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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Christina Carter's music has been compared to Jandek's lately, but that analogy goes only so far in describing what she does. Her style is bare and equally ghostly, but unlike her Texan brother's output, Carter's music on Lace Heart is immediately approachable and tranquil. Each song is a sigh of yearning and contemplation but the hypnotic strumming of her guitar and the power of her voice generate a heavy and sensuous undertow.
Two years ago a meager 300 copies of this album were made on CDR through Christina's Many Breaths label, each adorned with a handmade cover that included newspaper clippings and original artwork. The patchwork nature of that CDr release has been eschwed by Root Strata in favor of a far more elaborate and stunning package of near equal scarcity (only 500 copies were pressed). New artwork and some flashy vinyl constitute the visual component of Carter's record this time around, both of which compliment the delicate and airy sounds that populate the album's six songs. The auburn bursts of color on the cover translate almost perfectly the blocks of chords that Christina pulls from her guitar. Her style is a blend of jagged rhythmic strumming and diaphanous, almost etheral tones. Melodies often sound as though they are seeping from her guitar in quiet ribbons, but many of the songs feature awkward meters and broken phrases that jump from the strings in an almost improvised fashion. This juxtaposition is probably responsible for many of the Jandek comparisons Carter has been receiving, but her music is far more melodic and sober. For Christina, songwriting is obviously more important than anything else. The atmosphere she develops on the record emerges because of her quasi-ambiguous lyrics and ritualistic performances; the echo and reverb that soak it act only as decorations in an already ornate and severe structure.
The album begins with a simple and looping melody. The repetition is bluesy but the melody is less showy and played straight, at least at first. Christina's chants of "Dream long, dream long" drift out of the speakers as though her voice were resonating from inside a cave. References to sanctuaries and partnerships immediately bestow a sacred quality upon the record and the simplistic, almost droning quality of the "Dream Long" melody appropriately recalls the spellbinding meter of some religious music. As the song slowly unravels, moans of melody bubble up over a dominant rhythmic plucking and send the record off on a solo jam that would be perfectly entrancing were it not for the sudden cut which ends it.
This quick fade or sudden cut is used to conclude a couple of the songs on Lace Heart. It represents the album's greatest flaw and most annoying feature. After listening to seven or more minutes of sinuous guitar parts, the last thing I want to hear is a sudden fade or awkward stop in the music. The majority of the record is a continuous and calming string of understated phrases, however. Both Carter's lyrics and her jumbled strumming elicit a relaxed and hazy sensation not unlike being half awake. On "I Am Seen" she combines a vocal fugue with a rambling guitar line and inverts the relationship typically shared between her and her guitar. Elsewhere, "Long Last Breaths" almost disappears into the midst of its own repetition, becoming very silent before settling into a rumbling, unaccompanied groove.
Lace Heart, like many of Christina's solo records, exists in a meditative, almost obsessive place. In less capable hands a boring or numbing experience might have been the result. Lace Heart's dream-like progression and somewhat obtuse character provide a lot of depth, however, and make it both a superficially enjoyable record and potentially deep listening experience.
Just 21 years old at the time of this recording, this preternaturally gifted Aussie composer has unleashed a striking and assured debut that draws upon influences from somewhat “difficult” modern classicists such as George Crumb and Alfred Schnittke. Unexpectedly, however, Gardiner largely eschews the complexity and overt experimentation of his precursors in favor of pared-down elegance and melodic simplicity (albeit with some darkly dissonant harmonies).
Onliving is a very brief (about 20 minutes) four-song suite, but it sounds vibrant and fully formed as such. There are only five musicians involved (aside from Gardiner himself, credited with the mysterious role of “electronics”) and the foundation is largely built upon a tensely repeating piano pattern that is very much indebted to minimalists such as Steve Reich and Arvo Pärt (not bombastic enough to allude to Glass). The four interlocking movements are all basically variations of the same spartan elements, but they cohere into a masterful tug-of-war between the sparse but insistent piano and the swirling and melancholy clarinet and flute central theme. The best parts of Onliving, however, are the sparingly used yet devastatingly effective strings: they alternate between mournful lyricism and violent churning that show that Gardiner learned a thing or two about passion from another of his major influences- Astor Piazzolla.
