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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This is the companion piece to the live collaborations I previously reviewed here, however this has the artists collaborating in a studio setting as opposed to a live one. Considering the nature of improvisations, the differences between the two settings are relatively minimal. Recorded during the same period as the Live One disc, the sounds here are, interesting enough, a bit darker, more harsh and dissonant than the improvisations in the live setting.
The raw, bass drones that open the first of the untitled tracks sets this mood early—later met with tightly controlled feedback from Michael Bullock, and other electronics, I’m assuming from Vic Rawlings—resemble an orchestra of power tools tuning up. The second piece as well stays in this rawer territory with its undulating analog noise rhythm and crashing percussion section of random objects being thrown about. Amongst all of this is some of the most pained, abused sounding trumpet playing courtesy of Mazen Kerbaj that I have ever heard on record.
The fourth untitled track, clocking in at over 20 minutes, is one of the more sparse, open tracks in this set. It is a track built more upon subtle electronics and frozen drones instead of the harsher, piercing elements of other tracks. With the exception of some rough bass string scraping, the track stays more in the spacious end of the spectrum. The closing track, also among the longer, is more into the realms of noise, with the sound of strings stretching and distant warbling electronics that are amplified in intensity by wheezing trumpet and the pulsating industrial noise.
The third and fifth pieces begin to cross that threshold from improvisation into much noisier territories. The former sounds like a dying robot: inorganic sounds throughout mixed with blasts of feedback and metal knocking percussion before all coming down into a crashing cacophony of ramshackle noise. The fifth piece is a bit more restrained in comparison, but includes feedback tones, improvised percussion and piercing mid-range electronic noise, that, in all honesty, would not be completely out of place as part of a Merzbow work. The stunted contrabass moments keep the harsher electronic moments more grounded in an organic base.
Although it would usually be expected that studio-based improvisations would be more restrained when compared to live ones, the inverse seems to be the case here. Neither is superior to the other and both represent differing sides to the same coin: a trio that improvise with each other just as well as any of the classic masters of jazz.
Tzolk’in, as well as being the term given to the 260-day Mayan calendar system, also happens to be the name chosen to encapsulate the collaborative tribal industrial project instigated by Nicolas van Meirhaeghe of Empusae and Gwenn Trémorin of Flint Glass. Haab is their second album, following on from their self-titled 2004 debut on Divine Comedy, and the eight tracks of dark ambient and industrial inflected dance exhibited here project us into a long-lost and forgotten world of irrecoverable mystery, edged with sharply-bladed sinister undercurrents and spine-tinglingly brooding rainforest atmospheres.
It’s an exotic concoction indeed, combining as it does primal rhythms that spear their way directly to the primitive heart of mankind’s brain, creating a delicious friction between the base appeal of something quite untainted, untamed, and raw, and the fear of the alien and unknown elicited by the same. Even those not entirely aware of the significance of the band name, as well as the album and track titles, would still take from it a glimpse into a world of danger, primitive instincts, and precarious existences lived out against a wild—if brightly-tinted and draped—backdrop, where garish flashes of primary colors burst out amongst the dark leafy greens and woodiness, as if to say that appearances here are deceptive; despite the peacock finery of the some of the creatures here (both animal and human) alongside them comes brutality and unalloyed cruelty. Welcome, indeed, to the heady world of Tzolk’in.
Despite the fact that most of the sounds here are digitally generated, allied to breathy voicings and whisperings in addition to the sounds of alien life, there is an undeniable natural feel to everything, that the emotions and the shivers that freely flow up and down the spine are the result of extracts from the real world, that somehow Tzolk’in have been able to reach back through history and forcibly wrench huge chunks of jungle and historical authenticity into the light of modern scrutiny. Perhaps the premier epitomisation of that comes in the form of the track called “Sotz”, flowing from the deep bass rumblings, breathiness and mournful howlings of unseen and unidentified forest-dwellers, to the loping percussive pattern that eventually breaks out into a heavy rhythmic-industrial engine that impels the whole on a headlong rush, carrying the listener crashing through the undergrowth and greenery. All the while, allied to this, there’s a distinct feeling that this wild careening is a running away, that something massive and generally inimical to the personal health of humanity has got its hungry sights set on the audience.
