Too Pure
Those familiar with Electrelane may not recognize them now. Wherebefore they were apt to formulate long, dire instrumentals with murkybass, flamboyant keyboards, and fuzz guitar, these four ladies fromBrighton have apparently decided that less can be more, provided that the energy is right. On Paradeis a sample of what's to come from the band on their debut full-lengthon Too Pure, and has an intriguing concept given their past. Threesongs weighing it at a little past eight minutes is a little shocking.The Bruce Springsteen cover ups the oddity level, though they've playedit live in the past with good notices. But the punk-injected soundtakes the taco, as the Electrelane of before has been replaced by thebastard daughter of Snowpony and Sleater-Kinney (recent tourmates =coincidence?). At any rate, it's a fairly by-the-numbers EP: new soundon track one, strangely appealing though out of character cover ontrack two, and a more traditional-sounding (read: instrumental) trackthree to prove to fans they haven't completely lost their minds. It'sfairly mediocre, but not in that it-almost-stinks kind of way. It'sjust nothing all that special. Verity Susman has that husky JohnetteNapolitano quality in her voice that always sounds like it can't domuch more than it is right now. The music is catchy and has a certainulterior groove to speak of, but at the end of the day I'm left wantingto give it all the old heave-ho on days when I want to trade in old CDsfor new at my local. The jury's not out so far that I wouldn't listento the forthcoming debut, but I'm suspect nonetheless.
Those familiar with Electrelane may not recognize them now. Wherebefore they were apt to formulate long, dire instrumentals with murkybass, flamboyant keyboards, and fuzz guitar, these four ladies fromBrighton have apparently decided that less can be more, provided that the energy is right. On Paradeis a sample of what's to come from the band on their debut full-lengthon Too Pure, and has an intriguing concept given their past. Threesongs weighing it at a little past eight minutes is a little shocking.The Bruce Springsteen cover ups the oddity level, though they've playedit live in the past with good notices. But the punk-injected soundtakes the taco, as the Electrelane of before has been replaced by thebastard daughter of Snowpony and Sleater-Kinney (recent tourmates =coincidence?). At any rate, it's a fairly by-the-numbers EP: new soundon track one, strangely appealing though out of character cover ontrack two, and a more traditional-sounding (read: instrumental) trackthree to prove to fans they haven't completely lost their minds. It'sfairly mediocre, but not in that it-almost-stinks kind of way. It'sjust nothing all that special. Verity Susman has that husky JohnetteNapolitano quality in her voice that always sounds like it can't domuch more than it is right now. The music is catchy and has a certainulterior groove to speak of, but at the end of the day I'm left wantingto give it all the old heave-ho on days when I want to trade in old CDsfor new at my local. The jury's not out so far that I wouldn't listento the forthcoming debut, but I'm suspect nonetheless. 
Vienna's Vegetable Orchestra is one of only two vegetable musicprojects worldwide. They make music using only instruments crafted outof vegetables and various kitchen appliances. No sampling or looping isinvolved, and all songs are composed for live performance, the soundsgathered by what must be some of the best contact microphones in theworld. The group protests that this is no "just-for-fun project," andsuch a claim is easy to believe after listening to this, their secondfull-length release. Trying to decide just how this record, soundinglike a nice enough mix of spacious glitch-tronica and the windblown,percussive sound of early Kraftwerk, was rended from curiously alteredradishes, carrots, and eggplant, is at least a unique experience. Theorchestra's stated goal is "the interpretation and reconstruction ofelectronic music with organic means," the first part of which is anastounding achievement. With the aid of microphones alone, anincredible range of drone, crackle, and even straight noise travels theshort distance from vegetable to ear. They do house; they do dub; hell,they even cover Kraftwerk's "Radioactivity" with an amazing amount ofclarity. The large number of sounds and reference points within Automatekeep the novelty cooking for far longer than one would expect. Thealbum falters, however, in accomplishing the "reconstruction" proposedin its concept. True, the element of surprise enters first as therealization sets in that these are all vegetable sounds, then againwhen it's clear that none of the sounds have been run through computersor looped. But the music, taken alone, is nothing shocking. Somestrange, noticeably unique sounds emerge every now and then throughout Automate,but no archly organic vibe is launched. In a time when computers canreconstruct and often augment any sound under the sun, vegetables thatmerely replicate computer noise, and do so somewhat derivatively, failto make a lasting impression. That said, the Vegetable Orchestra'sfirst album may not be directed at a reinterpretation of electronicmusic, and therefore may not find the same shortcomings as itssuccessor. Also, the orchestra's bimonthly performances are surelyspectacles to be reckoned with; at the end of the show, the group's ownchef cooks the instruments into a soup that is shared with theaudience!
