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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A 47-minute elegy to his daughter, who passed away two years before work began on the record, this disc offers a slow and meditative take on electronic composition. Combining field recordings with metallic vibrations, static hum and pure noise elements, Kahn is able to do a lot with what appears to be very little, conducting his own orchestra of sound in a piece whose emotional impact is garnered from its barren makeup.
When I say barren though, I certainly mean barren. The work is so slow to evolve in fact that many moments are only decipherable as different upon clicking through the piece's timetable. With this kind of cautious construction, layering the equivalent of vacuum cleaner air drawing upon airplane cabin engine noise, the work evolves slowly enough so as to take its virtually its entire length to entangling itself of each distinct moment. When distant scratches come through amidst the hiss around minute 13 it is nearly revelatory, being the most distinguishable sound yet presented. A soft hum around the 17 minute mark grounds it somewhat, imbuing it with a distinct direction for the first time, though that direction is surely a circuitous one not so much bent on arriving anywhere so much as one settling in to the old mental garden.
Yet the changes do happen, and the patience with which they do so rewards a concerted listening effort. Metal-on-metal clatter subsides in the mix almost half of the way through the work's length, sounding like a mini Gamelan orchestra playing from inside a wind turbine. Volumes are delicately adjusted, allowing details to come to the fore that, whether always present back there or not, feel to be coming from the same organism, drawing itself out through the most minute adjustments in color.
There is a sense of urgency in the latter half of the work, if only in contrast to the first half. It becomes less static and busier, with sounds rebounding around the space and jumping out from the singular static that started the work. Still, the consistency of sounds being as they are, the result is not so much busily seeking anything as it is teeming beneath its own weight, its super-heated molecules bouncing together without losing the general forms they inhabit.
It isn't until about half an hour into the piece that snippets of a discreet melody appear, though these too are so fractured as to become part of the general landscape, tickling the outer reaches of the hum with brief splashes of color. These flurries of notes not only tie the piece inward, setting the outer boundaries of the hiss buildup, but they also signal the piece's movement toward a more mechanistic and gestural sound for a time, one that has momentary flashes of a daily movement removed from the ethereal space of the work as a whole.
The final ten minutes find the work slipping back to its origins, decomposing until it is only the crackle of burning wax and a gentle airy breath of tone. Dense though it may be, the work is quite well situated and wisely done, uncompromising in its enactment without lacking beauty or finesse. There is likely no knowing just how this recording relates to its subject matter—certainly it is not in any linear manner representative of it—but there can be no doubt that this is a highly personal and well phrased statement from a musician with his ears on a singular form of sound composition.
After listening to the last few Jack Rose records religiously, it's something of a shock to hear vocals on a Rose-related record. But that's just what you get as this self-titled disc starts up: a cover of "Little Sadie" rambling and swinging hard like the rock 'n' roll cornerstone it is. Colored with shades of bluegrass, blues, and country music, this self-titled record takes American roots music and strips it until all that's left is its energy and attitude.
Except that the group covers a couple of tunes from Kensington Blues and Dr. Ragtime and His Pals, it's tempting to think that The Black Twig Pickers are the stars of this record more than Rose is. When "Little Sadie" kicks the record off, the first thing I hear isn't Jack's guitar. Instead, a flurry of fiddle, tin can percussion, and harmonica blow out of the speakers with either Nathan Bowles or Mike Gangloff blurting out lyrics like a drunken member of the audience. "Little Sadie" has seen many incarnations, but most people probably know it as "Cocaine Blues" and are likely to be familiar with the Folsom Prison version by Johnny Cash more than any other. The need-no-one attitude and rebellious quality of that song sets the pace for the rest of the record, which teeters between bluegrass, country music, and the sobriety of Rose's well-crafted instrumental jams.