One of the greatest, and most remarkable, assets about this production was its innate ability to place me right in the middle of the action. I did indeed feel as if I was there, wherever ‘there’ is meant to be, and that I was completely wrapped in an environment constructed from sound and rhythm. Alongside the aforementioned “Sotz,” mention must also be made of “Yaxk’in,” an equally dramatic piece dripping, literally, with hidden disembodied beasties, twilight-garbed forests, and a deeply embedded sense of unseen menace, all propelled along with a meatily gargantuan beat, the very dark heartbeat of the jungle itself. Ensuing from here, and just to round things off, is “Xul,” the brooding intelligence of the rainforest made tangible, a slow circular croaking supported by layers of tribal percussion, moving it forward and giving it substantial weight and menace, pinning us hypnotically in its thousand-yard stare.
Without any doubt, this is one of the better, in addition to being one of the more coherent, amalgams of dark ambient atmospheres, rhythmic and tribal industrial, and intelligent dance music to come my way – the sinister and dark atmospheres are admirably sustained throughout and do so without any let-up – and furthermore each track can be recommended as being of equal quality and interest, with not a duff note between them. Personally, I tend to find that such music generally blurs into one homogeneous whole after a while; and even though there's a definite and discernible aesthetic flavoring these pieces, Tzolk'in introduce enough range and variety to sharpen my attention to stop it from wandering. In other words then, I couldn't have done better than to just sit back and let the liana- and vine-encrusted mystery that is Tzolk’in completely enfold me in its leafy and darkly primitive embrace.
The duo of Charles Wyatt and Jared Matt Greenberg, working under the name of Charles Atlas, have been creating quiet introspective music for ten years now that even in its own tight orbit manages to sparkle and shine with a magical vibrant urgency, and unapologetically exists in a time and place all of its own, without reference it seems to the rest of the world. Social Studies is an 11 track primer to their recorded work over that time span, showcasing the delicately brittle emotional introversion that characterises their music of crystal clarity and diamantine dazzle.
Here are sound-paintings of a mythical, lost America almost, an America portrayed by literature, cinema, and the popular imagination. Guided by glassine guitar and shivering keys aided by mournful strings, soulful brass, and assorted other instruments, Charles Atlas pull us into their world of multifarious moods, of pained romanticism and muted colors, of driving on lonely stretches of desert highway bisecting washed out empty landscapes, of nights spent alone in isolated hotels and drinking in smoky midnight bars, and of endlessly sunny days. These are compositions of ordinary lives lived in small ways, of insignificant but meaningful moments celebrated, of tragedies and triumphs marked—all the tiny moments of life that somehow get swamped by the bigger events but are just as important in sculpting the shape of a person’s journey from birth to death. It is these intimacies of unknown lives and people (but which yet echo our own) that Charles Atlas highlights, shining a torch on sorrows and happinesses alike, bringing the small details into razor sharp relief.
The songs, like most lives in this imagined reflection of the real world, slowly unfold, taking time to reveal their stories and narratives, coaxing shyness and reticence out of their protective shells and giving them their moment in the sun. Shimmering electric piano on opener “Chapultepec” for instance intertwines with strummed acoustic guitar and a subtle latin beat, an exotic little number that breathes a superficially sunny disposition but which hides a melancholia which seeps through in the subtlest of ways. “The Snow Before Us” is perhaps my favorite track on here: mandolin delightfully weaving in and out of strummed and plucked acoustic guitar; the instruments seeming to swoop around and chase each other like two swallows cavorting in the air. This is probably one of the brightest compositions on here, broadcasting a quiet unspoken confidence that all is well with the world. Contrastingly, along comes a track like “The Deadest Bar,” a startlingly beautiful slow-burning 12 minute long drone and guitar track that successfully evokes a lonely 3 in the morning vibe, where the only customers in the bar are the loners and drifters, the itinerants, and the haggard worn-out whores who are desperately still trying to turn a trick, but only managing to drink themselves into a running-mascara stupor instead. Similarly, “Neither/Nor” carries a melodica and string-fuelled downbeat melancholic feel to it, a perfect evocation of sitting on a bed in some godforsaken bedside lamp-lit roadside motel room, a short rest-stop while running away on the road between somewhere and nowhere.
