Kranky
After two impressive albums recorded with Alan and Mimi of Low, Jessicacomes home with her third album —recorded at home with Jesse Edwards,her bandmate in Red Morning Chorus and Northern Song Dynasty. Therecord has a much more intimate feel than any she's recorded, with aneye towards more acoustic arrangements and a bit more experimentation.Everything sounds sparse or barren, far more than other releases have,like there's a stark loneliness or quiet that is being explored on eachtrack. Often times it all sounds brittle, even, as it feels like ifthese songs are pushed like she has in the past, emitting any noisethat is too harsh, it will all come crashing down. Bailiff's voice isas assured and sultry as ever, and the treatments on a few tracks evenelevate it, making it sound firmly otherworldly. All these ingredientsmake for her most engaging release yet. "Swallowed" is classic Bailiff:steady rhythm with small flourishes and the desperate call of "If onlyyou'd hold me and say it's all right." "Hour of the Traces," with theviolin-uke melody and percussion that sounds like taps on an acousticguitar, is hauntingly pure and pained, even as a happy tin whistle,faded in the mix, plays along. Finally, on "Disappear," the roar comesin and the volume increases and the guitar distorts seemingly intooblivion with computer voice back-up to hold it all in. The albumcloses with the piano-based "The Thief," a lamenting chorus of voicessinging behind Bailiff as the song progresses. It's a gorgeous moment,where I felt Bailiff stepping out of herself.
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All functional humans have the capacity to make noise, whether it'swith what genetics gave them or the tools they make. However, very fewhave the capabilities of making noisy things sound amazing to the humanear. Some bands never achieve this. Thankfully, at least Jackie-OMotherfucker does a good job of achieving it about half the time oneach their albums. In all of my recordings of this Portland,Oregon-based collective, they have remained consistent between thenumber of songs that sound completely derivative and uninspiring tosongs that really sound like an impressively orchestrated group ofmusicians whose sounds amount to more than just chin-scratching mayhem.For the latest disc, the band opens with a track that doesn't move faroff the Molasses-like northern white guy hillbilly blues singing tipand follows it up with a track that kept me re-referring to the packageto make sure it wasn't an elaborate cover of Jandek's "Carnival Queen"with tape mutilations. It's at this point, however, that the ensembleis basically getting in gear. They pause for a 17-second instruction onplaying on "the seven" and by halftime through the immense (andperpetually changing) fourth track, "777 (Tombstone Massive)," I'mhappily lost in a daze. It opens with relentless drum and percussionpoundings then halts, restarting with a crackle, wind instruments,chimes and a low string drone. A quick rise reintroduces the forcefulpercussion from the first few moments but thankfully that dies down forthe mesmerising interplay between strings, winds, and chimes. Just wheneverything boils up to a clumsy, disorganized borderline masturbatoryjam with nobody paying attention to each other, (the end of "Feast ofthe Mau Ma") quietness befalls the record and all is good again. Thealbum ends with two more 10-minute pieces: a blissful quietinstrumental and a 'manual' loop of guitar and drums with distortedvocals which leaves me with an unsettling feeling despite theviolinists struggles to play something pleasant. One of these days thisband is either going to make a record that will be my favorite of theyear or send a pipe bomb to my P.O. box. I don't know which to fearmore.
Many were devastated by the untimely loss of Jeff Buckley to a drowning accident in Memphis in May 1997. Not only had such an outstanding vocalist, musician and songwriter, who spoke to so many with his music, met a premature death, but he had made such an impact with only one studio album to his name.