Many of the album's highlights are the songs with vocals. It's fun to hear "Kensington Blues" played by a talented bluegrass group, but Jack Rose's typically contemplative mannerisms don't exactly match the band's upbeat tempo and tendency to play a ramshackle style. Nonetheless, Rose's performance falls in line perfectly with the rest of the band and his rhythm playing holds together its myriad impulses. On the surface there seems to be a lot in common between this album and Dr. Ragtime and His Pals, but where the former often wound itself up into hypnotic patterns, this one lets loose and aims for a grittier, more physical satisfaction. To that end the band keeps their songs strong and simple. They forgo showy instrumentation in favor of solid melodies and galloping, dancey beats and in the process give their music a tough, almost punk-like exterior. That's not to say they've cramped their country style any, they've just amplified it with the kind of swagger that was once synonymous with it.
It's no secret that Jandek is the oxymoronic title holder for most prominent musical recluse. With over 18 albums to his name in about 30 years of work, the musician has been as prolific as he has hidden. Only recently did he reveal himself to live audiences, beginning a welcome tour schedule that nevertheless has done little to diminish the mysteries buried beneath a quarter century under wraps. This, a reissue of his second album from 1981, presents for the first time since its initial pressing a vinyl copy of the album, which finds Jandek further refining his distinctly unrefined take on blues drift.
To call Jandek's sophomore effort a major step forward from Ready for the House—whose repeated guitar line carries throughout every song—would be a mistake. Indeed, the nine songs presented here all feature similar guitar ruminations as well, but with three years of work the album is slightly more dexterous in its interplay, even if the result is equally catatonic and harrowing.
The layout of the album is apparent from the opening, "Feathered Drums," which sees Jandek's detuned guitar abstracting the blues into a lonesome and highly individual interpretation. With his hollow vocals finding crevices in the guitar lines through which to sing his empty and cold poetry, Jandek's power is at once distinguishable, walking the cliched line between genius and insanity effortlessly and, better yet, genuinely. This is after all, like all of Jandek's albums, about as claustrophobically personal a music as anyone is likely to hear.
"I Knew You Would Leave" is the longest song on the album as well as its centerpiece, presenting over ten minutes of some of Jandek's most chilling and isolated dirges put to tape. Drawing out every line while his guitar punctuates certain statements with high-end twangs, the piece is utterly singular while still drawing on the emotional weight of so many other musical styles, like some twisted and dark Gospel sermon.
"Wild Strawberries" distorts the guitar line even more, proving a fine demonstration not only of how tight Jandek constrains himself in his forms, but also how much he manages to pull out of such similar material. With an almost raga-like quality, the piece glides and shifts instrumentally for an extended period before "Forgive Me" slows it down in favor of a solemn ballad. "You're the Best One" pulls as much from Gagaku and gamelan as it does folk.
Surely not an album that will win over any detractors, Six and Six is an impressive demonstration of Jandek's controlled vision. Utterly alone both in song and sound, the album is rich with depth that deserves deep and committed listening.
While the previously released (and reviewed) Perfectly Flawed disc demonstrated the variety of sounds that can be generated using only an Autoharp, here the Sutcliffe Jugend/Inertia (and former Bodychoke) member takes the approach to an almost Quixotic level: 17 full length discs using only the same instrument, recorded in a limited number of sessions. While some near 17 hours of autoharp music may sound daunting, Tomkins takes enough variation in his approach, both physically and conceptually, to deliver a vastly different array of sounds.
The story of this release (outlined in the accompanying booklet) is that Tomkins bought an old and ragged autoharp from a yard sale one day and began experimenting with it, without tuning or restringing the instrument. At the eve of a Sutcliffe Jugend show, his musical partner Paul Taylor had to pull out and, in an attempt to flesh out a live show alone, Tomkins discovered that layering loops of autoharp made for a good backing track. The early experiments of this appear in this set, along with a great deal of newer material.
Limited to 20 copies in the first edition, the 17 discs that make up this set are all individually sleeved and titled to roughly give an indication of what is contained within. Both Some Have Patterns and Slow Patterns, for example, are largely rhythmic loop-based recordings that build upon Spartan loops that become more and more complex as the tracks progress. Bow is more of a concrete title, consisting of all pieces in which Tomkins plays the autoharp with a violin bow, giving more of a sustained strings characteristic to the sound, hinging on slow drawn out notes and subtle building in layers and duration.