It’s good to know that people are still wrenching affecting emotion and atmospheres from traditional instruments like strings, horns, melodicas, pianos, and guitars, and that there is still a place for craft and musicianship. Make no mistake about it, each of the 11 pieces proffered to us here have been carefully crafted and constructed, and given due consideration as to how best to illuminate each story and tale being told. The overall effect is to bestow a spotlight on the unremarkable minutiae of the everyday and elevate it into something entirely special and enlightening. That, to me, is what epitomises the music of Charles Atlas.
With a more than slight line up change (the swapping of their current drummer for their old drummer and the addition of the inimitable Joe Preston on bass), Athens’ finest are back with a new album. Although not their strongest to date, they continue to walk a unique path in the world of metal with perhaps only the Melvins meeting them at the odd intersection.
“Death Goes to the Winner” has it all; it starts with a delicate Christmas-themed ballad and then explodes into a mesmerising rock out before boiling down into a soupy, sludgy chug with The Velvet Underground and The Beatles being assimilated and mutated.After starting so strong, the rest of Life... The Best Game in Town doesn't quite reach the same levels of excitement but that is not to say that it isn't a solid album. The riffs are huge and the songs are pummelling, each drum beat almost starts a tectonic movement (drummer Kyle Spence must play with sledge hammers and have arms like tree trunks). It is a picky person who would ask for more.
Yet about halfway through this album it all gets a little samey. Songs like “Decades” and “A Maelstrom of Bad Decisions” bookend a decisively Harvey Milk-by-numbers middle section. The music is good (see my above description) and I cannot pick out any particular flaws but it feels like they could push themselves further. At times they seem to be just running off the same ideas that have fuelled their previous album, Special Wishes, without ever climbing to the same dizzying heights. Although this is nothing new to Harvey Milk, after their classic Courtesy and Goodwill to All Men they released The Pleaser, a less than classic album in my view. So maybe every second album will be a bruiser so whatever comes next (if there is a next) will crush like no other.
The band’s humor is still present: the album’s closer “Good Bye Blues” finishes most unexpectedly with the Looney Tunes theme tune. Along with the bizarre picture on the CD itself (a photo of person with the hole in the CD over the person’s face) keep Harvey Milk apart from the super serious bands that may sound a bit similar. This funny streak is perfectly in keeping with Preston joining the band, a man well known to mix the heavy with the strange.
So while this may not be their best effort, Life... The Best Game in Town is classic Harvey Milk. Long time fans will enjoy it and hopefully thanks to it being on the relatively high profile Hydra Head Records, it will deservingly introduce the band to a wider audience.
The first solo full-length from Parts & Labor singer Dan Friel is filled with electronic pop instrumentals built around distorted beats and blistering melodies. Concise and catchy, it is hard not to get swept away by the enthusiasm and energy flowing from these boisterous tracks.
Awash in effects pedals, oscillator squeals and whining modulations compete for attention over punchy beats. These elements frequently pull against each other to antagonistic effect but their struggles are mediated by syrupy melodies that resolve the conflict peacefully and pleasantly. While the rhythms and some of the supporting electronics may be abrasive, it's Friel's pop instincts that ultimately guide these songs. Unlike a lot of other noise or beat-driven music, he never belabors the point ad infinitum.
Friel proves himself a master of the craft on the title track that opens the album like a switchboard anthem. "One Legged Cowboy" uses a pretty basic blip as its foundation but is carried along by its whirring accompaniment. "Appliances," appropriately enough, might be an interpretation of a washing machine's cycle, whereas "Buzzards" is like a video game soundtrack with its 8-bit leads and sweeping rhythm. Because the songs essentially have pop structures, I occasionally expected a voice, though not necessarily lyrics, to enter the mix for a brief change of pace, but that never happened. Even so, there's enough going on that these songs never overstay their welcome.