Tribute albums can often be enlightening. They can also beexcruciating. It can be illuminating to hear differing interpretationsof a songwriter's back catalog. A cover version can give you a freshperspective on a familiar song, or place it in a new musical contextthat may lend itself brilliantly to the original material. In the past,I've heard wonderful collections of artists interpreting the songs ofsinger-songwriters Leonard Cohen, Tom Waits and Lee Hazlewood. The Bells Shall Sound Forevercollects 15 tracks from 15 artists, paying tribute to the songs ofCurrent 93. From the beginning this project is doomed. David Tibet'swork as Current 93 is so irredeemably idiosyncratic, and is performedand produced in such a specific way, that any reinterpretationnecessarily runs the risk of diluting the meaning and power of theoriginal material. Current 93 albums do not contain songs; they containstanzas. Each album is a poetic cycle, weaving together Tibet's musingson Christ, cats and apocalypse with sparse and evocative soundsettings. The very idea of isolating a track and reinterpreting itseems, on the surface, to be a ridiculous venture. Tibet's dramaticspoken-word vocals, Michael Cashmore's haunting instrumental backdropsand Steven Stapleton's mindbending soundscapes and production acumen:all of these elements are vital to the sound of Current 93. David Tibetcan't play any instruments, he can't read or write musical notation andhe can't write a song. Therefore, the idea of covering a Current 93song seems just as pointless as covering a Wesley Willis song. TheEuropean and American artists on Bells are largely obscure,often amateur, with a clear emphasis on bedroom industrial and neo-folkmusicians — people who have had their brains twisted by constantexposure to Sol Invictus records. Sonne Hagal's limp take on "Death ofthe Corn" is made comical by the thick German accent of the singer.Dorien Campbell turns in a capable but unremarkable rendition of "ASadness Song." Vequinox manage to make the already boring "Earth CoversEarth" even more lackluster, sounding like a middle-aged, pot-smokingWiccan couple recording on a four-track in a dusty tool shed in theirbackyard. German industrial band Engelsstaub attempt to transform"Happy Birthday Pigface Christus" into one of those faceless EBM clubtracks. What an outrageously bad idea! Hungary's Cawatana contribute ahilariously corny version of "A Song for Douglas After He's Dead",complete with silly pan flutes and broken English. "Crowleymass" is anembarrassing mess — it's hard to tell what Storm of Capricorn werethinking with this annoying cacophony of multi-tracked vocals and dullCasio keyboards. If you've ever wanted to hear a heartbreakinglybeautiful song turned into utter shit, listen to Der Feuerkreiner'sself-consciously "gothic" reading of "Soft Black Stars." PancreaticAardvarks turn in a seven-minute dark techno track clearly influencedby Coil, but it appears to have nothing in common with the Current 93song that it purports to be a cover of. The tracklisting containsseveral glaring errors, mixing up the order of the tracks 12 through14, which is fine with me because I'm sure I won't be searching forthese songs in the future. I actually liked O Paradis' psychedelicflamenco version of "Calling For Vanished Faces I," if only for theamusement of hearing the lyrics sung in Spanish. Apparently, DavidTibet donated a Louis Wain painting from his personal collection forthe sleeve image. If this means that he is giving his stamp of approvalto this project, I would question his judgment. All I felt afterlistening to The Bells Shall Sound Forever was an overwhelmingdesire to dig out my old Current 93 records and listen to these songsin the proper context. Perhaps that was David Tibet's plan all along. 