Other discs are not labeled as much for their structure as it is for the feeling and emotions that went in to creating them. Manic, for example, is some 66 minutes of frantic string plucks, crazed notes, and schizophrenic attempts at playing the instrument. While the sound remains relatively calm, the playing style is the equivalent of the manic fury most have come to expect from the artist, though here in a more stripped down context.
It would be remiss if Tomkins didn’t cater at least somewhat to the fans from the earlier Sutcliffe Jugend days, and though he has done quite a bit to show there is a lot more to his work than just brutality, he’s just like the rest of us and still likes to crank the noise once in awhile. Into Noise are slower developing tracks of low end drone that build and swell across each of the three tracks into sustained roars recalling Hermann Nitsch’s aktion based symphonies, and Noise begins by pegging the overdrive to the max, the volume up so loud to almost obscure the autoharp’s characteristic tones under thick roars. Rather than just staying with this approach, there are tracks of percussive and looped passages that give the rhythmic thump of classic death industrial, and other scraping and slicing tones that could be from the best of the slasher films.
For most of this set, the post-performance processing and multitracking was kept to a minimum, most of the material was recorded live using only effects and loop pedals. The final two discs of the set are the exception to this rule, as they are constructed from pieces and samples of the previous material. Rewoven (Light Weave) is the lighter of the two discs, cutting up fragments of notes into near traditional rhythms, resembling so-called "electronica" to some extent before ending with vast ambient space. The counterpoint Rewoven (Dark Weave) is the processed sounds from before built into dark ambient space: the opening pieces are slow funeral drone and quiet, dark and reflective tones. The closing segment is really a culmination of the near 16 hours that preceded it: a 40 minute piece of violent roar, restrained noise, and thick ambience.
Sure, it has to be said that at 17 discs, this is a somewhat excessive and indulgent set. However, each disc has enough variance in sound and style to let them stand on their own and not sound unnecessary or repetitive. Listening to them back to back or even in close succession is a bit too daunting of a task but spread out or treated individually, each disc represents a variation of the pathological study of a single instrument. It would probably be best for most to check out the single Perfectly Flawed disc first, but if that grabs others like it did me, this set should be sought out immediately afterwards.
Mostly the solo project of guitarist Michael Bjella, this dark and violent (yet somehow atmospheric and ambient) album drunkenly stammers across genre lines in its three long tracks, combining drone, black metal, ambience, and raw noise that, while not necessarily novel in its approach, does wonderful things in its actual execution.
The opening "Night Zoe" begins with long passages of sustained high end feedback, much higher in frequency than other artists of this ilk stick to. The repeated high end feedback becomes slathered in tremolo to a warbling drone that, in a way, resembles the classic (at least to me) "The Red Sea" by Bodychoke, as it continues to meander on and on. Eventually it becomes accompanied by some lower register metallic riffs and while the sound remains constant throughout, the actual dynamics vary greatly.
The long centerpiece title track is a performance for KFJC and involves a drummer and keyboardist, fleshing out the sound even more. The opening loops of a distant, siren like squealing belies the rapid transition into more traditional metal territory. Deep slow riffs, skittering cymbal rolls, and raw feedback dominate the mix early on. However, as the guitar chugs on, a layer of slow, mournful melody rises up, contrasting the angry guitars with a more beautiful synthetic counterpoint. In some respects this balance resembles some of Jesu’s best work, though in a more noise ridden and improvised context rather than Broadrick’s more polished works.
The closing "Gasp in a Fifty Pound Claw" puts the more metal-esque elements in the backseat and instead focuses on the noise. The opening insect drone and high end blasts are matched with a bit of feedback and amplifier hum, which gives more of an ambient introduction to the rawer overdriven electronics and bashes of noise that emerge later on. In the latter moments the noise erodes away and what remains is vaguely reminiscent of a black metal band practicing in a garage down the street: the metal elements are there, but cut up and filtered to give an entirely different character.
"Mist from the Random More," the title track, is definitely the high point of the release as an album. The stark contrast between the harsher and melodic elements are extremely memorable. While the more drone-metal intro and noise outro don't quite stand well on their own, wrapped around the true meat of the record, they earn their keep.