Friel's ability to make pop candy out of caustic components is what makes his music so enjoyable. While Ghost Town has only eight tracks and runs just shy of half an hour, Friel packs enough fresh ideas into each song to make this album a bewildering head rush.
As the world of Current 93 is in the midst of rumblings announcing the forthcoming album Anok Pe: Aleph at Hallucinatory Mountain, this new CDEP was released at recent shows, both a stopgap and a preview of future iterations. The good news for those who weren't bowled over by Black Ships Ate the Sky is that Birth Canal Blues is quite different indeed, and represents a new direction for David Tibet and company.
One of the most immediately noticeable changes is the stripped back personnel that comprises Current 93 for this release. Instead of the huge and unwieldy collective of musicians used on Black Ships, this EP recalls Soft Black Stars or Sleep Has His House in its limited instrumental palette and group; this time out it's only Baby Dee on keyboards, Tibet on vocals and Andrew Liles inhabiting the usual Steven Stapleton role, producing and mixing. Hearing someone other than Maja Elliott tickling the ivories for Current 93 is an interesting change: Baby Dee's style is less impressionistic, more traditionally melodic, tracing beautifully symmetrical piano figures informed by popular music or church playing. In some sense this is appropriate, as Tibet's lyrics become increasingly focused upon Biblical prophecy. In another sense, it seems utterly at odds with the apocalyptic visions being related, creating an unorthodox hybrid of gentle pop and ferocious, unhinged teleological visions.
Andrew Liles' production contributes to this unorthodox quality, splitting Tibet's vocals between the left and right channels, and placing them slightly out of sync for the first track, "I Looked to the South Side of the Door." The lyrics are typical for Current 93, and yet longtime fans will notice a certain evolution in Tibet's text. Gone are the extremely personal confessions, replaced instead by vaguer and more cryptic prophetic visions: "Adam stands on docetic mountain/The woman's face is full of stars/And in the words of The Book/And with the lips of The Book/And the trumpet and the seal/And the candlestick that lights up your bed with seeds and flowers/And the lion on your rug that's roaring like a lamb/On the rack and on it's back/I call the martyrs on wheels/To this piss-poor mess/With the blood spreading like flies/Under the table and the gable breathing like curtains of eyes/That shift uneasily." Tibet's vocals are punctuated with mimetic sound sculptures, the sound of trains arriving and animal noises.
"She Took Us to the Places Where the Sun Sets" is something else entirely, with a dramatic multitracked piano part that forms the bed for Tibet's vocals, which are mutated to sound like the monstrously distorted, satanic, wintry howls of a Nordic black metal vocalist, affected with delay that bounces between the stereo channels. As such, it is pretty much impossible to hear what Tibet is saying, but no matter, as the track is deadly and effective, chilling the bone like precious little Current 93 music in recent memory. When, at the very end of the track, Tibet screams quite audibly: "I will murder you!" I felt like I was back in the days of Dogs Blood Rising or Imperium, when Current 93 was unproblematically a gothic/industrial project, still quite capable of scaring the shit out of me. "The Nylon Lion Attacks as Kingdom" uses another outré vocal distortion, one which makes Tibet's vocals sound more tortured and morbid than usual.
"Suddenly the Living Are Dying" ends the EP on a lighter note, reminiscent of something from Soft Black Stars, but with a bit more psychedelic fuckery, especially as the track fades out into piercing crescendos of atonal electronic drone, and the apocalyptic galloping of horse hooves, climaxing in an explosion of Merzbow-esque noise. The generic appellation of "apocalyptic folk" for the music of Current 93 has rarely seemed more appropriate than here.