There is very little here to find fault with: Onliving is very brief and very simple, but it all works remarkably well. Also, while there is essentially only one true theme repeated again and again, it is quite beautiful and memorable and Gardiner dances around it expertly and teasingly. I suppose the sustain-blurred piano solo that makes up the entirety of the second movement, “The Loving Bells,” is a bit on the boring/filler side, but it is mercifully brief and segues nicely into “Running,” and fits thematically with everything that surrounds it. Also worth mentioning are William’s surprisingly restrained and unobtrusive electronic contributions: until I listened closely and critically, I couldn’t even tell that they were even there. Gradually, however, I came to realize that this album sounds immediate, alive, and remarkably dense given the skeletal ensemble involved, and that credit belongs largely to Gardiner’s behind-the-scenes processing and tweaking of reverbs, delays, and decays.
Naturally, I’d be very eager to hear a deeper, more ambitious, and larger-scale work, but this EP is certainly quite impressive on its own. I read that Gardiner has been listening to a lot of Animal Collective these days, which fleetingly filled me with trepidation about his future work, but Onliving provides ample evidence that William already has a coherent vision and a rare ability to incorporate outside influences seamlessly into it (much like his more established kindred spirit Jóhann Jóhannsson). Classical music needs more new blood like this.
Artist: Splinterskin Title: Wayward Souls Catalogue No: CSR114CD Barcode: 8 2356647172 1 Format: CD in jewelcase Genre: Dark Acoustic / Woodland Folk Shipping: Now
Caught in the oblivious borderland, Splinterskin unveils his spell after years of solitude and hermetic isolation, in the form of a harsh, dark folk music. His tales are told using an old classical guitar accompanied by haunting vocals, violin, and soothing whispers cradled in the delicate atmospheres of autumn. With simple yet mystically riddled lyrics that beckon, Splinterskin taunts the listener with hidden meanings, allegorical concepts, nearly indescribable deep feelings, and a sense of universal understanding only a spirit as Splinterskin could possibly weave together as music.
‘Wayward Souls’ is a collection of tales blending life and death, entities & creatures, hidden wisdom, unknown places, pain and suffering, folklore, possession, insanity, nature and the dark world that surrounds.
With tales such as 'Dancing Dead Men,' 'The Thing that Wasn't,' and 'Chanting Bells Call Shadows', one can only suspect the moods are of a dark, moody and nightmarish nature...yet, there are no words to truly describe Splinterskin's message or music.
Tracks: 1. Chanting Bells Call Shadows | 2. Dancing Dead Men | 3. The Crumbling Cabin | 4. Something In The Walls | 5. Moonlight Rain | 6. The Thing That Wasn't | 7. Broken Down Hearse | 8. Still At The Window Sill | 9. Hoofbeats | 10. The Eyes That Hide | 11. The Skarekrow (October Roads) | 12. A Horrible Night To Have A Curse | 13. Black Bird Sorrow Song | 14. The Man On The Porch | 15. A Trail Of Trees | 16. Wayward Souls | 17. Dancing Dead Men (Reprise)
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This sprawling, oft-fascinating limited edition double album of live collaborations features some rather surprising detours from Erik Carlson's previous work. As all of the pieces were composed specifically for performances at Providence's Cormack Planetarium, most of those detours lead towards some appropriately space music and krautrock-influenced places. Carlson, ably assisted by an array of like-minded experimentalists, seems quite at home outside the confines of his usual sound and continues his recent string of impressive albums.
This is the first release in Eric Carlson’s alt-Space series, a planned succession of performances in non-tradition musical venues that are consciously shaped by the location itself. All of the works were composed and improvised (in almost complete darkness) around planetarium displays that Carlson designed with the staff. Aside from the obvious embrace of space-themed sounds (Eric uses samples of radiation, radio emissions, and other thematically appropriate sources), the performances on this album were further inspired by the blurring effects of the planetarium’s domed roof.
The first of the four 30 minute pieces is “The Basin of the Heavens,” a collaboration with Mudboy (Raphael Lyon). It begins with sustained, shimmering guitar and harmonium ambiance. Gradually, some tension and phantom melodic movement is added with passing tones and color is provided by Carlson's fragile web of treated guitars and Lyon's psychedelic organ noodling. As the song snowballs in intensity, it becomes conspicuously more and more like a freaky krautrock jam before the bottom drops out and it morphs into constantly shifting proggy ambience. However, around the 20-minute mark, things get a bit crazy and Eric and Raphael briefly erupt into a flurry of wildly panning radio emissions before easing back into their pulsing, jangling trippiness. Carlson makes quite a few unexpected (yet skilled) transitions on this album, and this piece is no exception, as it ends with a elegantly beautiful and floating coda that favorably calls to mind both Brian Eno’s Apollo and Eric Carlson’s own Charmed Birds album.