While unlikely to be as earth-shaking as the creative partnership of Brian Eno and the Talking Heads, the second union between these Brisbane indie rockers and electronic composer Lawrence English has nevertheless yielded some memorable and subtly warped pop gems. Fans of their excellent 2008 debut (even Brainwashed loved it) may miss the presence of departed vocalist/songwriter Meredith McHugh though.
The Rational Academy's bio describes them as a "psychedelic avant-pop collective", which is somewhat misleading: Swans usually sounds much more like a cross between Elliot Smith and Sarah/Shinkansen Records bands like the Trembling Blue Stars than anything approximating Animal Collective. There is certainly some psychedelia present, of course, but it very subtle and usually reserved for the instrumentals (such as the hauntingly beautiful title track). The mood here is far more "wistful bedroom pop" than "mind-expanding."
Given the band's collective nature, it is difficult to determine each member's role, but it seems like Benjamin Thompson has become the band's creative center. This has resulted in a significant shift in the band's sound: the buoyant synthpop, male/female harmonies, and shambling Archers of Loaf-style noisiness displayed on A Heart Against Your Own seem to have largely departed with McHugh (whom I believe finished a doctorate and became a scientist). The one notable exception is "Hammer," which artfully melds bass-driven pop to a distressed synthesizer and an angular guitar jangle and tops it all off with spacey electronic weirdness. Instead, the Academy have taken on a more timeless and classic sound: if it weren't for the glistening electronic shimmer, songs like "A New Berlin" and "Summer Husbands" could've been recorded by the Zombies (although a bit more introspective and maybe a little twee).
Swans is a gorgeous sounding album, which probably has a lot to do with English. The acoustic guitars are crisp, the vocals are crystal clear, the songs feel spacious and open, and the electronics are subtle and often sublime. English is clearly a useful guy to have around, as nothing sounds bad when it is tastefully enveloped by an amniotic electronic haze. Aside from the aforementioned title track, I was also beguiled by the rippling spectral drone of "12 Feet in Cheltenham," which favorably calls to mind some of English's own lush soundscapes. There many less obvious examples as well though, such as the warm, undulating glow beneath the guitar solo in " New Berlin."
Notably, this release is the second in Someone Good's "10 songs in 20 minutes" series. While I certainly enjoy concise, well-written pop songs, that also means that there is only about ten or so minutes of truly good material included: there's some filler and an occasional misfire like the misplaced swagger of "Satan." Consequently, I am not sure if Swans is representative of the band's current direction or if this album is merely an experiment. It is undeniably enjoyable, but it doesn't quite hit the highs of their debut. Hopefully their next proper album will more fully realize that promise.
One of the goals of Buddhism is the obliteration of the intellectual construct of ego. For or better or worse, Greg Davis has musically achieved that with Mutually Arising: the entity that once was once Greg Davis is now merely a vessel through which minimalist drone passes. I, for one, will miss him.
Davis’s drone-focused album from 2004, Somnia, marked a dramatic stylistic departure from his earlier work, but at the time I thought it was merely a fluke. I was mistaken: it appears as though Greg has finally abandoned both songcraft and his acoustic guitar altogether. Instead, the surprisingly non-organic Mutually Arising consists of two very long and very minimal drone pieces created using two vintage analog synthesizers processed through pedals and a computer (a Korg Mono/Poly and a Crumar Stratus, if you are interested in such things). While I am not hostile towards vintage or analog gear in general, I am decidedly not a fan of relying on analog synthesizers as the sole sound source for an entire album: the sustained perfect tones are so devoid of humanity and warmth that it is nearly impossible for me to connect at anything other than an intellectual level. That said, Mutually Arising is a pretty successful album on the aforementioned purely intellectual level and has already earned comparisons to folks like La Monte Young and Charlemagne Palestine. Many people that are not me will like this a lot.
