- John Kealy
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This is nothing short of perfect mood music for breaching the walls of reality. This is music for that dark hallway you have to walk down from time to time, every step an uncomfortable one. Feelings of unease and vague fear permeate both sides of this cassette. Sounds fall, trip up and collapse in on each other. Nothing is what it seems to be; everything changes in the darkness into the unfamiliar and alien.
This is the first of three planned collaborations between WM. Rage, Stan Reed and Matthew Waldron (this cassette will be followed at some point by an LP and a CD of all new material). Overall, the raw materials for these pieces sound like they have come from the boys in Blue Sabbath Black Cheer, but the construction of the music has Waldron’s signature all over it. Skeletal Imposition has more in common with older irr. app. (ext.) releases like Perekluchenie than with Waldron’s more recent albums, however.
“Skeletal Imposition Pt 1” is a fuzzy, grainy journey through the darker corners of sonic spectrum. Layers of dust clog up electronic noise, waves of sinister rhythms and blankets of unsettling drones give way to strange screams and moans, none of which sound like any living creature but perhaps something else that couls only be found in a story by H.P. Lovecraft or William Hope Hodgson. On the second part of “Skeletal Imposition,” a beast has arrived and guttural, animal vocals howl, trying to communicate across an unfathomable void. The sense of dread that I feel is very, very strong.
This is a terrifying record and a great introduction to this series of collaborations. This sort of dark mood music gets under my skin and leaves a powerful impression. It is not dark ambience; this is as far from that clichéd and dull genre as possible. I have only played this in daylight so far because I do not trust that I would be safe with it once the sun sets.
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Amberhaze is the solo project of an Italian expatriate currently living in Singapore, which seems to be an unexpectedly fertile ground these days for warm electronic music such as this. However, Giulliano Gullotti also exhibits quite a healthy (and well-justified) passion for early ‘90s English shoegaze (which obviously Singapore is not as known for). Despite that substantial temporal and geographic disadvantage, this debut album combines those two loves with a sometimes stunning degree of success.
This album opens in a very odd and counterintuitive way, with a pleasant (but very brief) piano piece that segues into seemingly yet another sparse, melancholy piano piece. That second song, “Blossoms,” slowly begins to build in intensity, however, as a majestic synthesizer melody gradually fades in alongside some bombastic, slow-motion drums. Not much else ends up happening though and I found my interest rapidly waning. Thankfully, Gullotti starts to show some promise with the third track (“The Beat That My Heart Skipped”), which tweaks the formula of the previous track with increased density and exuberantly stumbling, off-kilter drums. It is remarkable how much a difference great drumming can make, especially with sad, slow music like this, which can easily be plodding and dull. Giulliano, as it turns out, is an excellent percussionist. Or at least very good at programming a drum machine.
The near-prefect fifth song (“A Certain Affinity”) was the one that finally grabbed me. Gullotti combines a catchy and propulsive synth pop foundation with an extremely cool, subtly dissonant, and oddly-timed guitar riff, then tops it all off with an endearingly burbling keyboard motif. As it steadily increases in intensity, the guitars grow noisier and the drum machine begins to stutter more and more before it all downshifts into an achingly beautiful bridge. It is difficult to think of a more bittersweetly memorable instrumental pop song, as literally everything is arranged and presented for more maximum impact and emotional power.
Thankfully, that mid-album infusion of momentum hardly dissipates at all for its remainder. While “Affinity” is definitely the best song on the album, nearly everything that follows it is pretty excellent and instantly gratifying. “1994,” which follows immediately afterwards, is similar in epic feel to “Blossoms,” but with a much better groove and infinitely more explosive drumming. “Crush” stands out as yet another killer song, closely resembling a collision between the best elements of Labradford and Slowdive. The wheezing synthesizer, shuffling rhythm section, and lazily gorgeous guitars of “There is a Way” make for yet another clear highlight (though the tortured Swervedriver/MBV-inspired guitar wailing in the middle certainly doesn’t hurt either).