“Messier Object 45” is the first of two appearances by Black Forest/Black Sea’s Jeffrey Alexander (the title refers to the Pleiades, incidentally). It commences with a subtle, glimmering guitar loop and a great deal of cosmic and heavily delayed ambience and slowly builds into some throbbing, quietly intense, and rather menacing space rock. Oddly, Carlson and Alexander soon opt to take the music into much less interesting quavering ambient territory for a rather lengthy and momentum-killing stretch. Thankfully, it fades out around the 15-minute mark and the song starts again with a haunting duet between Eric’s melancholy minimalist guitar and some tortured howls and squawks that likely emanate from one of Alexander’s homemade instruments. Ultimately, it coheres into a droning and coruscating outro of layered guitars before fading out for the final time.
Jeffrey appears again on “Cassiopeia” alongside his bandmate, cellist Miriam Goldberg. It begins with a hobbling, yet insistent, plucked cello pattern lurking beneath a seething cloud of surprisingly harsh electronics and bow scrapes. The presence of Goldberg and her cello is quite welcome: she cuts through the heavily-processed and somewhat detached sounds surrounding her both violently and beautifully, resulting in the strongest and most dynamic piece on the album. As with all the previous songs, “Cassiopeia” consists of several movements, the second of which is extremely minimal and consists of a repeating plucked string pulsing beneath a host of creaks, scrapes, and whines. Then, unexpectedly, the trio launches into a mesmerizing and rather devastating reprise of the eerie middle section of “Messier Object 45.”
Carlson is joined by Eyes Like Saucers’ Jeffrey Knoch for the closer, “Lesser Dog, Greater Still,” which notably uses a harmonium yet again for its droning foundation. There are a few moments when the droning becomes too amorphous and edgeless for my liking, but the duo wisely disrupt the tranquility with crackling electronics and short wave radio before it gets boring most of the time. Despite those occasional missteps, the piece becomes quite compelling around the halfway point, as ominous electronic bleeps converge into a pulsing rhythm and Carlson contributes some uncharacteristically frenzied guitarwork (beautifully augmented by some melancholy harmonium by Knoch). However, the crescendo is unexpectedly derailed by the sudden appearance of an off-kilter and wheezing drum machine and the weirdly psychedelic and ethnic-sounding interlude that follows. Gradually, it is enveloped by some gently droning guitar and static-y radio and fades out amidst some forlorn harmonium and scraping strings.
Obviously, a mere CD can’t hope to capture the majesty and impact of such site-specific and visually enhanced performances, but the material collected here is quite memorable and almost uniformly excellent regardless. It is hard to believe that this is only the first of Eric Carlson’s series. The Planetarium Project sets the bar intimidatingly high for the next installment. I wish I lived in Providence.
This release collects two songs from a 2007 collaboration between two of the most prolific and unique artists to emerge from the doom metal milieu. That union, needless to say, held (and holds) enormous potential. While this is not the absolute monster of an album that I had hoped it would be, many flashes of brilliance and inspiration still manage to burst through the slow-motion, shambling doomfest that resulted.
This project, originally conceived by Aidan Baker and 20 Buck Spin, is an undeniably excellent idea: both artists’ aesthetics seem like they could be complementary in a way that would yield far more than the mere sum of their parts. While I like Nadja’s heavily processed shoegazer doom quite a bit sometimes, I often feel that it could benefit from a healthy infusion of rawness and unpredictability. Campbell Kneale, conversely, is often so intense and harrowing that it is difficult to listen to his work twice. My hope was that Nadja’s dense wall of doom would present Kneale’s blood-splattered guitar maiming in a more melodic and listenable (but still scary and uncompromising) way than I am accustomed to. That is not quite what happened, but the results are often compelling nonetheless.
This album consists of two lengthy instrumentals (both are over 20 minutes). Notably, a third track (with vocals) was recorded at the same time (“Christ Send Light”) and it sounds a hell of a lot like Jesu. That song was wisely released separately, as it would have been jarringly out of place here amidst all the amelodic hellish roaring. I’m curious about which direction this project went in first, but I could not locate a chronology anywhere.