The first piece, "Cosmic Mudra," fades in with a single low sustained tone and does not make much of a conspicuous departure from that over the course of its 28 minute running time: no rhythm, no melody, and no outside textural elements. Nevertheless, there is a great deal of subtle phase-shifting and microtonal activity occurring as it glacially snowballs in thickness and intensity. Around the 20-minute mark, some rather dissonant and quavering higher pitches begin creeping into the mix, resulting in a slow-motion crescendo of complex harmonies and uneasy oscillations. Gradually, all of the lower tones ebb into silence, leaving only a wake of twinkling trebly dissonance which itself slowly grows quieter and less jarring before finally disappearing entirely. I didn’t particularly enjoy “Mudra” all that much—a “mudra” is a symbolic or ritual gesture, incidentally—but Davis’s restraint and almost imperceptible improvisations were both admittedly worthy of respect.
Thankfully, the aptly-titled “Hall Of Pure Bliss” is a bit more conventionally compelling: while built around a single droning chord, it is enhanced by a psychedelic, phase-shifting shimmer that snakes and pans all around it. There is also an oddly soothing semi-rhythmic pulse that rumbles beneath it all. While Greg’s subtle manipulations do not vary wildly from those in “Cosmic Mudra,” the lush, undulating bed beneath his microtonal experimentation results in a far warmer and more enjoyable experience. Gradually, the warped shimmer fades out and leaves only a slowly waning and subtly oscillationing drone that glistens with quivering overtones; an inverse trajectory to "Mudra". The overall effect is very hypnotic and lulling. I could have easily drifted along for another 20 minutes or so if Davis had scrapped “Mudra” and doubled “Bliss,” but he didn't.
Mutually Arising is not a bad album by any means and I am probably being more negative than it deserves, but I sincerely wish that it was not a Greg Davis album. I understand that Davis is a serious electronic composer now and that he is deliberately stripping all traces of artifice from his work to achieve purity and simplicity, but the charm and fragile beauty that made his earlier albums like Curling Pond Woods so memorable are nowhere to be found. There are literally dozens of other people that could have made this album. I hate being the sort of alienated former fan that says things like “yeah, but his early stuff was way better,” but I have been left no other choice. Please start playing guitar again.
Aranos continues his surreal and bizarre musical progression with a record of all new material, fashioned from disjointed choirs, bowed gongs, swinging pianos, and a whole lot of wood. Surrounded By Hermits is encased in a burlap-lined wooden case hand-made by Aranos himself and is available directly through his web site. MP3s are available for curious, but timid listeners.
New electro-acoustic piece divided into 16 sections crisscrossing echoes of varied genres. Starts with a section built on a bowed chinese gong, which is modified by a waw-waw pedal and moves into cluster chords of conch-shells and flugal horns. String ensembles augmented by 20 voices randomly reciting Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream are featured along with a honky tonk piano that plays surreal dream motifs.
You get the idea. No? Have a listen than. Comes in an individually hand-made wood and hessian case with a small woodcut print.
Kreng is Belgian sound sculptor Pepijn Caudron, who is best known for providing music for the oft perverse, ritualistic, and unsettling work of the Abattoir Fermé theater company. Appropriately, this debut compilation of those recordings is otherworldly, creepy, darkly humorous, and riddled with portentous silences.
While L’Autopsie Phénoménale De Dieu could arguably be best classified as dark ambient, there are a couple of unusual aspects to Kreng’s work that render him unique. For one, Caudron’s work was originally based entirely on samples. While he seems to have softened somewhat in this aesthetic extreme (this album features both a pianist and a percussionist), borrowed material is still Kreng’s backbone. Secondly, Caudron’s work has earned some eclectic and unexpected comparisons to artists such as Morton Feldman, Harry Partch, Deathprod, and Moondog. This stems largely from his penchant for burgling from such highbrow sources as modern classical, first generation electronic artists, field recordings, and free jazz.