While it is extremely obvious who Amberhaze’s primary influences are, Giulliano definitely combines them in a way that is uniquely his own. I’d love to know what this guy was doing before this, as Gullotti displays immense, fully-formed talent for writing catchy songs and great melodies, as well as great deal of instrumental and orchestration prowess. Then We Saw the Stars Again certainly has some serious faults, but they are largely the result of sequencing faux pas and lax self-editing rather than any lack of skill or vision. At his best, Giulliano Gullotti has no trouble standing with all the great bands that inspired him.
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This reissue of the trio’s only album together fills in a gap in my Krautrock collection but unfortunately does not live up to the quality I expect from any of the artists involved. Heavily inspired by African rhythms, this 1983 album has dated badly and sounds and upsettingly reminds me of one of my most hated albums of all time (Paul Simon’s Graceland, a more harrowing record I have never encountered). However, there are still moments of brilliance shining through but overall this is an album that might have been better left in the vaults.
Dieter Moebius and Conny Plank already had two collaborative albums under their belts by the time they got around to Zero Set. Adding Guru Guru’s Mani Neumeier to their party should have been a stroke of genius; if anyone’s drumming should fit with Moebius and Plank’s electronic sounds it would be him. Yet listening to Zero Set it never feels like the trio are actually communicating with each other. The end result for the music was obviously to organically unite the electronics with Neumeier’s human beats but much of the album feels cold and a little contrived. Granted it all sounds perfectly captured and mixed and listening from a more objective standpoint (and assuming one has no idea who the people are behind the music) it is impossible to say that this album was made by artists who did not know what they were doing.
The problem I feel is that of timing. This kind of music reminds me of my childhood (not that I was listening to the likes of Cluster when young) in that it sounds like something from the past that I have completely forgotten about and never really cherished. This is not a nostalgia but a feeling that the world has moved on so much that an album like Zero Set seems very much out of place in 2009. Nevertheless there are merits to the album, the seeds for techno (both straightlaced and the more out there variants practised by the likes of Autechre) are planted in pieces like “All Repro” which sounds as much like background music for an old Nintendo game as it does a studio experiment by some of Germany’s top musicians. The off-kilter rhythms and melodies of “Load” also echo on in the works of artists such as Squarepusher but I feel this is convergent evolution on the part of modern artists rather than any kind of direct influence.
Comparing Zero Set to Kraftwerk’s Computer World (which pre-dates this album by a couple of years) and I cannot help but feel that Moebius, Plank and Neumeier had created something out of date before it even hit the shelves. The baton had already been passed from Germany to the rest of the world in terms of innovative and paradigm-shifting rock and pop music; post-punk taking rock to new places and electronic music expanding in all fields to catch up with rapidly developing technology. Overall, this is an oddity that is good to have and hear after being out of print for so long but is by no means essential listening.
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Sometimes I have to wonder how much life is left in rock and roll. How long before every possible note is exhausted? Then I think, who cares as long as albums like this exist. It is rough as sandpaper and about as original as any other retro-styled artist but this album rocks very hard. This is not surprising considering it is the work of Michael Polizze of Birds of Maya but this solo album has clicked with me even more than his main group already has; its guitar-heavy mix and hypnotising riffs tap into a primeval feeling of rock and roll abandon and it feels like a living fossil from a time when Blue Cheer and The Stooges were punk kids shaking things up.
“Almost Washed My Hair” erupts from the stereo like some bastard child from a universe where Iggy Pop fronted The Velvet Underground and the only song in their repertoire was “Sister Ray” but they could never remember how to play it. This ear-splitting and cacophonous rock sounds as raw and powerful as anything else in my record collection. The deafening guitars dominate everything; only ghosts of vocals and a hammering beat are perceptible under the overloaded amplifiers. However, this is nothing like the amplifier worship of Sunn O))) or other volume friendly bands. Purling Hiss instead goes for that swaggering, sexual rock rhythm that has been strangely absent in a lot of new music (or at least not as swaggering and sexy as it used to be).
