We have finally cleared out the backlog of great music and present some new episodes.
Episode 711 features music from The Jesus and Mary Chain, Zola Jesus, Duster, Sangre Nueva, Dialect, The Bug, Cleared, Mount Eerie, Mulatu Astatke & Hoodna Orchestra, Hayden Pedigo, Bistro Boy, and Ibukun Sunday.
Episode 712 has tunes by Mazza Vision, Waveskania, Black Pus, Sam Gendel, Benny Bock, and Hans Kjorstad, Katharina Grosse, Carina Khorkhordina, Tintin Patrone, Billy Roisz, and Stefan Schneider, His Name Is Alive, artificial memory trace, mclusky, Justin Walter, mastroKristo, Başak Günak, and William Basinski.
Episode 713 brings you sounds from Mouse On Mars, Leavs, Lawrence English, Mo Dotti, Wendy Eisenberg, Envy, Ben Lukas Boysen, Cindytalk, Mercury Rev, White Poppy, Anadol & Marie Klock, and Galaxie 500.
Skolavordustigur Street in Reykjavík photo by Jon (your Podcast DJ).
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Tsunoda is one of my favorite artists working with fieldrecorded media mainly because of the way in which his body of work tests thedefinitions and possibilities of “environmental” sound or music.
The typical Tsunodarecording, this one no exception, contains necessarily subtle combinations of nearlyuntreated outdoor recordings (bodies of water are recurring), the amplifiedvibrations of small metal or glass objects, and artist-generated sinewavetones. Through juxtaposition andalignment, Tsunoda prods questions concerning the significance of setting, thelimitations and changing patterns of human auditory awareness, and the basicphenomenology of sound, something everyone using field captures must engage,but something very dominant in Tsunoda’s work, often at the expense of whatwould seem either immediately or conventionally pleasant to the ear.
Ridge alternatesrelatively short tracks of different oceanfronts, including what is probablyboat engine “arrival” recordings, with the sounds of different vibratingmetals, stimulated by extreme frequencies and supplemented once with sinewave. Tsunoda’s focus here is much lessconceptually complex that on earlier works, like 2004’s Scenery of Decalcomania, where similar sound sourcing ended in agrand scrutinizing of environmental autonomy and the ear’s necessary brandingof auditory stimulus. On Ridge, the artist’s only provideddirection is one of comparison, in which the subtle complexities of the surfget aligned with the vastly scaled-down recordings of metal in vibration.
That the metallic sounds cannot be called “smaller” is onlythe start. The low, wavering rumbles andshrill wines of these metals uncannily create the forever unfolding vistas ofaquatic movement, though most impressively, at the proper volume, they soundabsolutely immense. As a recreationallistener, I am typically drawn to the field-captured sections of Tsunoda’sdiscs, but not so here, as his object recordings, if a bit less complex, are disproportionatelypowerful, eclipsing the subtleties of the frankly boring (in comparison toprevious works) Bay recordings.
Ultimately, I am attracted to Tsunoda’s body of work because,despite conceptual underpinnings and the rigor of his methods, an intenselistenable and repeatable nature shows itself, making later scrutiny andimmersion better possible. That I’vefound Ridge to be immediately lessappealing than other works is probably just the moment speaking, and at the artist’scontinual request, I am content to sit back and hear that moment change.
Imust confess that Andrew Chalk has been scoring my ritual eveningrelax/unwind "me-time" almost exclusively for the last few weeks. The newest release is exceptionally fantastic, reminding me why peoplepay outrageous amounts for his releases at online auctions.
There's an amazing attention to aesthetics that Andrew Chalkundeniably pays for each release with his name on it. It starts withthe music and continues through the cover artwork, packaging, andpresentation.