The opening piece, “Na De Sex,” begins with twinkling piano and a lone soprano, before segueing into a lurching reverie of discordant piano, shuffling jazz drums, abrupt electronic flourishes, and uncomfortably sharp violins. It closes with a campy movie snippet involving witches. I wish Caudron had used more film dialogue on the album (he has a knack for it), as its rare appearances make for many of the album’s highlights and flashes of humor. He is also quite adept at using female classical vocalists to haunting effect, but he is much more liberal with that. Incidentally, the noir-ish “Tinseltown” which follows, sounds like Erik Satie playing along with a field recordings of African percussionists while a disoriented trombonist and a deeply troubled violinist take turns wandering into the room. Eventually it all stops completely until a haunted-sounding blues or gospel vocalist laments “Oh Lord” to break the brief silence.
Some of the other more striking moments on the album are the nightmarish, yet propulsive “Kolossus,” and the menacing and vaguely tribal “The Black Balloon & The Armadillo,” which makes very effective use of rumbling low-end distortion. I was also quite fond of the disquieting “In De Berm (Part Three),” which uses samples of free jazz drumming to maintain an ebbing and flowing intensity while all kinds of strangeness swirls about. It ultimately concludes with a mournful soprano, a lonely church bell, and movie snippet proclaiming “we will dance…like nobody ever before.” The following “Nerveuze Man” sounds like a continuation of the same track and culminates in some uncomfortable chromatic strings (I’m somewhat puzzled by the seemingly arbitrary nature of the song breaks). The album’s centerpiece is probably the threatening and dense three-piece song suite “Scenes Met Mist,” but some of it verges on being bombastic. There are some other elements of heavy-handedness strewn throughout the album (such as prominent sounds of a woman weeping) too, but it is impossible to determine whether they are a result of clumsiness on Caudron’s part or merely a necessary component for the theatrical work. It is probably the latter, but they still hurt the album- I’d like to hear Kreng attempt a stand-alone work.
I don’t honestly know quite what to make of this album. Caudron is undeniably doing something rather unique here and has a lot of great ideas, but taken as an entire album, L’Autopsie drags a bit and ultimately sounds a bit one-dimensional. Also, soundtrack albums that are disembodied from the actual work they are soundtracking rarely hold up on their own. This was no exception: rather than becoming immersed in this album, I was seized with the nagging feeling that actually seeing a complete Abattoir Fermé production would have been an infinitely more rewarding experience. At the very least, it would certainly contain more rape, human sacrifice, and necrophilia. That said, I will definitely throw this on if I ever find myself in a situation where I need to brood or lurk menacingly in a ruined castle (or at a black mass).
(The CD version of L’Autopsie includes seven more tracks than the limited edition green vinyl version, but the vinyl version has much sexier artwork.)
This was never one of my favorite EN records. It followed the near perfect Tabula Rasa and at its center was the dreadfully too-long "NNNAAAMMM," which kept it from getting regular front-to-back plays in my house. But now upon revisiting the album due to its reissue, I'm surprised at how many of my favorite EN songs come from this underappreciated gem.
The record starts with a quick and boisterous anthem in "Was Ist Ist." Immediately, Blixa Bargeld's clever wordplay takes center stage as the album kicks into high gear around the chanted refrain that translates to "What is is, what is not is possible," it of course sounds much better in German! I think that casual observers of EN probably most often associate the band with metal percussion, angsty collage, or the musical automatons that make performances so interesting, but Bargeld's lyrical style is for me the main draw on albums like this one. With Ende Neu, the wordplay begins with the album's title which is formed by cropping the band's name down to words that are completely contained within it. "Was Ist Ist" drives forward with the harsh cadence of consonants repeating, with words twisting to state truths and corollaries, and with phrases like "Einst neue Bauten" that play further with the sound and meaning of words. This may be Neubauten's most clever work, and if it's occassionally more playful than powerful, it works more on the brain than in the guts.
From the opener, the album slows way down for the lovely duet ballad of "Stella Maris." This is EN at their most coy and romantic—a side of the band that poked through on Tabula Rasa and its companion singles, but that is more fully explored here and in later works. "Stella Maris" is so pretty that it's hard to swallow following the brash verbal assault of the album opener, and that may be why I don't associate the songs on this record very well. Songs like "Stella Maris," "Die Explosion im Festspielhaus," and "The Garden" work from simple, sparse melodies and bass arrangements, eschewing the mechanized fury found elsewhere on the record.
