverberations until they become giant, cacophonous "walls of sound" that are as indebted to Phil Spector the producer as they are to Phil Spector the gun-toting killer. "Cock-eyed Hydra" replicates Thighpaulsandra's synthesizer squalls from Coil's "Amethyst Deceivers", adding a cheesy goth-prog majesty all its own. Layers of Wendy Carlos/Gary Numan moogs take prominence in "Amorphous Procession Through Paralyzed Gelatin", sounding not unlike Switched On Bach being played at the bottom of a peat bog. "Gambol and Caper Through Discombobulation's Lustre" is a nostalgic vintage synth concoction that borders on the territory occupied by Boards of Canada. However, Sound's nostalgia is more Goblin and OMD than Charles and Ray Eames. Parts of Screaming Zenith plunge the listener into murky frog-filled swamps and dark rainforests with pygmies shooting psychedelic darts, not entirely dissimilar from the super-hallucinogenic astral byways previously mapped by The Orb. There are hidden perils and contagious diseases lurking in the arteries of Sound. "Dulcet Flux" is a case in point, a massive beat splashing into vibrating pools of radioactive goo that realign into fanciful melodies as layers of caustic sitar sizzle the frontal lobe. "Corrosions of Ambrosial Veneer" meets Venetian Snares for a tangent into dark drum n' bass that is inexplicably matched with carnival calliopes and animal sound-effects. The title track finishes the record with a tribal trance jam a la Boredoms, complete with mindbending hyperspeed guitars. Sound's syrupy quagmire of goopy aural pleasures is just what the witch doctor ordered. If my mouth had not grown over with ectoplasmic jelly, I would be yelling "Oo, ee, oo, ah, ah, ting, tang, walla walla bing bang!"
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- Michael Patrick Brady
- Albums and Singles
The essence of 'doing it yourself' is to avoid any hints of compromise, watering down, or loss of vision so that you may release a work that is totally and completely pure. It's a personal expression that is something to be proud of. Unfortunately, it seems that along the road to self-actualization some people eschew both quality control and thoughtful planning.
East River Pipe consists entirely of F.M. Cornog and his Tascam 388 mini-studio, so it is safe to say that Garbageheads on Endless Stun, his most recent album is entirely his. I'm somewhat confounded by this release, however. It appears as though this singer/songwriter has very little to say over the course of forty four minutes, mindlessly linking phrases and songs together with no sense of concept or cohesion. Mind you, it's not done in a clever way, it's done in a way that resembles a late night songbreaking session where the singer is just making words up to fill in space before they write the real lyrics. "Arrival Pad #19" drops a fuzzy clap beat along with a stuttering bass line that sets the track off on the right foot. Cornog further deepens the song with synthesized string arrangements that carry his singing through the first verse. Things lose their way at the song's midpoint however, as he begins to speak his lyrics in the style of an airport terminal public announcement, and then letting the song just drift off along with any number of promising ideas that presented themselves in the piece's brief duration. The song certainly could have stood to have a few more verses, and the tossed off feel that this abandonment cements into the album rears it's head again and again. "Streetwalkin' Jean" is a banal ode to a nineteen year old prostitute that takes a weak stab at poignancy in its final verse of painfully purple prose. It appears as if Cornog is looking to pen a song meant to draw some sort of feelings out but is either unwilling or unable to delve into anything more than perfunctory word association. "No self esteem / but eyes that still gleam." We'll just take your word for it. Though the album suffers from a perpetually slow motion tempo, much of the music that backs the needless words comes across very well. There are enough pretty melodies and synth chorales to make it moderately interesting, but it would be nice to have seen them expanded, developed, explored, and not just thrown out on a whim and left to whither under the weight of Cornog's lyrical filler. For what should in theory be an individual showing off their own thoughts and musical desires, Garbageheads on Endless Stun feels like a desultory mess.
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