Podcast Episodes 721 & 722 are live!
Mid-November midweek special
Two new episodes are now available.
Episode 721 features Throwing Muses, Eros, claire rousay, Moin, Zachary Paul, Voice Actor and Squu, Leya, Venediktos Tempelboom, Cybotron, Robin Rimbaud and Michael Wells, Man or Astro-Man?, and Aisha Vaughan.
Episode 722 has James Blackshaw, FACS, Laibach, La Securite, Good Sad Happy Bad, Eramus Hall, Nonconnah, The Rollies, Jabu, Freckle, Evan Chapman, diane barbe, Tuxedomoon, and Mark McGuire.
Wine in Paris photo by Mathieu.
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The latest in a long line of excavated rarities from the golden age ofKrautrock (1968-1975), Damenbart's storied and obscure album finallygets a proper CD reissue on the Psychedelic Pig label. Though thealbum, true to its namesake, was recorded in 1971, it never saw thelight of release until 1989, when it was issued on the DOM Elchklanglabel. The tapes for the legendary unreleased album were given to Dr.P. Li Khan and Christoph Heemann of HNAS in 1987, after beingdiscovered in Spain by a former associate of the band. Damenbart was atrio consisting of Erwin Bauer on synthesizer, organ and guitar; BerndBarth on synthesizer, effects and vocals; and Tina S. on lead vocals.Their sound was unpredictable and mercurial, characterized by thick,amorphous atmospheres formed by layers of droning synths and stacks ofoverdubbed vocals, with intermittent forays into rhythm and frequentleft turns into cavernous, echoplexed noise. Impressionen '71is the literal wet dream-cum-reality for fetishists of Germanprogressive and kosmische, encompassing all the outre' musical elementsthat collectors yearn for. "Innovative Schwingungen" (trans:"Innovative Oscillations") begins with a loop of Tina S. intoning thesong's title, as scattered drums fly around the stereo channels andstacks of oppressive synth and keyboard are compounded, with excessivephasing and metallic flanging lending a consistently drug-damaged airto Damenbart's psychotic invocations. At about the six-minute mark,aggressive blasts of battering-ram noise signal a brutal descent into abarrage of industrial rhythms. It's actually amazing how muchDamenbart's proto-industrial noise has in common with the laterstrategies of 80s underground artists like HNAS and others. In fact,their gothic-tinged synthesizers sound positively anachronistic attimes, forcing me to wonder if Damenbart were somehow able to get holdof prototypes of technology that wouldn't be on the market for at leasta decade hence. "Blumen im Haar" ("Flowers in Hair") uses synthesizedpanpipes, flute, gently strummed guitar and a galaxy of productiongimmicks to create a sinister fireside magickal rite in Germany's BlackForest. "Marihuanabrothers" is positively terrifying: a nine-minutewall of amorphous noise with undifferentiated blasts of mindbendingdistortion. In addition to the four long tracks of the original LP, theCD also includes four bonus tracks unearthed from the same recordingsessions. "Space Invocation" finds the band in full Tangerine Dreammode, and "Baum der Erkenntis" is a twisted, chaotic explosion ofmulti-tracked insanity. Impressionen '71 certainly earns itsreputation as one of Krautrock's long-lost gems, not least because thewhole thing is a very ingenious hoax perpetrated by Heemann and Khan.HNAS are, in fact, the true musicians behind the album, and theycreated everything from photos and biographies of the band, toextensive press notes, in an attempt to put one over on unsuspectingKraut enthusiasts. Way to go, guys. 
The California of the 1960s was a breeding ground for eccentric characters: psychedelic prophets, cult leaders, crank scientists, charlatans, fringe artists, bizarre self-taught musicians and psychotic burnouts. Some individuals, it seems, were able embody all of these archetypes at once; and of these, at least one managed to record and release an album. Bobby Brown's 1972 LP The Enlightening Beam of Axonda is a holy grail for collectors of rare psych, and one of the most idiosyncratic works to emerge from the West Coast petri-dish of psychedelics and self-motivated outsiders.