Though "NNNAAAMMM" is a perfect example of Bargeld's brilliant use of words as sounds and rhythms, its eleven-minute running time is an endurance test. The track builds quite simply from the repetition of the words "New No New Age Advanced Ambient Motor Music Machine" and over several peaks and valleys it collects counter rhythms and the stretched out vocalized acronym "NNNAAAMMM" to induce a sort of trance—when I can stay with it. "NNNAAAMMM" is the perfect track for a remix because of the brilliantly subversive idea to replicate machine rhythm with speech, but when I'm listening to the album straight through, the song can feel like a chore despite my appreciation for it. Fans who were hoping that EN would turn out something motorik and maybe even danceable may find "NNNAAAMMM" to be just what the doctor ordered but for that type of track, I prefer the shorter and more mechanical "Installation No 1," which almost sounds like EN doing Kraftwerk with Bargeld repeating the oxymoronic command: "Disobey. It's the Law."
"The Garden" finds Bargeld once again harnessing the power of repetition, this time in English as he is backed by a string arrangement and a melodic beeping that keeps time. It's a song that features beautiful orchestration that recalls the aching of "Armenia" from 1983's Zeichnungen Des Patienten O.T. as much as it anticipates the melodic phrasing of 1999's "Total Eclipse of the Sun." These are the Neubauten moments that I remember most fondly—the quieter and more refined moments where Bargeld's lyrics and the way that he utters them have time and space to sink deeply into the brain. These are the moments when EN is functioning like a subversive pop band with hooks and catchy lines that linger long after the clanking and crashing of their more violent work has faded.
In the end, I don't know that Ende Neu works for me as an album as much as it just provides some very good songs for the greater EN catalog. I love the cover and the title and the way that it cheats the listener into thinking that EN the "rock band" is back with its clamorous opening cut, but I find myself skipping over some of the songs to get to the ones that really resonate. With an entire remix album also available and an entire disc of Darkus remixes of "NNNAAAMMM," there's a lot to choose from.
Former Black Dice member Eric Copeland has set out on his own off late, forging a highly unique sound that draws lines between pop, hip-hop, experimental and dance modes into an entrancing discourse on contemporary music culture. This, his second solo outing, further traces this at once nostalgic and futuristic musical approach ever deeper into the spaceways.
From the opening it is clear that this is not a sampling album of the usual order. Hardly as poppy as Animal Collective has become in recent outings, "King Tit's Womb" starts things with a pitch-bent vocal loop loping along atop a slowed down, street meandering beat before a bass line's funk restrains the work from being overwhelmed by the snaking fits and starts. More in line aesthetically with James Ferraro (of the Skaters) and his Lamborghini Crystal or Edward Flex projects, the piece has the same Ray Ban adorned dimentia of Ferraro's work, if a tad more giddy.
Yet the overwhelming nature of the pieces do retain this feel, pulling from seemingly any source that holds appeal in the name of a congested and highly immediate sound whose basis could only lie in the overloaded information age of today. The title track moves from short rap samplings, sprawled amongst a thick mass of bass garbble and flow, to trotting techno rhythms being manipulated to whatever sickening means are necessary.
Where many in this realm have a difficult time avoiding the trappings of a certain sound, Copeland's abilities extend themselves in his manner of treating each track as its own, forming worlds evocative of a highly varying number of moods.The celebratory chorus of pumping rhythms and crowded mumblings on "Osni" has a summer time trajectory that is highly contrasting to the go-nowhere pop malfunctioning of "Muchas Gracias." "Al Anon" is perhaps an even better of the pop album at the heart of this record, with nearly decipherable lyrics splayed over a bounding, spring-like rhythm with a chorus and everything.
At its heart the disc—actually a combination of two previously released EPs—is a party record, but one conscious of its role within that setting. Never a copyist and, conversely, a theft at heart, Copeland has fun with his material to such a degree that it becomes a distinct vision all his own, as twisted and convoluted as any contemporary head space. There's a poetry to the method it seems, but one buried far beneath the laughter accompanying it.