The first part of Blue Eyes of the March is a 20 minute longpiece which sounds like it was created by a prepared guitar, tuned onlyto play a limited number of pre-determined notes as they're quietlyplucked and resonate for long stretches. The tones resemble some ofthose on the Buddha Box, and while the effect is similarlyserene and meditative, there's a number of differences that areinherent with the basic natures of the medium. The biggest advantage Ithink is the ability to amplify the sound and be completely bathed init, which is something Chalk's music always lends itself to. Chalk'smusic is not on a loop, either, and each piece makes a gradualevolution over the time.
The second part is an absolutely heavenly 31 minute long piece.Unlike the first part, this one sounds like it was created by piano,yet it echoing in a similar way to the other. The piano tones andtreatment are almost reminiscent of some 20+ year old Harold Budd workbut while the set notes are very rigid, Chalk's playing is quite fluid.High pitched tones and low pitched tones add colorization but it's hardto tell if they are being created by other sources or if they'reserendipitous side-effects. Either way, the combination is hypnotic andpractically time-bending: I never realize that 31 minutes have passedwhile entrenched in this recording.
For the packaging, Chalk continues on in the ways of the first threereleases on Faraway Press: a rigid cardboard sleeve with no wordsmucking up the artwork; an inner baggie for the disc; an obi with thealbum title; all contained in a piece of resealable plastic to protectthe cover. I've had this CD at work and at home and in both places,friends who usually have nothing to do with the weird music I listen towere drawn in to the blue cover and sturdy packaging grabbing it andgiving it a close examination. It's refreshing probably for them to seemusic treated as artwork and not as a commodity with UPC symbols andFBI warnings trashing the cover. For me, I'm happy to have theopportunity to listen to Blue Eyes of the March whenever I want as I still can't seem to afford some of the more elusive releases.
Behind all the bells and whistles singing and stretching across every second on this album is a beautiful, childlike song. The duo of Jason Frederick Iselin and Jeffrey Wentworth Stevens wrestle with unconventional sound and pop, folk, and classical sensibilities over the duration of Things Past. The tension that plays out between the odd and the familiar opens up a stream of ornate and soft music both catchy and laden with little treasures just waiting to be unearthed.
Not content to rest their abilities on vintage machinery and expensive software, Iselin and Stevens write luscious, full songs brimming over with thick tones, velvet vocals, and tinkering percussion. All of Things Past is soupy, swirling with acoustic guitar and ascending swathes of orchestral electronics. It sounds absolutely amazing; in part because the band knows how to handle all of their instruments, but also because every song on here is almost instantly satisfying. There are enough hooks and sing-songy parts to make even the most ardent fan of pop music swoon. When the band decides to travel into the more abstract territory of pure electronic composition they pepper their doodling with a radiant shimmer that has a lot in common with Boards of Canada. During these moments the music is minimal and hazy, virtually steaming out of the speakers. They handle their love for the unconventional expertly, mixing it seamlessly with their more structured songs.
Stevens' voice only adds to the softness of the entire record. His singing is youthful, care free and almost always reminiscing. On the title track his voice seems to wash away with the oceanic pulse of the timpani-like drones that wander along in the background. On "Filmstrips Fade" his ascending, climatic vocals add a layer of drama to the dark and swarming music that backs him up. Both the music and the vocalist interact with each other, not satisfied with being a mere accompaniment to the other.
The point is that he is both coherent and instrumental, blending in with the music and standing above it as a vocalist. "Her Kleenex Laughter" is a beautiful example of Stevens' ability to move about within the music. His words move expertly through the guitar's melody, reacting rhythmically to the plodding drums that bring this song down to earth and place its power firmly in the movement of feet and the sway of the body. When George and Caplin get down to it, their music is powerfully physical, but without being forceful.
There's a whole world of compliments and small details I could deal this record, but ultimately the best thing about Things Past is just how lively and gorgeous it is. There is little doubt that it will stay in my rotation for a long time; all of the melodies and sumptuous instrumentals are resilient enough to withstand the most rigorous replay regimen. Not only will the songs stick in my head for days at a time, but the other, more abstract facets of the album compel multiple listens and open up an inviting space that promises complete unpredictability. Things Past is pretty on the surface, but exhibits a stunning profundity as well and for that reason it is a magnificently satisfying listen that absolutely should not be missed.