The first proper Nurse With Wound full-length to come along in quite a while is an album-length exploration of the exotica, kitschy swing and cutout-bin jazz genres that have long been an audio fetish for Steven Stapleton. On paper, the idea sounds great. In practice, Huffin' Rag Blues is sometimes interesting, sometimes laborious, and for a longtime Nurse With Wound fan such as me, largely a disappointment.
The closest parallel to the music on Huffin' Rag among Stapleton's past work is 1985's The Sylvie and Babs Hi-Fi Companion, in which Stapleton along with a large ensemble of NWW satellites—David Tibet, Edward Ka-Spel, Jim Thirlwell, William Bennett, Diana Rogerson, among others—took great joy in deconstructing, reconstructing, destroying, mocking, celebrating and generally pulverizing a dizzying collage of easy listening favorites, all pervaded with an infectiously irreverant, anarchic attitude. Something similar is going on with Huffin' Rag, a large ensemble of collaborators—including Andrew Liles, Matt Waldron, R.K. Faulhaber, Colin Potter, Diana Rogerson (again), Peat Bog, and Aranos—and an agenda that includes off-kilter versions of lowbrow jazz, but something is missing. Actually, two somethings are missing: the experimental collagist feel and the sense of anarchic joy.
Part of the problem might be the proverbial "too many cooks spoil the broth" problem, but more than likely it has to do with the growing tendency for Nurse With Wound's recent output to sound less like the work of one author, and more like art-by-committee. I don't know enough about Steven Stapleton's working methods and artistic process to second guess the way in which this album was recorded, but compare it to something like Sylvie and Babs, or even Who Can I Turn to Stereo?, and it's hard not to notice a marked drop in quality. Where those earlier albums had a gloriously handcrafted feel, weird musique concrète rubbing shoulders with mangled samples and surrealistic moments of pure creep-out, Huffin' Rag can't shake its digital, clinical, overworked feel. A track such as "Groove Grease (Hot Catz)" is aiming for a dislocated, Yagga Blues-style take on bebop, but its collection of loops and prefab effects bring it much closer in effect to 1990s acid jazz and goofy swing/exotica revivalists like Tipsy or (gasp) Combustible Edison. Only isolated moments remind one of what the Nurse is usually capable, and they come few and far between.
Some of thee tracks go on for far too long. "Thrill of Romance...?" is a case in point, a real patience-tester at more than six minutes of tepid noodly jazz with the same throbbing synth element repeating through its entire length. While others may find it hypnotic, I found it annoying. The vocals provided by Lynn Jackson are capable, but unremarkable, and it makes me wonder about Stapleton and co.'s mysterious investment in such an undistinguished singer/songwriter that they used her songs and lyrics for three of the tracks on Huffin'. "Black Teeth" has Matt Waldron of irr.app.(ext.) doing some funny Tom Waits/Dr. John-style vocals, and he actually sounds pretty good, but the cutesy pastiche wears out its welcome way before it's over. Same with "Crusin' For a Bruisin'," which attempts to liven up a dull, repetitive loop with occasional traffic noises and radio chatter.
All is not lost. The album's longest track, "The Funktion of the Hairy Egg," remains dynamic and interesting for most of its 14-minute length, traveling from fragmentary jazz blurt, to drone-y krautrock repetition, to the sounds of several species of furry animals huddled together in a cave grooving with a pict, and finally to a weird country song lost in the midst of a Salt Marie Celeste-style cycle of jarring noises. "Juice Head Crazy Lady" sounds a bit like the Boredoms at their more exotic/electronic end, tracks like "Jungle Taitei" or the DJ Pica Pica Pica mix CD; amped-up exotica in a glittery acid wonderland. At its best, Huffin' Rag Blues hints at a much better album, the album that Stapleton, Liles and co. probably should have made instead of this one: a more lateral, abstract take on jazz and swing with less loop-based recording and more open-ended, improvisatory composition; more ragged, jagged juxtapositions, rather than the overly smooth, washed-out digital edits that make this album sound more pedestrian than it should.