A ski weekend in Vermont sounded like the perfect get-away for theweekend. All your friends packed up and headed north. You left in adifferent car because you had room for everybody's gear, but they leftat the same time and followed closely behind. Night fell and a blizzardcame in out of nowhere. You arrived safely at the remote cabin on thelake but the electricity is completely out and the other car hasn'tarrived yet. It's been hours. The snow outside has not eased up as itis visibly getting deeper and deeper. You light another candle and tryto keep warm but the firewood is running very, very low. In contrast tothe band's name, 'Black Earth' is an album of implicit tension andsuspense, much like a Hitchcock film, completly unlike slasher films,filled with explicit scenes of blood and gore. (You haven't found theirbloody, cold, dead bodies yet but you know to fear the worst!) Theatmosphere is so thick with tension that even if you're listening tothis album in the brightest moments of daytime, the slightest externalsound can make you jump a mile. Despite its painfully goth appearance,the sound is Twin Peaks-like Labradford-inspired jazz: instrumentalwith slow shuffling drums, heavy Rhodes keyboards, piano, double-bassand saxophone. It's a marvelous treat, thrilling enough that even longafter listening, I get lumps in my throat just thinking of it.
The fourth release from Amon Tobin, under his own name, once againtends to lead more in the direction of last year's 'Supermodified' inthat the use of a lot of those "go cat, go!" drum licks and uprightbass samples have been eschewed in favour of some heavier groove-stylednumbers, with the odd drum 'n bass licks thrown in for good measure.The frenetic "Back From Space" kicks the disc into high gear with itsbusy rhythmic layers, compressed bass lines and monster low-end synthpatterns that leave fingerprints all over the scene. The solid "Verbal"has enough of a pop element to come close to getting airplay on majordance radio (if it hasn't already), thanks in part to it's strummyacoustic guitars, pumping bass and the cut 'n paste vocals provided byMC Decimal R. The stand out, "Hey Blondie," is a great, spacy bed ofsynths, subtle 70s bass lines and arpeggiated guitar held together witha deep pocket, down-tempo groove that's a mile wide. Who sayselectronic music has no feel? "Cosmo Retro Intro Outro" builds fromprocessed funk guitar squelches and fleeting melodic synth lines tosome heavy drum 'n bass-styled rhythms which blend perfectly with thebackdrop. "Triple Science" will have your ears doing pinwheels with itsuptempo barrage of bips and bleeps, held together by a half-time bassline that sounds like an upright being whacked with a stick. Theremainder of the disc's eleven tracks tends to be a lot more grooveoriented, making for some great space and choices of sounds in thecompositions.
This reissue of Marc Bianchi's 1997 vinyl-only release documents avastly different Her Space Holiday from the warm, symphonic, electronicpop of last year's 'Manic Expressive'. The six tracks present thatappeared on the original (the reissue includes six unreleased bonustracks) evoke both the psychedelic, spacious atmospherics of FlyingSaucer Attack, the ethereal twang of Mojave 3, and the shy vocals andsimple, introspective guitar melodies of Trembling Blue Stars.Furthermore, "Gravity Fails Us" sounds downright Stereolab-esque in itsfirst 60 seconds. These songs have a relaxed expansiveness thatcontrasts with the tight, meticulously constructed material for whichHSH is presently known. The six bonus tracks, while in the same vein asthe aforementioned, are less noteworthy. Terse and underdeveloped, it'sclear why these songs, presumably recorded around the same time asthose which comprised the 'Audio Astronomy' in its LP version, wereinitially not included. In fact, for this reissue, they seem less likea "bonus" and more like tacked-on filler material. Nevertheless,Bianchi, who seems to hold the highest appreciation for his listeningaudience, no doubt added the previously unreleased songs for theirenjoyment rather than as a sales ploy.
Rumours that Aaron Funk has four albums coming out on the same day in2003 are no more than rumours, but the Canadian's work-rate is soimpressive that the claim is actually plausible. After two superbfull-lengths this year on Planet Mu, and a third, 'Winter In The BellyOf A Snake,' held back despite being pressed and available in October(as if to save others embarrassment) it seems natural that he wouldsneak out another release somehow, and this time it's an elaborate boxset on Hymen. The red box contains a 3" CD with a single track, as wellas a small TV-shaped slide viewer, with 8 slides inside. Each slide hasthe title of the box PhotoShopped onto some object. Fans will revel inthis entirely reasonable claim being splattered all over road signs,vending machines, and other items. As for the music, as usual Funkexplores the limits of his self-discovered blend of breakcore andcut-up drum'n'bass. Here, he takes the opportunity to create anextended piece rather than move chaotically between different musicalparts, and develops a harsh break and distorted bassline over 16minutes, leading inevitably to a mental, blurred climax. No-one istaking intensely programmed breaks further.