Embracing true digital designs, Loscil harnesses the internet-as-merchant age and offers a new album for free download called Stases. Though Scott Morgan has never eschewed album leitmotifs, he employs one here which is more nebulous than his previous explorations in the submarine, the geographic, and the thermodynamic.
The common thread of Stases is that most of these tracks have been the fundamental drones for his songs on previous albums for the Kranky label. The song titles still extol the basic dichotomy which Loscil enjoys contemplating: the sky versus the ocean. As you might expect, though, the product here is more restrained, more somber, and heavier. There are very few flourishes on top of these subatomic blueprints.
On previous albums, Loscil accompanied his deep drones with distant and ephemeral melodies, often heard as if they were incubating in another room insulated with bad sound-proofing which let the melodies bleed through the walls just enough to infect the drones. Not so here. Instead, we have states, or fixed positions, or beds. The image of beds is apt not only for the music which used to sit or lie on top of them, but for the obvious narcotic quality to the music. Songs float seamlessly into each other, often fluttering and oscillating at the same frequency so that drone X drifts into drone Y and quite possibly creates some Frankenstein hybrid of drone XY in the listener's ear.
The transition between "Biced" and "Still Upon the Ocean Floor" is sub-aural and indiscernible, for instance. "Resurgence" is all windswept landscape and it's hard to say whether we're talking ocean floor topography or good old-fashioned post-apocalyptic earthen wasteland. What is certain is that there is no hint of anything actually resurging from this song unless it's a stiff breeze and some radiated flora.
The trick with drone artists which I never understood (and still don't) is when to call it a day: when to end a sustained drone or to indulge in further floating. Is the cessation of these songs arbitrary or is there some formula? Loscil's songs are often captivating enough that I have no problem with the more indulgent types like "Micro Hydro," "Windless," and "Stratus," but I also appreciate the succinct beauty of a song like "B15-A," whose four and a half minutes seem almost allotted by the fates themselves.
The truest embodiment of Loscil's motif is "Windless," a song which remains static for nearly nine minutes and whose virtue is based on whether the listener shares the desire for such inertia. There is actually a subtle epiphany within the nine minutes, but patience is the only path to it and the song is not for those who demand love, death, rebirth, sin, beauty, and enlightenment to be contained only within a two-minute Ramones song. The shimmering echo and quiver from the nubilose "Stratus" is a perfect finale for the album. The song lifts us up from the ocean into the ether but doesn't let us forget the source of the clouds on which we are conveyed.
The material on Music for a Spaghetti Westernwas recorded backin 1985-86 but not released until about 10 years later. ThankfullyKlanggalerie are keeping it from the tragedy of being lost to the ages,for now at least.
The four tracks (presented here as "scenes" and without real titles)are largely abstract tapestries with heavy repetition of samplesthroughout tightly woven layers of sound. A common sound of blurry echolinks the various samples together in a seamless flowing fabric.
Only "Scene 1" has any discernible vocals, and that also makes ittheonly track to give any indication when it was created. The repeatingsamples of Ronald Reagan would have been a lot more timely andprovocative back in the mid-80s, but they've held up remarkablywell. The rest of the album is quite strong and despite thetimely samples, sounds fresh enough and could easily havebeen newly created when it was released as a long-lost recording.
The second, third, and fourth "scenes" more clearly show the origins ofthe album's title; though rather than a soundtrack to some old Eastwoodflick, sounds reminiscent of those films (possibly direct samples, it'shard to say) appear throughout, if heavily blurred and muffled.Stereotypical "Indians on the warpath" whoops surface on "Scene 2" and"Scene 4," and I think I hear a bit of the famous theme to The Good, the Bad, and the Uglyat the beginning of "Scene 3." Not so obviously tied to the Westerntheme are voices on "Scene 2" heavily distorted to the point ofsounding like whale songs and echoing chimes later in that same track.