While their debut album was equal parts all-out guitar assault and plaintive resignation, Explosions in the Sky plumbs the depths of their oeuvre by digging within on their second record, even in its first moments. The quietly played notes that begin the first track eventually join with a heartbeat of percussion that builds into a carefully blended swell where all instruments feel like they're being played with someone's life on the line. When it all finally combusts, it's not at all like before: it's better.
The immediate reaction I had to my first airing of this CD is probablyquite common: It's impossible, at first, to believe that this isgenuine. Thankfully, the intensity and craftsmanship of the music lenda great deal of credibility, and after repeat listens I am less andless inclined to challenge the band on whether or not their hearts aretruly in this. I grew up listening to Slayer, Anthrax, and Metallica,sporting the worst mullet on the planet and a backpatch on my denimjacket to strike fear into all those who opposed. As I grew older, Igot into Yes, Dream Theater, and even some King Crimson, and learnedhow expansive one could make rock sound. Nightfist have taken the worksof these and other collective metal and prog-rock influences andbettered them, even if only here and there on their first release. Iftheir bio is indeed true and Nightfist's members are recent high schoolgraduates, then color me doubly impressed, as there's not one slip-upis to be found in these louder-than-love anthemic passages, and thatkind of skill is rare on music so technically precise as this. Theprologue and epilogue come off a bit forced, like an afterthought,detailing the warrior's journey in two brief monologues; thankfullythey let the music do most of the talking. Furious drumming, blazingguitars and mad-scientist keyboards abound, and the songs take on alife of their own. I saw the warrior, put upon by so much strife,swinging his sword and crushing enemies with one blow, striving towardsthe final battle. The entire CD is a metaphor for this up and comingband, and at this rate they'll be the stuff of legends sooner ratherthan later. 
Don't be fooled: this isn't some silly pot-worshipping reggae groupcome to praise the benefits of marijuana use to the masses. This is abody-swaying group of musicians fusing "acoustic" reggae with the bestelements of dub. The sexiest horn combo this side of the universe blowsthrough "Kneel At the Feet" and slithers through a sax solo hell-benton turning these cold days into humid, fire-lit nights in a steamy bar.There's the moon shining over the mountains just outside the openwindow of the bar and the smell of salt-water splashes up through mysenses with every drum POP! and guitar stroke. The music isn't justsexy, though: 10 Ft. Ganja Plant recalls the best of classic reggaewith upbeat and playful rhythms, bass-led melodies, and, especially inthe case of "Let the Music Hit," outstanding lyrics celebrating thepower of great reggae tunes. The best part is that each track soundsdistinctly different: the production is never the same between twotracks and all the instruments have a unique voice that bursts away andstands alone as a shining beacon. If that beacon isn't shining, though,it's pulsing and moving like the waves on the ocean: it's hard not totap a foot or get caught up in the melodies. With each track being asurprise both musically and production-wise, it's an album that movesalong quickly and leaves a hunger for more. The chiming, foreign, andexotic "Midnight Landing" stands out like a lone dancer on the beach:the strange bells used that form the center of the melody couldn't bemore whimsical and yet they stand at a paradox: they're a sharpcontrast from standard reggae instrumentation but they keep in focuswith the soul of the album. I could spend hours talking about theimagery this album throws at me every time I listen to it. I don'tthink I've ever heard a reggae/dub album quite as diverse as this. Infact, even putting a name like "reggae/dub" on Midnight Landing is unfair: this isn't just reggae or dub and this isn't justsome combination of the two. Between the vocal-pieces and theinstrumentals there is an amazing variety of styles employed and it'shard not to stand back and look at it all and wonder: this is one ofthe most creative albums I've heard all year. It's diverse, fun, risky,experimental, creative, and entirely unique. This goes beyond itsstylistic marker and shatters into something entirely new and beautifulwithout forgetting where it came from. 
