This Portland, Oregon group is probably my current favorite instrumental rock act (basically ever since Battles got all goofy). I've loved all the live shows I've seen and of all their releases on Neurot, Temporary Residence, Important, and Latitude, this, their first release of 2008, is easily my top pick. Here, the group utilize their arsenal of gear and found sounds to showcase their matured compositional skills, exploit some fine riffs, and weave songs together with sounds to make a seamless and blissful 32+ minute record.
Hotter than July. This week's episode has plenty of fresh new music by Marie Davidson, Kim Gordon, Mabe Fratti, Guided By Voices, Holy Tongue meets Shackleton, Softcult, Terence Fixmer, Alan Licht, pigbaby, and Eiko Ishibashi, plus some vault goodies from Bombay S Jayashri and Pete Namlook & Richie Hawtin. Solstice moon in West Midlands, UK photo by James. Get involved: subscribe, review, rate, share with your friends, send images!
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While Grails' second release of the year isn't a mis-step, I simply don't find that I'm captivated by the melodies contained herein. For the second time this year the group have produced a 30+ minute long collection of pieces of epic magnitude, however, I'm often left waiting for songs to develop, and then let down as some of these pieces seem like incomplete thoughts when compared to the previous release.
After having explored the experimental possibilities inherent in the grand piano on his 1986 album Notturno, Tietchens visited the human voice on the 1988 follow up Aus Freude Am Elend. On it, this musical innovator raids recordings of religious ecstatics, people shouting and making love, people singing, and others, using these ‘stolen’ voices to create new frameworks, decontextualised and deconstructed, and in the process rendering the human voice as richly complex an instrument as any woodwind or stringed example. Under Tietchens' analytical gaze and craftsmanlike manipulation, we are left with something that is at once familiar and exotically alien, a veritable menagerie of species paraded before the gaze and designed to both appal and enthral equally.
I really do hope that this officially sanctioned seven-inch remix is the start of an avalanche of Jandek reworkings. This inspired idea of placing someone (so wrongly) regarded as unlistenable in a more acceptable modern context is genius.
When judged alongside both the artist's masterful debut and its formidable successor, this self-released album tragically underwhelms at just about every percievable opportunity.
Jason Molina will never be accused of holding back. Through the years as Songs: Ohia and The Magnolia Electric Co, he has proven himself over and over again to be both a prolific songwriter and tireless performer, churning out a stream of excellent albums and perpetually on the road for what seems like 13 months of the year.
Black One does exactly what is expected from a Sunn O))) record, it drones and feedbacks like a reliable fiend. While it’s nothing groundbreaking in terms of an evolution of their sound, it does provide some subtle new twists on their trademarked detuned riffing.
This is the sound of a thrash band sent into the bush andforced to beat their way out with twigs. Everything here, from the warbled acoustic pickin’ to the LightningBolted two-note spasm ascensions, is worn with a genuine conviction, theprimacy of frayed roots, dirty levity and the private knowledge that endurance isgod in this new landscape.
The late morning autumn sky is grey, at least as much of it that can beseen past the tops of the tall buildings. People walk by in slowmotion. A bird hangs in what looks like suspended animation, waiting topounce on the next piece of bread somebody drops or a knish that fallsfrom a moving cart. The collaborative record between Connors and Grubbsisn't a pretty walk in the fields, it's the sound of a dark, urbancityscape. It's also a bit of a juxtaposition. While there's certainlyno rules either collaborator always follow, I'm typically used todissonance from David Grubbs' solo work and soft flowing motions fromLoren (MazzaCane) Connors. The instrumental live in the studiorecording of Arborvitaeopens with soft, flowing piano chord progressions provided by David andharsh guitar tones from Loren. (Additionally, the titles suggest aspringtime theme, but I get a completely different feeling.) As thedaylight comes to an early end, so reflects the mood of the album. Bitby bit, the brightness fades. Half-way through the disc, on "The Ghostof Exquisite," both are playing guitars and feeding off each other'sbleak tonality. By the end of the album, the cold night has fallen."The Highest Point in Brooklyn" features the return of Grubbs on piano,this time, with a much more uneasy, uncomfortable rush, played upagainst the distorted abrasive notes of Connors' guitar, restless anddirty. In fact, at some points, Connors sounds like he doesn't evencare if the instrument cords even come loose from his guitar. The roomsounds, probably picked up by the piano microphone, are those of twopeople getting a little antsy in their chairs. Intentional or not, it'sa subtle hint at a tension, yet by the end of the piece (and thealbum), the calmness has returned. The night has grown as quiet as it'sgoing to get in a city that doesn't sleep.
It's not as easy as it seems to be noisy. There's more to it than justyelling and banging on an instrument. It takes some real premeditationand skill to be able to pull together a rush of ear-piercing sound intosomething that is abrasive while still inspiring curiosity in thelistener to delve into the depth of the sound. The Sick Lipstick findthemselves on the right side of the line between trash and treasure,dropping an album that is assaulting in its style and modus operandibut is more likely to make the listener flail about with recklessabandon than hide under the bed. Lead vocalist Lindsay Gillard poutsand struts throughout, hurling deliciously shrill invectives ofnonsensical, stream-of-conscious lyrics into the band's swirl of noiseand atonality. She sounds like the spoiled girl who didn't get her wayfor once and unleashes a level of anger and psychological torture wellbeyond her years. She's got a knack for turning a phrase and catchingthe attention with lyrics like "I want / to have / your baby! / So youhave / to come / inside me!" from "Pretend I'm Sleeping," delivered inher elementary schoolgirl tone. Even when the song's subject matterisn't explicitly nasty or violent, Dillard's phrasing and tone are verypointed, and at time disturbing like the macabre, playground taunts ofa budding sociopath who just won't stop knocking the other kids aroundduring an otherwise pleasant game of kickball. Musically, The SickLipstick slug it out with razorblade guitar licks that jerk and squealrecklessly. These licks often skid out of control into waves of whitenoise that undulate wildly, creating a harsh auditory burnout. Backedwith a chunky, fuzzy keyboard they create a remarkably consistent soundfor a band whose aesthetic is so rooted in chaotic intensity. Thepercussion maintains a pleasant bi-polarity, at once both relentlesslynoisy and eagerly danceable. "Mommy's at the Grocery Store" benefitsfrom a modulating riff that repeats rhythmically with the backbeat andmakes it a positively brutal earworm, and the cascading, declarativechorus of "Zombie Cookie" seems destined to be some kind of alternatereality cheerleading cheer. "Thigh Master, I'm Yr Master" is thesurrealist-feminist rant that Kathleen Hanna wishes she wrote, jumpingfrom image to image in a jittery pounce. While their sound isinteresting and decidedly catchy, they rarely emerge from theboundaries established in the first few songs. Their tightness andcontrol keeps them from losing shape. Gillard never outright screams ina wordless fury, and the accompaniment never explodes into thefree-rock explosion that the building tension on Sting, Sting, Stingseems to foreshadow. That might be a difficult goal for the band toreach however, since every song on the album already kicks off at fullpower and never lets up. While the fervor this conveys is exhilaratingand exciting, a foray into more noticeable dynamics and counterpointsmight make those peaks even higher. In spite of these unfulfilleddesires, what The Sick Lipstick does present us with is a screechingbanshee punk rock record with provocative personality and loads of darkfun.