“I” slowly fades in with a clean, chorused, and rather somber guitar motif over a bed of slowly intensifying distortion. Finally, nearly seven minutes later, the volume erupts and the drums kick in, yet the riff does not change. While undeniably heavy, dense, and texturally impressive, it never catches fire due to the numbing repetition and plodding, uninspired drums. Thankfully, both the riff and the pedestrian drumming vanish around the 10-minute mark and give way to a nightmarishly gnarled and snarling guitar maelstrom that persists until the song ends. No one does oppressive, grinding, pseudo-industrial chaos quite like Campbell Kneale, and this particular example is nicely enhanced by fleeting glimpses of backwards drums and indistinct melodic fragments that are vainly struggling to avoid being consumed by the black hole around them.
“II” segues from that fading entropy with an ominous, throbbing low-end drone and quavering feedback. Gradually, it coheres into a lurching, elephantine dirge of slow motion drums and impossibly dense power chords coupled with Baker’s floating, hazy atmospherics. The main riff changes slightly after a while but the actual notes being played are essentially irrelevant: all pretensions of melodicism, variety, and song-craft are sacrificed at the altar of sheer, crushing density and hypnotic, endless repetition. While mining roughly the same stylistic vein as the previous track, “II” is much more successful, largely because the transitions betweens parts are seamless and no attempt at all is made to be anything other than a deafening, all-consuming juggernaut.
Essentially, Baker and Kneale have created an intensely heavy, but somewhat bloated and unfocused album. I suspect a more organic and mutually inspiring collaboration was impossible under the circumstances of the time: the two bands did not play together and the whole album was constructed by passing sound files back and forth between Canada and New Zealand. I hope that another collaboration is in the works: while not transcending either band’s solo work, this experiment hints that far greater things are possible.
Retaining the sense of minimalism and drone that the label has put itself at the forefront of, Horseback forgoes the dark creaky sounds and quiet moments to instead crank up the amps into full on stoner rock mode. Sticking to repeated mantras of Sabbath inspired grind, there is a sort of kinship to the likes of Loop and Spacemen 3 in approach, even if the sound is much different.
The solo project of Jenks Miller, he is aided here by drummer John Crouch on three of the tracks, and second guitarist Scott Endres on two. The initial three songs follow a similar formula of repetitive drums, distorted bass, and fuzzed out riffing. While that sounds somewhat mundane, the execution is anything but.
Opener "Invokation" fades in the taut drums and fuzzed out bass that are expected from the previous description, but off in the distance there is some really varied melodic guitar playing that normally would clash with the rhythm section. Vocals appear too, with a definite bend to the black metal/grindcore sound akin to Cookie Monster. Normally, this is a turnoff for me, but in this odd amalgamation, it works rather well. The melodic elements pull ahead towards the end, and the whole track has that minimalist repetitive sound that Loop did so well, but less psych and more metal.
"Tyrant Symmetry" is cut from the same cloth but stripped down a bit more and focused more on the melodic guitar work and the growled vocals. There is a definite dynamic shift to the piece, with the change to melodic playing becoming even more pronounced in the middle section. Otherwise it follows the similar path of repetition and intentional simplicity.
The title track leans more on melodic lead guitar work with an even more '70s rock tinge to it, especially when bolstered by the overdriven bass and repetitive drums. The intentional minimalism carried over from the first two tracks does make it feel like a bit like La Monte Young arranging his own version of "Paranoid," which is a good thing.
The biggest departure comes with the album closer, "Hatecloud Dissolving into Nothing," which drops the drums and the bass to instead make it a 16 minute study of chiming guitar textures. There does remain some dark elements in the cloud, namely the guttural vocals that arise here and there like an angry troll poking his head out, but the focus is squarely on the delicate guitar sound. As the track nears its end, the chiming guitar shifts via processing to be sweeping symphonic layers that push the track into soaring ambience that is completely unexpected given the rest of the disc, but entirely wonderful.
The Invisible Mountain is a prime example of an artist pursuing the drone/minimalist route without focusing too heavily on massive detuned guitar riffs or reverb shrouded electronic passages. Horseback takes the idea of drone to the composition level, rather than just the sonic one, and gives new life to a stagnating genre.