Overall this is a solid piece of accessible and hypnotic sound and truly a gem worth digging out of the vaults.
In the wake of 2004’s Your Blues, Destroyer’s Rubies seems to bea stark 180 turn from the former's MIDI and synth drenched sound. Thesound on this record is lush and organic, recalling early '70s artrockers like Bowie, T. Rex and Roxy Music. And while Daniel Bejar andhis band provide the songs with a solid musical, he takes a page fromthe post-modernism handbook, imbuing his songs with a grand sense ofpurpose, yet inserting word games and nonsensical imagery as a counterpoint.
On the epic leadoff track “Rubies,” Bejar declares “Oh, it’s just yourprecious American Underground, and it is born of wealth. With not awriter in the lot.” While this may seem to be a cheap potshot on hisneighbors to the south, the line is emblematic for much of therecord. This is a writer’s record, filled with all the obtusewordplay andveiled metaphors one would expect. That Bejar delivers these oftenobtuse lines in a Dylan-esque croon only reinforces this fact. Andwhile I’m loathe to break out the Dylan connection, “Your Blood”bounces along to a honky-tonk piano, bluesy guitar, and seeminglystream of conscious lyrics, sounding an awful lot like a lost song fromBlonde on Blonde.
Just as important as the instrumentation or lyricshere is Bejar’s captivating and charismatic vocals. He allows his voiceto jump along, unrestrained by the structures of his song. While thistendency often becomes boring or, worse still, annoying in othervocalists (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, anyone?), Bejar’s vocals workwonderfully here. “Painter in Your Pocket,” perhaps the strongest songhere, floats along warm organ drones and subdued guitar playing, slowlybuilding into a bouncy sing-along.
For the most part, Destroyer’sRubies is a remarkably sophisticated and assured record. While thereare a few points where Bejar’s lyrics fall flat and the instrumentationbecomes a bit clunky, such as on “A Dangerous Woman Up to a Point,”Destroyer’s Rubies is a record that at once feels ancient andcontemporary.
Peoplehave grown so accustomed to Kieran Hebden's work as Four Tet that theyhave probably almost completely forgotten what his role as amusician/composer was in Fridge and the directions the trio werebeginning to pursue on their last full-length release, Happiness.The people who are aware and welcoming to more loose sounds will be themore receptive audience for this brand new project, as Hebden hasteamed up with Steve Reid, a seasoned drummer known for his work insoul and jazz circles.
While I thoroughly enjoy volume 1 of The Exchange Session, Ican see how some Four Tet fans will clearly miss the point. For years,Kieran Hebden has built an audience through the popularity of hisability to mix samples of jazz records together, grabbing compatibletiny melodies and forming intricate instrumental pop tunes. Sure, hehas been known to inject some more freer approaches, stretching thingsout for singles like "Glasshead"/"Calamine" and "As Serious As YourLife," but when it comes to the masses, most people know him for the3-5 minute long pop tunes.
Hebden and Reid met through mutual acquaintences and the two had amutual appreciation for each other's work. Reid, after years of playingwith seasoned veterans for decades, was most likely afraid of becomingone himself, perhaps growing tired of working in the confines of what'sexpected from mainstays, and looking to play with more people who wereinto experimenting. Hebden, who, like a fairytale princess is alwaysseeking something more, was (and still probably is) searching for theultimate sounds, the ultimate experiences, challenging himself everyday to find it or recreate it.
What they've done on this recording is find a way to harness thepower between each: Reid's pulses and Hebden's sounds marry to make anew type of free jazz duo, where a drummer can exploit rhythmic phrasesand an electronic composer can loop samples and themes. They're notplaying within the confines of a song or melodic theme, however, butReid somewhat remains in the driver's seat, moving the songs throughwith evolving beats. Instead of the screechy wails of a horn section,expect samples of the horns, munged into a digital squelch andreturning to the purer sounds on cue.