Unfortunately, what we get here is overcooked in places, and undercooked in other places. Mostly, it just seems like Stapleton didn't really push the concept far enough, and didn't exercise enough control over the proceedings, so that the final product sounds like an artistic misfire at times, but mostly like a watered-down compromise. It doesn't share the same unglued, bizarre surrealism that has made Nurse With Wound one of the most consistently outré and entertaining sound artists of the post-industrial milieu for nearly 30 years. There's still more than enough moments of cleverness on display throughout Huffin' Rag to demonstrate that Stapleton and co. can easily get back on the horse and make something great again. Until then, curious listeners are advised to comb online auction sites for reasonably priced copies of Sylvie and Babs.
Mogwai's re-mastered debut is an intoxicating mix of repetition, slowly emerging tunes, and violent crescendos. When we add in their use of conversational voices, dark humor, and a penchant for anonymity they resemble (at the risk of sacrilege) early-mid period Pink Floyd.
Naturally, Young Team has an integrity that its companion disc (of b-sides, live versions, and a Spacemen 3 cover) simply can’t match. The sequence of tracks is a nigh on perfect listen from start to finish. “Yes, I am A Long Way From Home” sounds like friends calmly chucking a stick of lighted dynamite around between them. We don’t know exactly when, but it’s obvious that that an explosion is coming and, if anything, the participants seem to be relishing the prospect.
“Like Herod” merges the angular calm of Tortoise and the pimple-bursting intensity of Slint into something that (even at nearly 12 minutes) feels too short. Maybe it is the circularity of the rhythms, or the fact that tracks never resolve in a way that obliterates the sense of expectation, but Mogwai always leave me wanting more. As regards the Chicago influence, it's worth noting that Directions in Music came two years before Young Team and the link seems obvious.
There is a seriousness and humor in these grooves that coalesces into a raging desire to obliterate something so that something else may flourish. Art through destruction is nothing new, of course. Do I imagine the blended effects of ancient architecture, history, unemployment, rain, beer, heroin, Westminster, domestic violence, Sectarianism, and the proverbial Glasgow Kiss? No matter, it still sounds as vital today as it did in 1997.
On “Katrien” the use of conversation as ‘vocals’ works marvelously, seeming to dictate the beat rather than match it. The relative frippery of “Radar Maker” is like a piece of Shakespearean light relief before the inevitable bloodbath. Sure enough, on the second such piano interlude “With Portfolio” the group eventually lacerates any semblance of lightness with a section of stereo flashing feedback hi-jinks not heard since the distant days of Led Zeppelin II .
The pace slows for breath again during “R u still in 2 it” which has gentle, brooding, epic undertones over which is spoken a love-letter as simultaneously trite and heartfelt as an adolescent text message. When this spoken word leaps into actual singing the effect is to illustrate that passion is ordinary, hilarious, doomed and yet blissful. Then we have (for them) a happy hour knees-up called “A Cheery Wave From Stranded Youngsters.” The contrast is essential as, without delay, we are into the epic (16 minutes) and thunderous “Mogwai Fear Satan” a track which shows an essential difference between Mogwai and other post-rock (sic) bands. Mono, Explosions In The Sky, and others took this blueprint and produced music of their own that is life-affirming because it sounds like the Myth of Sisyphus—pushing the boulder up that hill again and again. “Mogwai Fear Satan” reveals a band that carries a greater threat, since in their version that boulder is chasing you down the slope and when you blink you are back at the top again and it is right behind you. With the storm approaching it is as if we are channeling the genetic memories of the chilly-kneed centurions casting wary glances into the mist beyond the north side of Hadrian’s Wall.
Campbell Kneale's Birchville Cat Motel has been infecting ears with his unique amalgamation of noise and drones for over ten years. Always prolific, he has spawned multitudes of massive, monstrous compositions. With an even subtler touch than usual, this time Kneale turns his gaze to the heavens.