Justin Broadrick had previously stated that this album was going to be a return of the more "organic" Jesu sound, and compared to everything since Conqueror, it by far is. Consisting of a single 18 minute piece, Infinity feels much more in league with some of the more melancholy Godflesh work, and especially the first Heart Ache EP. Any naysayers that say the man has gone soft won't feel the same way after this one.
Although it opens with sparse sequenced keyboards and gentle guitar, less than three minutes in a mechanized double kick drum slams in flanked by deep, detuned riffs. Sounds a lot like Godflesh, no? In a way, yes, but the sustained pure guitar tone and Broadrick’s singing make it clear that this is a Jesu record, even if it is a harder edged one.
This dichotomy stays consistent throughout the album, the deep riffs and plodding drum machine (I think the old Alesis SR-16 reappears here) are contrasted with Broadrick’s soft vocals and delicate guitar playing. Even the slower sludgy moments are still laced with chiming guitar that is more delicate than anything Godflesh ever did, and the building tension through the first quarter of this disc is great.
Some 16 minutes in, however, Broadrick goes into hate scream mode, a sound that he has mostly abandoned since the latter half of "Ruined" from the debut EP. I have never been a fan of that vocal style, one of the reasons I don’t look at Streetcleaner as fondly as many others due. Here it comes across a bit too forced and unnecessary. It might be personal preference here, but it is too over the top. Those who pine for the death metal tinged days of Streetcleaner will be happy I bet.
The second half stays rooted in the lugubrious pace the album began with, slow riffs that feel a bit like a less metallic version of "Merciless" that eventually fade into the more gentle post rock guitar sound of Jesu. Again, it’s reminiscent of the first two releases though a bit more sparse and somewhat like the split with Battle of Mice. The Japanese pressing again adds bonus material, in the form of "Infinity 2," essentially an alternate mix of the last segment of the track that is a bit more dense than what is presented here, though not by much.
For the most part the electronic elements are minimized on this disc, mostly relegated to the drum machine and the occasional synth flourish, far less than on the Envy split or the Why Are We Not Perfect EP. It is definitely more organic and "traditional" sounding than most of the recent Jesu work, stripping the sound down to its barest essentials, and demonstrating that Broadrick does not need to rely on machines or heavy digital processing to make a compelling work.
While the format makes causal listening difficult, "Infinity" is an ever shifting work that never bogs down or becomes stagnant. Even with its longform style, there are discernable segments that are as beautiful or as raw as anything Jesu has done, and pulls away from the ever-increasing pop sensibilities that have been developing. It’s not quite the headbanging fest that old school Godflesh fans have been waiting for, but I’m sure they’ll still find much to like here.
Matt Elliott is an expert at covering his music in melancholic dross. This approach is very fitting for Failing Songs, as the subjects explored through his lyrics are not the most uplifting. Furthermore the instruments used have piquant old world flavor, recalling a time when extended families relied on making music together as a way of escaping the dreariness of life. These songs of failure focus on humanities shortcomings and the steady downward decline of civilization. It's perfect for a time when the evidence of human failure is everywhere to be seen.
The electronic darkness Elliott embodied with demonically skewed drum and bass in the Third Eye Foundation has since been transferred into the sound of brooding folk music. Taking his cue from Gypsy and Sephardic traditions, from the music of people who have long been oppressed, his sad sounds are all the more sincere. In this sense Failing Songs manages to joyfully participate in the sorrows of the world.
People who feel comfortable accepting the status quo might feel uncomfortable when listening to this album. They would be better off taking Xanax and watching reality TV. The whining of the fiddle and multi-tracked voices of “Our Weight In Oil” starts things off on a somber note. He laments that “we lost our lives to worthless oil / and were worth less than our weight in oil / but the stockholders all had their pay / but it's we who clean their mess anyway.” The theme of corporate tyranny is fleshed out further on “Chains.” Here he sings “we’re free to do exactly what were told / we’re free to buy exactly what we’re sold / we’re nothing more than slaves.” A sea shanty filled up with a saturated overdriven guitar line, it very much calls to mind images of perilous maritime journeys, and human cargo chained up in the hull. He goes on to explore subjects of war, and the soldier pawns killed on the whims of politicians, assassination of politicians as a reasonable response, and the argumentative stalemates that so often happen in relationships. And of course, it all ends with an extended trip to the grave.