Volume 1 begins with the more subtle "Morning Prayer," a song that immediately triggered a nostalgia for the opening of Fridge's Happiness,as it's a very warm-up kind of affair where each contributor stronglyestablishes their roles and doesn't get into an out-muscle-each othercontest. The following "Soul Oscillations" is a 14+ minute long jamwhere the focuses shift back and forth between Hebden and Reid, asthey're each showing off their finest chops from cacophonous to calm and collected. The final song,"Electricity and Drum Will Change Your Mind" is actually where therhythms get more sturdy and solid, things build up and chill out, heat up again, and by the timethey're cooling down, I'm anxious to see whatturn comes next and suddenly the tape stops!
So I look forward to Volume 2, due later this year, picking upexactly where this session dropped us all off, but it will be probablymore interesting to see how studio recordings may develop after themulti-continental touring that Hebden and Reid will embark on this year.
The fourth, and final, in this spaced-out series is the perfect bookend to Cope’s explorations in the dichotomous world cosmological and Earth Mother minded rock. Consisting of the rediscovered first effort and the last ever track recorded for his Rite sequence, Cope shows little sign of doing anything less than 23 minutes when it comes to playing for purely meditational purposes.
The sometimes hit-and-miss Cope has been consistently kicking arse lately with primitive, pumped and propheteering live shows and two recent riffed out LPs (Dark Orgasm and Citizen Cain’d). Rite Bastard looks both ways as it attempts to wrap up the warped extended threads of his playing.
The first of the two tracks "So Tough," the newer of the two recordings, is a big band funk furrow. It keeps the basic rhythm loop for most of the piece with different instrumentation taking the spotlight, but the guitar always wins out. The guitar work continues to wring out pyrotechnical high end fretwork that keeps up almost for the full track. As horns drop in and out, the beat deepens and keyboards get down, dirty and medieval. There’s a full-blown ending to contend with after this barrage too: the fug of hidden vocals, flutes and power tools herald rain storms and a choir backed under a mini-monolith as the storm wades into the distance.
"Too Stone" is unearthed from way back in 1990 and has the hallmarks of that time as well as the boot print of Cope’s future. This Fender/Casio loose groove has all the rattle of that period’s hybrid mentality but has a menace few others ever captured. Eddies of FX, a sine wave drone that came before drones were ‘back’ and flickers of noisiness make this bare bones piece one the best pieces of Rite ever. The occasional move from single bass note to a higher pitched almost bass line brings flashes of melody to the too stoned track. Those now in mourning for the Rite series need not fear, the liner notes claim the series will allegedly continue under the name DO U WANT THIS?. As one blazed-out chapter closes another opens.
Paranoia runs rampant all over this disc, a sense of voyeurism and danger with it, slowly escalating with every cautious movement. The technology we've built up all around us is slowly evaporating, wearing away with rain and wind. Nobody is sure what's beneath everything, what's grown since we buried ourselves beneath steel towers and miles of wire, but Echran is observing and recording the entire event.
There's a scene in Darren Aronofsky's Requiem for a Dream where Clint Mansell's grating soundtrack chronicles the end for just about everyone. It's the longest damn denouement in film history and Mansell's strings and electronic hissing go a long way in making the pain on screen seem very real. Davide del Col and Fabio Volpi must've watched that scene about three hundred times more than is healthy for a normally functioning human. Their music executes that same tense energy that Mansell's soundtrack did. It is dark, cloudy, and organic... and composed of nothing but computers. Echran is a strange project, a blend of many human thoughts and ideas synthesized from cold machines, colder atmospheres, and a sense that the end is very near for everyone.
Paranoia is in this disc's blood and so is apathy. With every dismal wash of machine sound and buzzing meters there is a sense that whatever world Echran is occupying, it is beyond the reach of hope and happiness. Every track moves sensuously, but only through the interaction of steam, pistons, and electricity. Everything has been reduced to a mathematically exact operation, efficient and smooth. But instead of relishing the mechanical perfection on the surface, Echran leave behind little hints of sounds and voices that make the whole operation seem murderous, like something is trapped in all those pipes and still alive.