The world of drones is necessarily deceptive. The successful drone isalways an illusion—you wind up being drawn into a special perceptualstate that I call the zone,believing that you're listening to a complex world of fractionaldetail, motion, drama and beauty while it's perfectly obvious to thecasual observer outside the zone that it's just a bunch of tones, quitepossibly rather unpleasant ones. The conjuror illusionist's skills canbe explained, understood and taught but the inner workings of theconvincing drone illusion are, to me at least, very mysterious. Thesame mystery is at the heart of minimalism—it's unbelievably easy to bea minimalist but very few have made good minimalist art and I doubtthat anyone can explain the key ingredient. This is my excuse for notbeing sure what it is that doesn't quite work about Texturizer.Everything is lovely in theory, Coti K. provides slow mellow electronictones and noises and Nikos Veliotis plays bowed harmonics and othercello sounds on top of that. But somehow it doesn't quite gel anddoesn't get me into the zone. The electronic part itself is hard tofault; it has nicely unstable resonances that sound like they mightcome from feedback loops fed with ambient sounds, perhaps street noise.The cello part is perhaps the issue. My all time favorite musicalinstrument is the cello and I love what its overtones can do but here Idon't get the sense of a cohesive effect playing. Live improvised droneplaying (I presume is what's happening here) involves a generativeprocess of discovering the perfect sonority and then working it,holding it, keeping it and moving it around. There should be a balancebetween the freedom of the autonomous discovered sound to behave underits own volition and the control of the musician. Too much control andall we hear is the performer, too little and the sound's lack ofintrinsic aesthetics will show through. Veliotis is tending to theformer. It's as though he never quite finds his perfect sonority,passing over several good opportunities and dwelling on inadequate oneson a trajectory of his own that also fails to make sense as a celloimprovisation. As wallpaper Texturizer is entirely functional—areally rather enjoyable and unimposing accompaniment to ones work. Butclose listening reveals the absence of illusion. 
Tom and Christina Carter's work as Charalambides improves with everyrelease, and now with the addition of Heather Leigh Murray —Christina's bandmate in Scorces — on pedal steel and vocals, they are aforce to be reckoned with. Kranky is generously reissuing severalCharalambides releases that were never widely available. Unknown Spinwas originally released on the band's own label in a CD-R pressing of300. With this particular reissue, Kranky is righting a colossal wrong:that this music was relatively unavailable for so long. These songs area real step forward for the band, as they work more into each other'spatterns, with the expansive nature of the music benefitting from anodd start/stop quality that intensifies the whole album's aura. Theopening track, also the title track, is thirty whole minutes ofminimalist joy, haunting in its need to take so long to build. Littlepieces of music are repeated, but spaced out in an almost mind-alteringpace. Eventually all parts join together, build, soar, and chill to thebone. With not a track under eight minutes, and given their history,this track sets the tone for the whole release. The songs approach purebeauty here and there, but is is the final track, "Skin of Rivers,"that pulls it all together. With Heather and Christina's dueling vocalsand little else until about five minutes in, there is a pure fear andisolation in place that just decimates. It's probably the bestCharalambides track ever, and the album as a whole is quite anaccomplishment. With more to come from Kranky, perhaps this fineensemble will finally get the respect they deserve.
Somewhere there exists a Metal Valhalla, an otherworldly paradise where all of the head-banging Vikings, beer-swilling Satanists, fist-pumping Klingons and face-painted Odinists are slam-dancing under the dark crimson moonlight to the pure amplified glory of the heaviest sounds in the Universe. For all we know, this Guitar Nirvana might be completely out of reach of mere mortals, at least in this lifetime, but that doesn't stop people from trying time and again to invoke it right here on Earth.