Purling Hiss turn things up even more (beyond what would be considered polite for sure) on “Purple Hiss.” At a quarter of an hour, it is a sweaty and blistering journey through the impossibly loud. The guitar solos are electric and contain everything that a guitar solo should: false starts, fits, duff notes, wah and enough amplification to make us all feel a little sick. The final tune, “Montage Mountain,” recycles the recordings that make up the rest of the album. Polizze does not make anything spectacularly new out of the recordings but it is another chance to bask in the glow from his six strings which are burning white hot at this point.
Maybe it is the adrenaline talking but this album is a serious contender for my rock album of the decade. Like any latecomer to a party, Purling Hiss do not give a toss about you or your friends but they are hear to drink your booze and have a good time. Instead of asking where they have been for the last while, make the most of it and party with them until you get blind drunk, throw up and ruin the carpet. It will be worth it, trust me.
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Dean McPhee’s debut EP takes a divergent path from the current prevailing solo guitar trends, venturing into neither Fahey/Basho-inspired steel guitar virtuosity nor pedal-stomping soundscapes. Instead, Brown Bear quietly captures the sound of a man simply playing a guitar extremely well, with little ostentation or outside artifice.
Hood Faire
Brown Bear consists of three songs of varying lengths, all of which were at least partially improvised and recorded in just one take. I am not much of a process fetishist, so that did not strike me as especially impressive in and of itself. However, McPhee’s nail-it-in-one-take artistic purity is probably responsible for much of the EP’s endearingly loose and spontaneous feel, so I appreciated it nonetheless.
The brief and mournful “Sky Burial” opens the record with gentle minor arpeggios, insistent bass notes, and a clear, clean melody, which McPhee deftly twists and dances around. The following piece takes a more minimal and static approach, but McPhee employs his arsenal of old analog effects for some unusual colors and textures. While not as lean and focused as its predecessor, it is instead packed full of captivatingly baroque passages and inventive harmonies. The piece has a bit a hallucinatory feel as well, as it quavers and glistens with heavy chorusing and expertly utilizes delay to give the central melody a ghostly after-image.
The entire second side of the record is taken up by the lengthy title track, which I initially found to be deceptively underwhelming. In fact, its first half could easily be mistaken for a variation of “Sky Burial” with the addition of a chorus pedal. Though certainly enjoyable, it caused me to wonder if McPhee had exhausted his ideas after just two songs. Thankfully, however, my pessimism was premature and ill-founded, as “Brown Bear” soon transforms into an extremely cool and completely unexpected foray into elegantly warped psychedelia. The bass line from the opening motif remains in a slowed-down form, which keeps things coherent, but a hazily repeating, thickly harmonized loop suddenly begins to lag, squirm, and lurk ominously beneath its melody. Eventually, all of the more straightforward elements of the piece fall away entirely and leave only a sublimely spacey ambient coda. It's quite a neat trick and Dean manages it quite seamlessly, resulting in the record's clear highlight.
Solo guitar albums are not generally my favorite thing due to their inherent limitations, but I enjoy Brown Bear quite a bit. This is a very promising and assured first release, as McPhee displays a rare combination of technical skill, simplicity, and subtle unpredictability. A full-length is due next spring.
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Take Me To The Water: Immersion Baptism in Vintage Music and Photography 1890-1950 is an astonishing document of 75 sepia photograph reproductions with a disc of 25 songs and sermons. As usual, the Dust to Digital label rises above concepts of social division and genre by including music made by both African-Americans and European-Americans. There's a primal appeal both to these sounds and to the haunting, almost other-worldly photographs.