Listening to this music took me on an introspective tour down an embittered memory lane. It was like being handed a microscope with slides of faults and shortcomings, both personal and collective. His bruised political ire never lets up. Not one moment of light shines through, except the highly focused beam he points on the human predicament. Yet it is his talents as a song writer and multi-instrumentalist that allows him to take on difficult subjects and make them beautiful. The blows dealt by his unflinching look at human nature are softened by employing melodious mandolins, wheezing accordions, and the delicate tinkles of piano. In the end, all the pieces fit together to make an album that is very mournful and full of grace.
On cool summer mornings along the Pacific, clouds will roll in from the sea and blot out the sun, suffusing the land with a luminous gloom. Like an overcast day, Desolation Wilderness envelopes the listener by obscuring the outside world. In New Universe, the group blends a wide range of instruments and voices into wavelike masses of hazy rock and roll, evoking the loneliness and grandeur of a deserted coastal highway.
For listeners raised on oldies radio and camping trips, Desolation Wilderness will sound immediately familiar. Even at its most dramatic, their music has a muted quality that mimics the noise of some distant AM station. Melodies emerge and then vanish, like a phrase from a favorite song caught through layers of static. Nicholaas Zwart, the main vocalist for the band, sings in a high, clear voice that would be perfectly intelligible were it not submerged under gallons of reverb. The effect garbles his words, giving them the tone of a bedraggled, early-morning phone call. They suggest rather than proclaim, sigh instead of shout. Zwart’s lyrics merge with the sounds around them, their precision lost in the ether.
Alone, the production on New Universe is not enough to suggest vast open spaces. The songs already have that quality built into them. They resemble the surface of the ocean pictured on the album cover: an endless progression of swells emanating just over the horizon. The opener, “Venice Beach,” begins with silvery cymbal fills anchored by floating bass notes. It slowly builds, until the main riff emerges from the din, crashing like breakers against a pier. Many of the songs feature interludes, where the band will slow the tempo and let their instruments ring out, notes glimmering like tide-pool reflections. Tambourine, glockenspiel, analogue synths, and wood-blocks all blend into a single chiming, clicking mass, holding the music in supple tension as the band awaits the return of the main melody.
No matter how diffuse the songs on New Universe become, they never degenerate in formless noodling. The band keeps its momentum, pushed forward by drummers Evan Hashi and Andrew Dorsett. Both play in a relaxed style with crisp snare and cymbal work. In “Slow Fade,” drum taps weave between lilting guitar lines, the rhythm at once stiff and gentle. The beat fades for a moment but re-emerges with even more confidence, ending the song in a shimmering coda.
Desolation Wilderness conjures beauty with deceptive ease. Since their music is both laid-back and melancholy, it is easy to reflexively think of them as underachievers. Generating spacey sound-effects may be easy, but making the result engaging is not. So many attempts at evoking atmosphere fail because of shear weightlessness. New Universe flirts with being superfluous but still holds-up under serious listening. Desolation Wilderness should be proud; most bands don’t make it out of such nebulous territory intact.
The first time needle was laid to wax on a hot side of jazz, there was certain to be faces frozen in the pulsations and perversions emitted from the victrola funnel. How was one to dance to such syncopated cacophony, let alone find relaxation and good dinner conversation? Of course, evolution does the dirty work for progressive thinker, weeding out the fearsome and strengthening the adventurous. As jazz grew and transformed out of Chicago speakeasies and Mississippi Delta juke joints, it found a larger audience ready for the challenge of gyrating brass and nimble fingers. It’s from this grand tradition that guitarist Eyal Maoz and drummer Asaf Sirkis mold Elementary Dialogues—an album rich in tradition and yet no regard for it.
Maoz and Sirkis drench their jazz duets in blankets of swing, metal, dance, and folk—odd combinations that produce 11 pieces of tripped out bliss. Rather than focus on delivering concrete compositions stuck in stuffy penguin suits, Maoz treats his guitar like ancient rock gods. The strings beg for mercy with every bend, stretch, slide, and pluck. Likewise, Sirkis is well versed in assault, pounding the skins, playing foil to Maoz at each turn.