After months of waiting, the final album from legendary rock bandGuided By Voices is now released, no doubt provoking water coolerdiscussions about the band's career in the offices of entertainmentmagazines everywhere. Fans have been divided for some time, too —though many buy the records on principal despite misgivings —particularly about Pollard's higher fidelity obsession since 1997's Mag Earwhig!.The record, then, has the unfortunate position of having to provide acloser for over 20 years of music in just fourteen songs, and for themost part it accomplishes this goal. There are plenty of tracks thatfeature the classic Pollard lyrical strangeness ("You're gonna fuck upmy make-up/you're gonna make up my fuck-up"), and a full complement ofmixing styles, so there's a summary of the band's style and functions.Sadly, it just doesn't have the magical realization that everyone hopesfor in a final album, but these sort of things rarely do. To expect aband to be able to sum it all up in those songs — the highs, lows,strife, stress, exhilaration, and passion — is a bit much, but thereshould be some hint of why this is the end. And there isn't here, thatI can find. What there is to be found is another quirky and catchygroup of songs, right out of the gate with "Everybody Thinks I'm aRaincloud (When I'm Not Looking)." Chiming guitar, Pollard'sdouble-tracked vocals, and solid backing make the song a rollickinggood time, and there is an overwhelming feeling of being let down andlonely by choices one has made. Perfect opener. Then the murderingdarkness of "Sleep Over Jack" takes over, and it's even more deliciousthan the opener, an almost modern day Sweeney Todd. It's thiswarring personality that consumes most of the record; a strugglebetween the light and dark sides of emotion, with no clear winner. Notthat there has to be: to choose between "Gonna Never Have to Die" or"The Closets of Henry" and "Tour Guide at the Winston ChurchillMemorial" or "Sing For Your Meat" would be impossible, anyway. That'sthe mark of a truly great album, where every song carries the wholealbum's weight and doesn't buckle. In that regard, this is the bestlegacy Pollard and Co. can hope for, including returning member TobinSprout, who recorded parts for the record, as well. This is what theywere adept at providing for their fans: whole albums of great songs.Once again, they succeed, and though it's not the last we'll hear ofthe band's members, it is this band that will be missed. Farewell, GBV,and thanks for the memories.
Providing less variation than this election year's candidates are, apiano/organ player and a drummer play music that, with few exceptions,relies on a formula of presentation and peculiarity to succeed. Thefirst thing that caught my eye is the rather distinct and beautifulpainting that adorns the cover of this album. It is painted by theClayton Brothers of L.A. and has a carnival appeal to it. The hands andfaces of figures are distorted and bring to mind visions of a morefocused Ren & Stimpy or maybe just a slightly less disturbing MarkRyden. The music is reminiscent of the ways carnivals have always beenportrayed in the movies. For the most part an organ dominates themelodic progression of the album and steady, almost military-like drumsundercut this dry movement of cheap thrills and train-wreck amusements.When the opening track began I was fairly thrilled; the obvious musicalreference to freak-show attractions promised quite a lot, but Luther& Toby deliver very little. Slowly the over-simple combination ofmusical elements becomes lackluster. There are moments when nothinghappens despite the fact that I know an organ is emitting a series ofnotes. Towards the end of the record, on songs like "Aluminum Lady" and"144,000," Luther & Toby manage to strike just the right mood bymoving away from their love of the strange and absurd. Gorgeousmelodies and shifting rhythms sweep together in a dramatic fashion andconjure up a need for repeat listens. But two or three songs aren'tenough to save an album that tried too hard to present a particularimage. No matter how engaging an initial idea can be, it's hard to makea record based on that idea alone or at least it's very difficult to doso without the music becoming samey in very quick fashion. While thephotographs in the booklet and the promise of "Lucrezia Borgia Waltz"made it seem as though Luther & Toby were going to ride down along, untrampled road, the majority of the album simply meditates on asuperficial and ultimately uninteresting image. If there are circusoddities and strange twists of genetic code to be found in the worldthis album only hints at them. At the last moment, on the closing "OhSore Sore Song," there is a vast emptiness opened up and a group ofvoices sing a tune that could've only been heard in local taverns andfor just a moment there is something truly engaging about the albumthat suggests a past or a history of someplace unique. The song is,unfortunately, only a minute and six seconds long. I don't want to sayLuther & Toby are a one-trick pony, but there's no differencebetween dressing an album like this in rich pictures and looselydeveloped concepts and dressing up a bunch of rich boys, giving thembad haircuts, and calling them "rock n' roll."-