The value of water surely precedes our recorded history and the idea of water as an essential symbol of power and transformation resonates through the ages. From Biblical tales of God using a flood to cleanse sin, to the films Oh Brother Where Art Thou (where the protagonists are saved from lynching by the damming of a valley to provide hydro-electric power) and Trouble the Water (the unbelievable documentary of the storm which tried in vain to wash away New Orleans). Water dominates our planet and our bodies. The flow from spring and stream to river and into sea is a commonly accepted metaphor for growth, death and natural paths through life. We can't survive without water, yet too much can kill us. No wonder then, that it is the symbol of baptism and immersion into a spiritual contract offering eternal life in heaven and willful abandonment of earthly imperfections.
I found it impossible to listen to this album from start to finish and instead enjoyed dipping in and out and skimming through the pictures and text over several months. Even doing so, I still haven't finished reading the entire book! I love "Babtist Shout" by Frank Jenkins of Da Costa Woltz's Southern Broadcasters, not just for its misspelled name or because it does not feature any shouting or even vocals, but also as it is banjo playing in a stop-start style different from "the neverending rolls that later became a staple of bluegrass". "Baptism At Burning Bush" by Rev. Nathan Smith's Burning Bush Sunday School Pupils is a lovely rounded piece where the unaccompanied voices trade off, echo and harmonize with one another. The liner notes state that the Rev. Smith only made eight tracks in his one week recording career. By contrast, Bill Boyd and His Cowboy Ramblers made 200 records and enjoyed plenty of success on radio. Their Western-style narrative "Sister Lucy Lee" is the most swinging piece here.
Take Me To The Water has a host of vital tracks but Washington Phillips' "Denomination Blues" fits the collection like a glove. The great man is on wonderful form listing different approaches to baptism and, as was his fundamental reason to be, chastising all to remember that Jesus is the essential ingredient behind these divergent rituals. Phillips was what was called a 'jack-leg preacher': a man without a church who would roam around and deliver sermons where he could, accompanying himself on a self-made instrument. Religious haranguing has never sounded so good.
As mentioned, the photographs seem not-of-this-world. Indeed, a cynic might question their authenticy. I am not doing that, just searching for words to convey their magical quality. Taken from the collection of Jim Linderman, the images convey to me a sense that we are witnessing a death every bit as much as a cleansing or a rebirth. The pictures show crowds standing as if transfixed in the reverential aftermath of a disaster while the water itself exudes a magnetic attraction. In searching for the motivation of the participants I'm reminded of a quote from Jonathan Raban's book Old Glory: An American Voyage. "Once I found the body of a drowned woman. She had left a note...rambling...but it didn't actually say she intended to kill herself. It seemed she had come to the river [The Thames] without knowing what she was going to do. Perhaps she believed that the mess and tangle of her life would somehow resolve itself if she could put it in perspective beside the bleak placidity of all that drifting water. It was probable, said the coroner, that she'd thrown herself into the river without premeditation; not really meaning to commit suicide, merely trying to assuage her misery and confusion in the comforting void of the Thames. He announced his verdict: death by misadventure."
Raban is planning a solo trip down the Mississippi. He relates to the woman: "I felt I understood what had drawn the woman to the river. I wanted to lose myself too...to put myself in the grip of a powerful current which could make my choices for me, to be literally adrift. The woman had gone to the river for solace and ended up drowning in it. I was going for much the same motive, but meant to stay afloat."
The Dust to Digital label sure knows how to pull off this kind of project. In terms of musical choices and visual art, their quality control is never askew. Take Me To The Water is a magnificent example of their exemplary approach to the preservation and re-presentation of spiritual culture. It will last.
samples:
- Rev. Nathan Smith - Baptism at Burning Bush
- Washington Phillips - Denomination Blues
- Bill Boyd & his Cowboy Ramblers - Sister Lucy Lee
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This, I believe, is the ninth full-length album that Tokyo’s Yasuhiko Fukuzono has released since 2004, but this young composer has somehow managed to balance his voluminous output with an unwavering elegance and painstaking meticulousness. The glitchy pastoral ambience of Light in August, Later is certainly nothing new, but it is nevertheless done quite well…a bit too well, actually. While technically flawless, there are too few cracks to allow very much emotion to seep in.