Lighter than much of Kneale's other material though no less involved, Gunpowder yearns to achieve some sort of meditative or transcendent state that's just out of reach. Yet there's too much commotion in the background, obscured as it may be, to quite hit the blissful highs for which it aims. Rather than an obvious transition to a grander objective, this composition seems to hang in the air even as other elements roil, albeit mutedly, below the surface. A slight wavering melody hovers like a dream throughout this piece, so delicate that it almost passes unnoticed. A loud church organ, or some other instrument that achieves much the same effect, dominates this track, lending the music an air of religiosity beyond the title itself. Although it holds this piece together, I also found that it distracted from the movement of sounds and textures that unfold underneath it. By the time the piece was finished, my ears were numb to its finer nuances and my mind retained only the domineering intervals, which unfortunately is a disservice to this otherwise fine recording.
While I enjoyed this quite a bit, I still prefer the Birchville material that has a bit more evolution to it, like the recent collaboration with Fear Falls Burning. If this one were half as long, I'd probably like it twice as much.
Though Conifer has received quite a bit of critical praise they've somehow managed to live off the grid for the past six years. With Crown Fire Conifer is finally getting the exposure they deserve. Mixing post-rock, kraut-rock, metal and pschychedlia they have created this relentlessly driving and hypnotic masterpiece. Crown Fire's only vocals are from Oxbow's Eugene Robinson fronting the albums final 13 minute epic. LP version limited to 500 copies with 200 on color vinyl.
Conifer has been writing primarily instrumental music with a lawless take on the styles from which they've taken cue. New content is found by way of augmenting brutality and suspense with time. Conifer seems to reckon with the notions of bands like Enemymine, Mogwai, or Grails while taking an approach toward their music that's entirely meditative (as opposed to premeditated). Minimal, ethereal passages are narcotically lengthened and crescendos of distortion are sustained well beyond the boundaries adhered to by many of their peers. "Heavy" by way of being beat/repetition heavy in not only a Shellac/Helmet sense but in a way that is practically reminiscent of electronic discipline. Crushing riffs amidst the most ethereal, minimal moments.
Six years in, Conifer has emerged from their mind forest into the clearing that is the future and past. Band members have come and gone and come again. Crown Fire is the latest battle that Conifer has fought in the war of obtuse movement. Welcoming dense riffage washes over the listener for the first half of the record, referencing pan Asian themes and musical manifest destiny. The bombast that is their live show comes through loud and clear, intertwined with moments of delicate reflection. Without warning it all goes wrong, the mainframe explodes, the ships crash, the tide of despair and denial rises never to recede.
Hailing from the capital of the heavy state of Maine, Conifer has an extremely close relationship with fellow travellers Ocean. These two groups have shared a lot over the years including members, tour transportation, practice spaces and members of the two groups grew up together in rural costal towns. Though different in sound they're quite kindred in spirit and obviously Conifer is essential for anyone who loved Ocean's Here Where Nothing Grows.
THE PLAYERS:
Zachary E. Howard-baritone guitar Nate Nadeau- Drums, percussion, Hammond, electronics Sean K. Hadley- Bass, Melodica Leif J. Sherman Curtis- Guitar, Xylophone
Live At Muryoku Muzen Temple is limited to 500 copies with the first 100 on color vinyl. This is the companion release to the ASTRO CD titled The Echo At The Purple Dawn being released at the same time on Important Records. ASTRO, of course, is the analog/space project of Hiroshi Hasegawa of the legendary Japanese group C.C.C.C. This limited vinyl only release was created using ring modulator and vocals which are rare these days in Astro recordings. Cover art designed by Important.
ASTRO is Hiroshi Hasegawa’s solo project. He is a founding member of the Japanese noise group C.C.C. Born in 1963, Hasegawa began his improvisation with his voice and drums. In 1990, he made the group C.C.C.C. around the concept of improvised mass-noise with a very loud sound. Members included Mayuko Hino, Ryuichi Nagakubo, Fumio Kosakai. Hasegawa began his solo unit ASTRO with analog synthesizers in 1993 and continued playing in C.C.C.C. Though C.C.C.C. is no more, Hasegawa has continued with Astro and his numerous collaborations drifting between dreamy spaced out bliss and full on waterfalls of beautiful noise.