I can't shake the feeling that Shirts and Pistolsis Hardman's version of "Shits and Giggles," as this album plays like acollection of oddball in-jokes and quirky jams thrown together for fun.Toying with pop song melodies and structures, Hardman wrangle upconvincing electro-pop tunes that owe less to the punk ethos ofelectroclash than to psychadelia and surrealist non-sequiturs. Songsabout superheroes share the disc with tracks that juxtapose the variousmeanings of "Hardman" using porn and preacher samples with equal gusto.When they want to, as on "100 Years," the duo can craft hypnotic,organic electro-trip pieces that hum with strings and reverb andrepeating vocal phrases that drift out of consciousness. On the otherhand, tracks like "18's Fabric" touch on a kind of groovy,digitally-enhanced folk that's full of free verse poetry, acousticguitars and vibes. Whether they are playing with bluesy tones, straightup electronic pop, or something a little more leftfield, the songs arealways tight and short, leaving the album with a bit of a compiled,schizophrenic feel. In fact, a few of the tracks just kind of stopdead, as if the experiment that spawned them was suddenly brough to ahalt. This is, if ever there was one, a studio album where accomplishedproducers and musicians have afforded themselves the time and means tojot down whatever ideas might strike them. With that approach, thereare inevitably a few tracks that could be trimmed without losing much,but nothing is so long as to overstay its welcome. It sounds a bitself-indulgent at times, and borders on being too intentionally weird,but somehow Shirts and Pistols manages to stay endearing and interesting for 17 tracks. 
I first became aware of Minit through a 7" on Tonschacht, a label whoseuniform white-on-black sleeves have since become trusted markers ofshort-form, lo-fidelity electroacoustic works from a new vanguard ofinternational artists. "Bootleg" was the label's first release, and itcaptured my eye mainly because of the note: "inspired by and conceivedfor Chicks on Speed." Based on the starkness of the sleeve design andartist name, I had expected a darker, more cynical version of Chicks'jaunty, metro-centric electro. I wanted to hear a song like their"Night of the Pedestrian" stripped of its role-play humor and takeninto the streets for real; I wantedMinit to take electroclash from hot pink heels back to Suicide country,back to rhythms cold and gritty, stuck against the city's pulse. Thisdid not happen exactly. Minit sound nothing like Chicks on Speed.Instead, they play densely textured, drone-based music structuredgenerally around trad Minimalist ideas of simple and understatedmelody. Latticed field captures, robust organic loops, and stackedsynthetic vibrations combine to create immersive environments ofcertain constancy, but within which textural breakthroughs do occur.Like most works with a tendency towards explicit Minimalism, apart-for-the-whole aesthetic is available here, and any section ofthese four lengthy songs has potential to reveal a small, shimmeringworld of harmonic variations and sliding, evaporating tones. Tocontradictory effect, the music (especially the title track) also seemsto move towards specific melodic ascensions, approaching, at severalplaces, throbbing arabesques fit for a full orchestra. These betrayalsof subtlety, these breaks in the level planes created by so muchtextural detailing, create the unique paradox that helps Minit standout in a glut of like-minded musicians and becomes the only plausibleparallel to Chicks on Speed, a group whose success certainly relies onparadox and odd juxtaposition. For all its stasis and flat expanses, Now Right Heredoes not shy away from easily emotive forms, often leading songs intothe kind of swelling, post-rock flirtations associated with people likeGodspeed You Black Emperor!. Bits of Now Right Here remind me of the overpowering-yet-concise melancholy of William Basinski's Disintegration Loops.However, rather than keeping these moments of catharsis containedbehind the ever-widening sense of loss and distance that is unavoidablein the Basinski pieces, Minit works through a kind of reverse processin which the grandiose sections are slowly pieced together almost likeby-products of the music's droning surface play. The peaks or"destinations" in Minit's music are always anticipated though neverquite required, a special quality that keeps their records fresh forrevisiting and more than makes up for the relative familiarity of thegroup's sound. (It's worth mentioning also that two of this disc's fourtracks appeared on two recent Australian-scene compilations, Variable Resistance and Motion, though this one is probably worth checking out for its 20-minute title cut alone).
The most popular electronic French duo since Air have finally had their internationally acclaimed album issued in North America through Mute. Unfortunately, hearing this after the extended period of hype, I was expecting something more. Rather than hearing the masterpiece as so many have exploded about, my ears tell me this could easily be the most overrated album I can recall in a long, long time.