Someone Good
The eight pieces comprising this album are all very much of a hushed and shimmering piece, as the languorous spell begun with “Different Sky” continues unbroken for its duration. It is very difficult to tell exactly which instruments Fukuzono is employing most of the time, as the source material is often laptopped into an amorphous, soft-focus haze. Occasionally, some sparse acoustic guitar, crackling field recordings, or fragile piano will appear, but the backbone of the album is its omnipresent bed of warm, quavering drones. That, of course, is perfectly fine by me, as the inability to distinguish individual elements serves the pervading hypnotic tranquility quite well. Unfortunately, the corresponding sacrifice is that many of the songs lack distinct personalities. While Yasuhiko’s understated amniotic soundscapes are always quite pleasant, they are also a bit bloodless and sterile and rarely leave a lingering memory behind them.
To his credit, aus seems well aware of this and has attempted to break up the album with pieces that could be considered actual songs, albeit without departing very much from his gentle, sleepy template. For this, he enlisted the dubious aid of Japanese vocalist Cokiyu. I am decidedly not a fan of her Sigur Ros-esque vocals, as they are too meek and characterless for me, merely sounding like yet another heavily processed instrument. However, they seem to have inexplicably had an invigorating effect on Fukuzono, as the vocal pieces are some of the most overtly melodic and human on the album (particularly “Little Song at Little Time,” which actually features a beat and a distinct crescendo of sorts).
The album does not truly come alive until the end, however. The penultimate track (“Remnant”) features some welcome feedback and sizzle that hint that aus is capable of something a bit deeper. Unexpectedly, he then promptly delivers that depth with the epic closer “A World of Dazzle,” which stands out (alone, sadly) as a truly stirring and beautiful piece. While still characteristically slow-moving, fragile, and melancholic, it diverges from its predecessors by delivering strong and memorable melodies, a gritty underlying crackle, subtly oscillating dissonance, digitally mangled piano, and snaking, intertwining violins that snowball in intensity and emotion resonance.
Fukuzono can certainly whip up an impressive slow-burning intensity when sets his mind to it, but it occurred far too seldom on Light in August, Later to make me a fan. The raw material of a formidable artist is certainly evident, but aus will need to smash quite a few more holes in his protective wall of austere perfectionism to realize that potential.
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This vinyl only release is the work of Ann Matthews and it is a hazy mix of childlike experimentation, a far cry from her usual work with Ectogram. She discards any of the usual approaches from her day job and explores her methods of songwriting and musicianship from a very different angle. Although initially difficult to digest, the music here is a wonderful mix of disintegrated pop and primal improvisation.
After delving under its surface, Brocken Spectre is a complicated album. On one hand, the songs do not rely on complex arrangements or even straightforward verse and chorus structures. Matthews instead pushes in another direction entirely, taking a looser approach to song structure. Her idiosyncratic style permeates the entire album, making it first appear self-indulgent and difficult to an outsider. The album was a blur for my first few listening sessions, finding a foothold within the music was a hard task even though I am familiar with Matthews’ work in Ectogram. However, with time I have come to appreciate (although not fully understand) Matthews’ approach. Brocken Spectre is an audio parallel of automatic writing. Her flow of consciousness take on recording brings together ideas that are strange but wonderful.
The first side of this LP is both familiar and alienating; Matthews’ voice instantly recognizable but the unusual playing style and frankly surreal mix (great use of stereo separation and creation of a 3D environment with these sounds) make the songs feel more intimidating than they should be. “Anomic Recipe” and “Know Your Vessels” both have an endearingly peculiar vibe. Contrary to these pieces, the end of side A features the stunning “Tony Wilson,” which shows Matthews at her most infectious. The eastern influence making the music feel light and the presence of a distinct beat drives the song. It sticks out amongst the other songs on Brocken Spectre as Matthews deviates from the open structures she adopts on most of other pieces.