There are a few other bands that have played up the mechanical or computer age and painted a picture of man as being taken over by machine entirely, too cold and comfortable in logic and reasoning to see beyond the prison of skin. It's a very pessimistic view, but one that this duo does not take. Echran do have that Cyclotimian element in their compositions, but more importantly they've left behind some human flesh and blood to be gnawed on with all the grim, dystopian imagery. So, instead of writing a mechanical album, they've written a distinctly human piece of music to the extent that their mechanical style will allow them. There are rhythms, melodies, hints of warmth in the bass tones and, simultaneously, there are clattering pops, the sound of electricity flowing through wires, the hiss and squeal of old steel shaking rust lose. Together they sound unique and breed a palpable suspense.
For some bands this might lead to some resolution, to the false belief that there is a synthesis of good compromise at the end of the tunnel. But Echran are smarter than that and their music simply leads to the end of the album where the listener is held aloft and expected to make his or her way down alone. Once they've built their music to unbelievably high levels and made everyone wonder what'll happen next, they simply leave it there and look on it in wonder. What happens when everyone wakes up, disconnects, realizes they're trapped, being watched, studied, observed beneath the glass of dollar signs and new and better products is not revealed. Echran make it obvious, however, that this is the state of the world. Their music can be reminiscent of nothing else: it is disturbing to hear and also breath-taking.
Texan Rick Reed is a true multi-instrumentalist ofexperimental traditions. His primarycompositions, for sine wave, short-wave and Moog, represent mastery of thetexturally-intense, sculptural minimalism nowadays crunched down from the Powerbooktable.
Reed’s droning, crackling, lulling, screeching patchworksbecome as aurally-demanding as a Hecker or a Pita, while projecting also anout-of-the-box bigness and a vaguely psychedelic warmth, or a frayed (as opposedto diced or pixilated) edge that is, to my ears, very unique . The music here is not straight drone, or asuni-directional as that word might imply; it does not creep long, plunge deep,or run up towards abandon. Pure tones,static loops, and granulated washes collect and regress to form a looming massof nearly symphonic austere sound bites, conjuring the spirit of writhing,head-cleaning “noise” music but projecting a cleaner vision, a high-lonesome,spectral conglomerate of disembodied machines.
The sound is spacious and arch-ful, though never fully quiet, as ifthere is continual off-site energy blowing through so that all lost isreplaced, reflected, or refracted through a brilliant sensitivity to textureand pitch. Field recordings, violin, andthe familiar guitar of Keith Rowe avoid becoming focus and instead evolvewithin the mix, rounding out the organism of Reed’s compositions, thehyper-real connectedness of suchshrill and singularly uninviting tones and waves. DarkSkies At Noon is hands-down the best release of any Reed involvement thatI’ve heard, and, in a limited pressing of 328, it is something to be treasured.
This exceptional single track of bliss on lone droner Hardwick’s debut 3" CD-R runs into nearly eighteen minutes of steadily yearning cloud nine emissions. Wrapped in a garish Celebrate Psi Phenomenon label style wallpaper sample, the music is thankfully made with much better taste.
Almost as soon as the song begins there are gossamer sinewy strands of sound that peel away from the song’s main tone. Unlike much music that heads out into ambient space this doesn’t just drift along without any purpose. It moves finely from melodic idea to melodic idea on its dawn-stoned and bleary eyed journey. Its difficult to tell whether the sounds are sourced electronically or whether its born of six strings but ether way (or anyway) they’re as close to transcendence as its possible to be by human means.
A title containing ‘red’ leads the mind to traditional values associated with that colour; this seems more likely to lead to dreams of blue or white. Deep breaths are held tightly and expelled slowly as chord by chord washes away into a comedown spiral and fade out. "I Dream of Red" moves with a naturally evolving and uncoiling evolutionary movement from start to finish.