Numbers might not be an electronic laptop band, but like nearlyeverything else on the TB6 label, it is fun, addictive, silly, andsickingly dancable. This trio of youngsters from the Bay Area consistof a Moog player, guitarist and a front-stage drummer who controls theworld. (All of which who sing.) While I'll be the first to admit Ididn't really get this band entirely on record, after seeing them liveI have been completely won over. Subsequently, the album sounds muchbetter now. Clocking in at just over 19 minutes, this ten-song recordhas got to be one of the most genuine releases of the year. The bandaddresses adult issues through the mind of a child, as the subjectmatter ranges from materialistic greed ("We Like Having Things") totechnology ("Intercom") and strained intrapersonal relations ("Too Coolto Say Hi"). The disjunct playing and off-tunings of the guitarseparate the group from the typical post-punk punks, almost as if threecomputer nerds were handed rock instruments and trained long and hardto play louder, faster, and more original than the bullies down thestreet. Training and practice payed off as the good kids did win thistime. Let's see how they do in the sequel.
CDs like this make me smile because they have dual uses: 1) listeningenjoyment and 2) annoying the hell out of a captive audience. I imaginepopping this one on full blast for a car full of guests while zippingalong the freeway at 80 mph. No escape. Nerve Net Noise is a Japanesesynth duo that set their homemade synths to autopilot and record theunexpected results. This album's focus is on rhythmic percussionpercussive clicks and chirps, almost like a pared-down Pan Sonic sansthe Finnish Stoicism. Japanese culture is fascinated with all thingscute, and I imagine the wheezy squeaks on "#3" being a cheery cartoonbird laughing at your erratic heartbeat. "#5" sounds like someonerapidfire plugging/unplugging one of those chirping Christmasornaments. "Long Mail to Boston" is an overloaded car horn blast. Whilethis is a trying record for those with short attention spans, it's justthe trick for those of you who incessantly drum on anything and pick uprhythms from refrigerator buzzes and passing trains. NNN go a littlefar to claim that this is a "new kind of pop music," but some of itindeed is catchy. Not the kind of thing you could hum though—the heavyclicks are of the brain function interruption variety.
Pleasurehorse populates the songs on "Bareskinrug" with pummelingpolyrhythms which erupt arbitrarily all over the place. The sound isdense, heavy, and percussive. The pounding throughout "Bareskinrug" iscreated primarily by the bass beat, which provides the bed from whichthe other minor beats spring, sometimes blossoming, sometimeswithering. Amidst the percussion, you can pick out the synthesizedcomputer noises which fizzle, fizz and fiddle. Whereas I was astoundedby the violence of the sound, I also felt like I was being attacked bythe songs, which is just to say that at no point was "Bareskinrug"removed to the background of my mind. The music draws an adamant linein the mind's foreground, refusing to cross over into some lost ambientland. "Laitbait" felt like being cudgeled with a tomahawk repeatedlyand then the subsequent dizzied and blood-speckled daze whichaccompanies such a bludgeoning. The full range of this experience wascaptured within just the three minutes of this song. Most of the othersongs can be likened to some other violent or intense sensation. Theonly time at which the album threatened to be boring was "Re: Vip,"which maintains the same dull beat for three minutes, with nothinghovering around it to give it much life. When it finally promises tochange the beat, the song merely morphs into a duller beat perpetuatinguntil the end. The range of sound on the album as a whole is not thatwide, but the recombination of sounds is innovative. "Bareskinrug" isinteresting to listen to at first, but has a hard time sustainingmultiple exposures, unless, of course, you find a song on it whichchanges your life for a few weeks. Otherwise, the aural assaults becomeall too similar, like the daily beatings from a schoolyard bully. Isthe day you got your nose bloodied much different than the day you gotyour arm pinned behind your back? Nonetheless, Pleasurehorse does a lotwith a little, and heavy-handedly suggests he might have some promisingwork yet to perfect.