Things get weirder on side B but at this point I am firmly in Matthews’ world and can appreciate the surroundings far more easily. The clarinet on “Eve’s Drop” sounds like some unhappy creature from a fairy tale; slowly it becomes enchanted by Matthews’ singing and the beast is calmed. Elsewhere, Matthews employs the click of a Biro pen and the sound of rocks being hit together to drive “Corn Curl.” While such odd instrumentation is expected from someone who has worked with Faust in the past, her use of these and other usually non-musical sources never seem contrived. I cannot help but feel that Matthews is in love with sound.
Brocken Spectre is self-indulgent and lacks focus. Yet although these notions would normally be negative criticisms, this serves more as a warning to lazy listeners than a deterrent to all listeners. Matthews has moved away from her comfort zone and made something very personal. Not everyone will get it but sometimes not getting it is what makes an album work. In this case, I certainly do not get it but I enjoy it nonetheless.
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The concept of a "true mask" is quite an oxymoron, because what could be a "true" façade? I’m not entirely sure how that applies to this album, however, because while it is a very well done combination of black metal and power electronics/noise, neither of those seem like mutually exclusive genres. Regardless of that, the sound is a good mix of lo fi crunch and metal burn that might not be anything new, it’s something familiar done well.
The four tracks that make up this album stay on a similar path, never really doing anything unexpected, but instead give a good sense of familiarity. “Behind the Mask” mixes siren like sine waves and buzzing low frequency textures that recall the best of Maurizio Bianchi’s early work, even to the point of including muffled synth leads and sickly, anemic sonic textures. Vocals appear rather abruptly, mostly angered screams that sit between power electronics ranting and black metal growls.
“Human Skin” is a bit more metallic, pushing simple guitar noodling to the forefront along with clattering electronic sounds and a battery of digital delays. The vocals continue along in the metal direction, but the guitar becomes supplanted by queasy gurgling noises and scattershot death industrial percussive rattling, the sound of synths being attacked under the cover of reverb.
“The Wolf Smiles” moves more into power electronics, mixing shimmering feedback noise and reverberated loops. The most rudimentary stuttering rhythms appear, giving it a very mechanized character. The guttural metal vocals that pop up here are more of a distraction though, because they take too much of the focus away from the hollow organic sounds and power electronics pulse.
The ending “Mirror” is where the sound goes out into left field a bit, a multifaceted and layered expanse of pure noise, with constant sweeps of sound appearing and receding. The rain of noise occasionally relents, allowing some meditative and reflective passages to shine through, but the noise is never far behind. The uneasy mood and moribund textures of this track put it alongside the best of the Cold Meat Industries label, which is quite a feat.
Personally, the metal elements of this disc, especially the vocals, are more of a distraction than an asset, but that’s personal opinion. The sickly electronics definitely are the star here, and in the brief span of these four tracks, Lay recalls the likes of Brighter Death Now, Con-Dom, and early M.B., which is no easy feat. It’s not something noise fans haven’t heard before, but it’s still worth checking out.
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I always hearing a label with a distinctive "sound" trying new things: while the Hymen/Ant-Zen axis has been mining the world of industrial and noise tinged electronica for years (without becoming stagnant), something completely out of character can be either a rousing success or utter failure. Thankfully, this disc falls completely into the former, with each track defying expectations and going even more “out there” than the one before.
I was first exposed to C. Peirce’s mostly solo project (with occasional co-conspirators) on this year’s Miwak Twelve compilation, in which the track "Jailbait Rock" (also here) was best described as "rockabilly glitch metal." There it stood out as the wonderfully sore thumb amidst two discs of more traditional electronic sounds. Here, that deviation is the norm, with that sound infusing most of these tracks in various different ways, creating the cyber-hillbilly metal sound Ministry touched on with "Jesus Built My Hotrod" but never reached again, and the 1950s sleaze cheese that defined the Thrill Kill Kult before people stopped caring.