Elementary Dialogue begins with the eager island twang of “Reggae.” Maoz barely drips his wick in the Jamaican export, leaving Sirkis’ backbeats to produce the stoned grooves of chill dub. Maoz foregoes the obvious, producing slap-dashed guitar lines reminiscent of Shack-Man era Medeski, Martin, and Wood. “Duo” investigates modern guitar in a sparse setting; Maoz delivering carefully plotted notes and aggressive strums with a Loren Connors cool and a Sir Richard Bishop Mediterranean melody. All of Maoz’s influences coalesce inside “Hole,” a full-on seizure of Neil skronk, Hendrix psych, and Tom Verlaine attitude, and if not for Sirkis’ erratic drum solo, the track would be Elementary Dialogues’ shining moment.
The beauty of Maoz and Sirkis’ partnership is in balance. Never does a Maoz jam try to outshine Sirkis’ many fits nor does Sirkis ever trample over Maoz’s quiet moments with his furious tom fills and cymbal attacks. Look no further than Elementary Dialogues’ strongest tracks: “Strip” and “Miniature.” As the titles suggest, each is a nugget of experimental self-control. Maoz and Sirkis are eager to cover A through Z with every ounce of music produced, but it’s what is missing on “Strip” and “Miniature” that find them as stand-outs; gone are the meandering skronks and overdone lounge fills. The space between the guitar and drums is allowed equal billing, allowing for the classic smoky atmosphere of ghetto dive bars and forgotten clubs to permeate through the music. The appeal of jazz has always been its cool veneer; something Maoz and Sirkis capture in their best moments.
Elementary Dialogues won’t wow followers of jazz giants known the world over for their skill, but Eyal Maoz and Asaf Sirkis will convert the jazz meager—those who have always feared what the cooler side of music has to offer. What Maoz and Sirkis create isn’t fusion but it melds together the worlds of rock and jazz with veteran know-how.
It may not be an earth-shattering concept to go analog, but this is not your average take on the idea either. Presenting one nearly hour-long track, there is plenty of room here for this Russian artist to sprawl out and develop ideas, but Alexey, the project's sole protagonist, seems to feel little need for sticking to anything, instead bobbing around from idea to idea with fluid and exciting ease. Pulling from as many realms as he can and synthesizing them into one bombastic go of it this is, as the title enthusiastically suggests, timeless stuff that could just as well be some odd Soviet new-wave experimental excursion as it could be the basis of future beat culture worldwide. If only...
If an hour-long track of analog beats and drifting electronics sounds a bit heavy-handed, fear not. This is as light and warm as it gets, with Alexey's instrumentation guiding the way between miniatures, each of which explores a new incantation of the musician's sound. Some of them are pure rave drift, with little ticking beats tickling the underbellies of vast stretches of electronic tone; others take a more spaced out stance, pointing their eye out toward the nebulae and watching it drift apart while marbles crash underfoot. Each one drifts in and out as effortlessly as the next, some lasting longer but none exceeding their desired timetable.
As with so many of the smaller run labels today, Stunned's limited pressings have allowed the album maximum conceptual freedom. These could easily be broken into tracks (of which their would be many) and sequenced as sketches, but the coagulation of the ideas into a single long take means gives the whole a much more weighty feeling removed from the brevity of the numbers individually. Rapid fire drum machine numbers with laser beam stutters rest alongside brooding drone nod-offs, but the necessity of experiencing one before the other provides real shape to the output.
With so many ideas packed into it though, it's a wonder the album maintains the cohesion it does. This never sounds divided, no matter how many areas are drawn from, and even the stoned out white hum of one part, whose only accompaniment is aimless squiggling above, feels as if it is arriving from the same voice as the strictly beat oriented tracks. Much of the material sounds more like early synthesizer experiments, with single staccato runs going ad infinitum, but these give a retro sterility that efectively clears the air for lush drone pieces that sound as if they could go be drawn out for, well, the entire album.
To some extent, the disc's most valuable asset is its ability to sound entirely removed from any context; it appears as a truly outsider work despite the clear reference points of its practitioner, which include everyone from Gordon Mumma to Asmus Tietchens to Aphex Twin. Still, it seems Alexey's most important influences lie far below the public radar, lying under the Russian streets in continual drift.
This is what keeps the music as exciting as it does. It is wisely constructed but also one step removed from that which it initially appears as: an infinitely rich take on synthesizer music that reveals more with every listen. Each detail is as unexpected and inconspicuous as the next, giving it a life far beyond many more consciously connected to these areas of musical output.