Despite his efforts to write a melodic album distanced from thebeat-driven erraticism and pop culture plunderphonics that have definedmuch of his work to date, Aaron Funk's eleventh album as VenetianSnares sounds like something Richard D. James saved to diskette andthrew in a corner. In all honesty if I had received this CD without anyartwork or indication of artist name, I would have written it off asanother Aphex Twin/Autechre/Mu-Ziq wannabe and thrown it in the pile tobe forgotten. The greatest fault of Huge Chrome Cylinder Box Unfolding lies in its lack of the mix of eccentric charms and sinister overtones found on previous releases like Horse and Goat, Find Candace, and the now-classic Doll Doll Doll.The sameness of the material makes the majority of the songspractically indistinguishable from eachother, making it difficult tolatch on to any one in particular. Gurgling MOS6581 sound chip melodiesand spastic percussion litter tracks like "Bonivital," "Coke Ajax," and"Nineteen1319" with little variation to speak of. "Keek" employs SpeakN Math equation gibberish to accent its tinny atmospheres while "Vida"fuses together Commodore 64 tones and glitchy hip hop with spottyresults. OK, Aaron, we get it. You like oldschool video game sounds.Thanks for clarifying. From reading my descriptions here, some readersmight be confused as to why I have such a negative view of thisrelease. To them I would say that good intentions and seemingly cleverideas are often far less enjoyable when implemented musically, as isthe case here. To be clear, Huge Chrome Cylinder Box Unfoldingis not an unlistenable affair, and without a doubt stands as Funk'smost accessible release to date. Still, after making a name for himselfwith music that is equally challenging and entertaining, thisderivative release ranks as an unmemorable entry in his relativelystrong catalog.
M.V. Carbon and J. Gräf make noise that is slow, consumptive, andjello-thick and their method of ear-shattering is unique enough to makethem stand out among a sea of amateur feedback wankers. Keyboardsstretch and rattle like whale blubber waving in the wind and sonicwhines break the sound barrier in an attempt to reach light and breakit, too, but through all the chaos and unchecked sludge is that hint ofintention and arrangement that helps everything make sense. Metaluxmight have one foot in the out-of-control world of schizophrenic soundconstruction, but the other is firmly planted in the calm and coolrealm of careful preparation. After turning up their aggression theyconsider the variety they've presented, look it over like some hellishFrankenstein made from the bones of destroyed drum kits and nuclearguitars, and they craft it into rolling lines of synthetic bubbles andpurring sex kittens. Carbon and Gräf open up noise and reveal under itthe comedy of failing sounds; there are bloody llamas and pliantanimals to be found on this record. There's always a strange kind ofbeauty here that reminds me of why noise can be so great. Take theoverdriven guitar of "Splinter and Shimmer" for example: distortion,super-indulgence, and complete disregard for listener health has neversounded so lovely. The witch-like moan and screech of the vocals onthis track slip around the pure fucking animalistic drive of the guitarand the painful screech of electronics so perfectly, it's a surprisethat more individuals haven't tried this approach (it seems ripe fortheft and overuse). Metalux let it carry on for just long enough anddon't bother using it again—it's an addictive piece of songwriting thatonly increases with each listen. In other places the record is almostdanceable as drum machines pound away steady rhythms, alternatingbetween bass hits and persistent snare crunching. The noise that movesover it and the sometimes fascist ramblings of the vocalist create thekind of fear that only an epileptic thrust suddenly into a disco bashcould feel. "Airplane" and "Flexi-Armadillo" fit this bill well, butthere aren't just a few styles on this album. Nearly every song isunique and still Waiting for Armadillosticks together more cohesively than rock opera. "Rode West" soundslike it belongs in some world filled with secretly perverted clowns and"Mexico" might as well be put in every raver's CD player as a means ofterminally destroying their ability to dance and think. Both ofthem sound as though they were crafted from the same twisted brain andboth serve the greater purpose of lifting Waiting for Armadillo far above the usual onslaught of pummeling sound and into another dimension occupied only by itself. 
The true test of the heavily layered, over-produced combo pop song is usually whether it can be played out in a solo performance, say at the ubiquitous open stage café or around the campfire, and still be strongly maintained. The singer/songwriter performance augmented with one or two other instrumentalists, preferably none of whom are playing the same instrument, usually has a raw and unique group charm, especially when performance is more the focus than production.