Structured in a very film-like way, the opening "Theme from the Sick Generation" begins dramatically with sweeping reverbs and massive drums, along with cliché sampled strings and Reefer Madness era dialog samples, before thrusting headlong into that industrialized rockabilly sound the band does so well. Rather than just sticking that way, it’ll just as quickly jump into jazz horns as it will scum rock. "Living In A Monochromatic World" also jumps between the two extremes, with a bass synth line that sounds like it was programmed by some shoeless hillbilly between meth and moonshine binges.
At other times, the rockabilly sound gives way to some acid damaged surf rock, like in "LSD Made a Wreck of Me," which could be the theme to an awful 1960s sitcom until it all spazzes out to 303 acid techno freakouts. The surf sound resurfaces in "Pills to Make You Fun," but it is less of the focus when compared to the cheesy keyboards and breakbeats. "My Hippy Sex Cult" takes the surf sound and throws it into more speed metal climates, making it also somewhat of a different take on the same theme.
"Bad Girls go to Hell" keeps a bit of the surf, but becomes more of a struggle between sleazy porn jazz and spy music pieces, with a modicum of glitch noise thrown in for additional flavoring. Even to mix things up a bit more, "A Side of Dirty" opens with some rather uncharacteristic acoustic guitar before going balls deep in pure funk, with drums that could destroy small children. "Dance of the Lumpenproles" is another one crossing even further into weirdness, mixing big band instrumentation with randomized noisy chaos. The closing title track is perhaps the ultimate climax of sound, mixing stiff industrial beats with harpsichord, horns, and actual strings, ending with purely symphonic territory.
While "rockabilly glitch metal" could still perhaps be the closest thing to a genre to throw this into, even that is a bit too limiting. It’s more a smattering of uncountable genres into one concise, dirty package, sort of like if I blew up my grandfather’s and my records, then taped the pieces together. Although that probably wouldn’t sound as good.
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It was inevitable that my quest for truly outlandish music would lead me to the deranged audio landscapes of Caroliner. Where my quest will lead me after exploring the many records in their unhinged ouvre I do not know. As for now I content myself with the warped cognitive dissonance they provide.
Nuf Sed
On the round LP sticker it says “please read enclosed lyrics, they are intrinsic to the music,” yet following along with the lyric sheet is a nearly impossible task. The music itself is so disconcerting that I have to read it in a quiet room after the record is played. Here and there a recognizable word is perceived, allowing me to figure out which song is which. It is clear that there are different songs but no blank spaces have been left between them. Lurking beneath the squall of autistic drums is the near constant hum of a disconcerting organ, bleating like a sheep who knows it is about to be sacrificed. Over top of it all are shrill vocals that sound like they were mixed from a warbling tape, alternately sped up and slowed down.
One of the high points on the album is “The Worst of Toys.” It begins with aggressive belching, a thick squeal, and continues into what sounds like the drunken rant of a hillbilly who is about to dish out a beating. It is a song emblematic of their aesthetic. Another is “Salt Lump” with its noisy electronics bursting out of their angry mangled bluegrass. The rhythms are all played in disjointed time signatures. Fiddles and guitars vie and struggle against each other in a battle for supremacy of volume. The mad lyricist shouts his pitch bent derangements over the inebriated squalor. The cacophonic drumming and weird swirls of flange and vibrato form the glue that binds the proceedings together. The album ends by spiraling into a locked groove of an unintelligible phrase to further the audio nausea.
Outside the sheer audacity and unpredictability of their music, what I find so intriguing about the legendary San Francisco group is the sense of mystery and mythology they weave about them. Revolving around the story of a singing bull from the 1800’s who bequeathed them their entire repertoire they have made a virtue out of their inscrutability. The disturbed cartoons on the packaging of the record, peculiar lyrics, and brash songs all work together to create a numinous cohesion that has the logic of dreams, which is part of its appeal.
This vinyl only album was released in 1993.
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