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- Enduser - Death Vest
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The last thing the world needs now is another avant-leaning Japanese psychedelic rock band, especially one with a name as silly and long-winded as Green Milk From the Planet Orange. Their name, besides being a serious impediment to success, sounds like it could be an unpublished manuscript by Dr. Seuss, one of those later works his editor refused to publish because it contained overt drug references. The album is called He's Crying "Look," a cruel juvenile chant which dredged up a whole reservoir of buried childhood trauma that I'd rather not go into right now.Beta-Lactam Ring
The band is a threesome made up of single letter names: K on vocals and guitar, T on bass and A on drums and everything else. Their sound is a looser, less gelled version of Japanese psych-rock group Ghost. Long passages of low-fidelity folk-rock and hushed, muddled vocals (in English, sort of) give way to sudden explosions of incendiary acid rock. T's complex, jazz-influenced bass playing is central to the band's dynamic, by turns melodic and funky. There are areas of straight psych-out too, as in the middle of "When Every Color Turns Black," which at times has the flavor of Pink Floyd's "Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun." There are five tracks on the album, with three of the tracks stretching to epic side length. The lengthier tracks are by far the most enjoyable, moving from quiet ambient improvisation to sudden overamped freakouts with mercurial haphazardness. There are many times on the album where it feels like the band is floundering to find footing, but these moments are balanced with enough good stuff to keep me engaged. Towards the middle of the 18-minute "U-Boat," K yells a bunch of creepy Japanese stuff into a megaphone as K and T build momentum with drum rolls and urgent bass. Then there's a countdown (I think) and the song explodes into an extended King Crimson-style bass and fuzz guitar interplay. Perhaps I am a hopeless dork, but I find this sort of thing irresistible. Ultimately, the quality that sets GMFTPO apart from many of their fellow Japanese psych-rockers is the uncalculated nature of the music. At no point do I feel, as I often do with Acid Mothers Temple, that I am hearing the idea of a song rather than an actual song. At their best and worst, I get the feeling that GMFTPO are playing the kind of music that they love, and they are not allowing things like taste or restraint to intermediate (which is a good thing). - 
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This is the debut full-length album for Whitelodge, a trio ensconced deep in Florida's panhandle, an area known for mosquitoes, extreme humidity and torrential rains, an area recently attacked by a series of forceful hurricanes. These extremes of nature seem to have exerted an influence on Whitelodge's music, moving as it does through seasonal movements: the hazy, psychedelic buzzing of summer insects, the golden autumnal harvest, the skeletal frost of winter; and the rebirth of pastoral springtime.
The lyrics are fraught with references to earth and the elements, and the soundworld of each song is alive with atmospherics to match the poetic imagery. And despite the innocuous magickal temple invoked by the band name, there are deep undercurrents of darkness and unrest lurking in the underbrush. Whitelodge are clearly indebted to that outcropping of English esoteric psychedelia that includes Current 93 and Death In June, but their geographic and generational differences from their progenitors position them in unique territory. Instead of filtering their inspirations through the post-industrial milieu that those earlier bands were working in, Whitelodge utilize more modern reference points like My Bloody Valentine and Godspeed You Black Emperor. They add layers of instrumental and textural sophistication to these elegiac songs of isolation and melancholy, reveling in slowly percolating melodies and layers of drones. The insistent strum of the acoustic guitar, lost in cavernous echo, reminded me of the richly detailed sound of Death In June's But What Ends When the Symbols Shatter. Just to cement the comparison, Whitelodge even manage to incorporate some Ennio Morricone steel guitar belts and the odd trumpet solo on a few tracks. Singer Dustin Gilbert's voice is slow and restrained, and on occasion (as in the spooky "Of Corridors and Time") his vocals are processed and elongated into scary mutations. Occasional passages of cheap vintage electronics and drum machine reminded me of early Pink Dots, as on "Song For Kalyx," a hallucinogenic meditation on lost love. Whitelodge's debut is the sort of record that is so subtle and nuanced, it's likely to be completely lost amidst the overpopulated indie scene, which is regrettable, to say the least.
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