Hanson
Surely one of the oddest items I've come across in quite a while, isthis cassette-only album released in the midst of the digital DIY ageof the CD-R. The tape consists solely of a 60-minute interview and jamsession with a group of Satanist teenagers from upstate New York in theearly 1980s. I'd actually heard about this recording years ago, one ofthose "cult items" that was heavily traded among the 80s cassetteunderground types. The Ecstatic Peace label had this item on theirrelease schedule for years, but it never saw the light of officialrelease until Hanson Records, home of Wolf Eyes and a handful of otherneo-noise bands, recently issued it as a joint release. The premise issimple: a group of young, self-professed Satan-worshippers talk abouttheir lifestyle with a bemused interviewer who keeps pressing them formore details about their rituals, frequent drug use and their extensivecriminal behavior. Throughout the interview, one or another of theinterview subjects retreats from the recording device to noodle away ona cheap synthesizer or noisily jam on an electric guitar, trying toinvoke all of the majestically dark Black Sabbath and Judas Priestriffs deeply embedded in their imaginations. The kids are startlinglyzealous and clearly idiotic, unable to effectively articulate even thesimplest concept behind their divergent religious beliefs: "We believein Satan and shit...We think he's the dark lord and we like to dofucked-up shit in his name." Their intense North Eastern accents andlower middle-class bearing typifies a certain type of rabble-rousingheavy metal fan that existed the early 80s—the burgeoning of theteenage mall-kid culture that eventually gave birth to atrocities likeMarilyn Manson and the current glut of soulless rap-metal. Everystatement from Satanic ringleader's mouth creates a strange mixture oflaughter and horror: laughter at the puerile silliness of a bunch ofacne-ridden teenagers professing love for the Antichrist; and horror atthe startling vapidity and amorality of this group. These are futuresociopaths in the making. I don't think it's a coincidence that theserecordings were made just before a string of highly publicized ritualmurders that took place in upstate New York, eventually leading to thearrest of a group of young heavy metal fans and admitted Satanists.It's impossible to know if these are the same kids captured so candidlyon this cassette, but I like to assume so. I wasn't able to provide apicture of the grinning, mulleted adolescent on the tape sleeve withthis review, because the Hanson Records website has suddenly andinexplicably disappeared from the web. No other online vendors ordistributors (that I could locate) are selling this little artifact, soSatan Place will most likely slide into a nether-world of irretrievable obscurity. That's probably as it should be.
Surely one of the oddest items I've come across in quite a while, isthis cassette-only album released in the midst of the digital DIY ageof the CD-R. The tape consists solely of a 60-minute interview and jamsession with a group of Satanist teenagers from upstate New York in theearly 1980s. I'd actually heard about this recording years ago, one ofthose "cult items" that was heavily traded among the 80s cassetteunderground types. The Ecstatic Peace label had this item on theirrelease schedule for years, but it never saw the light of officialrelease until Hanson Records, home of Wolf Eyes and a handful of otherneo-noise bands, recently issued it as a joint release. The premise issimple: a group of young, self-professed Satan-worshippers talk abouttheir lifestyle with a bemused interviewer who keeps pressing them formore details about their rituals, frequent drug use and their extensivecriminal behavior. Throughout the interview, one or another of theinterview subjects retreats from the recording device to noodle away ona cheap synthesizer or noisily jam on an electric guitar, trying toinvoke all of the majestically dark Black Sabbath and Judas Priestriffs deeply embedded in their imaginations. The kids are startlinglyzealous and clearly idiotic, unable to effectively articulate even thesimplest concept behind their divergent religious beliefs: "We believein Satan and shit...We think he's the dark lord and we like to dofucked-up shit in his name." Their intense North Eastern accents andlower middle-class bearing typifies a certain type of rabble-rousingheavy metal fan that existed the early 80s—the burgeoning of theteenage mall-kid culture that eventually gave birth to atrocities likeMarilyn Manson and the current glut of soulless rap-metal. Everystatement from Satanic ringleader's mouth creates a strange mixture oflaughter and horror: laughter at the puerile silliness of a bunch ofacne-ridden teenagers professing love for the Antichrist; and horror atthe startling vapidity and amorality of this group. These are futuresociopaths in the making. I don't think it's a coincidence that theserecordings were made just before a string of highly publicized ritualmurders that took place in upstate New York, eventually leading to thearrest of a group of young heavy metal fans and admitted Satanists.It's impossible to know if these are the same kids captured so candidlyon this cassette, but I like to assume so. I wasn't able to provide apicture of the grinning, mulleted adolescent on the tape sleeve withthis review, because the Hanson Records website has suddenly andinexplicably disappeared from the web. No other online vendors ordistributors (that I could locate) are selling this little artifact, soSatan Place will most likely slide into a nether-world of irretrievable obscurity. That's probably as it should be.
Everything new is old again with a rash of reunions among some of themore seminal bands in underground music, returning to eager audiencesno longer placated by the throngs of modern bands who wear theirinfluences all over their faces and not just on their sleeves. Spurredon by the critical and creative success of Wire's scorching millennialreleases, Boston's Mission of Burma decided they had more to say, inspite of twenty two years of inactivity and vocalist/guitarist RogerMiller's severe tinnitus. Though any attempt at recapturing the sparkof decade's past is a gamble, ONoffON sounds like it could have come just months after Burma's sole LP, 1982's Vs.The original members (with Bob Weston, replacing Martin Swope as theband's tape manipulator) demonstrate that they have not lost any of thestrength, verve, and creativity that define their early releases andthat the off time only deepened the maturity and intelligence that setsthem apart from their contemporaries. The slicing snarl of the guitarsat the opening of "The Setup" is a welcome sound, with the trademarkmetal on metal grinding signaling that Burma is ready to pick up rightwhere they left off. Indicative of this transition from then to now isthe inclusion of three previously unreleased Burma songs that have beenkicking around for twenty years, "Hunt Again," "Dirt," and "Playland."These tracks, until now only available on a compilation of outtakes,appear in much more searing versions, particularly "Playland," whichsqualls with fuzzy dissonance amidst Miller's abusive vocal delivery.Miller offers up some of the most incindeary songs of the album."Wounded World," is a swirling accusation with a tuneful, shoutedchorus that positions the song as an epic rallying cry, a call to armsthat begs raised voices to join in. Rivaling that force is PeterPrescott's "The Enthusiast," a barking, braying track with a relentlessriff, deep and full bodied. "What We Really Want," written by ClintConley in collaboration with poet Holly Anderson (who also lent hertalents to Vs's "Mica"), is a pensive, brooding track thatunderscores Burma's ability to craft an intense rocker that finds itsenergy not just in speed but in meaningful, expressive tension thatunfolds with care. Conley's contributions recall both his early songswith Burma and his more recent outings with his bandConsonant-intricately crafted and concerned with a poetic connectionbetween his words and music. Miller's "Falling" also captures thissensibility, retaining the rough edged sounds of Burma, but augmentingit with subdued acoustic guitar and an emphasis on the cerebral flairsboth musically and lyrically. Burma was never one for typical rockformulas, toying with things like dissonance, tonality, and songstructure to develop songs that were jarringly fresh and enticing. ONoffONis a remarkable record, standing just as tall as the rest of thecatalog and almost surely cementing Mission of Burma as a potent force,not just for their influence on today but for their new endeavors aswell.
Creating some of the most hauntingly beautiful music seems to comeeasily to the members of the gy!be nuclear family, but on this EP thesparse ensemble creates some of the most honest and unorganized musicof their careers. What started out as Efrim's studio noodling soonbroke out into more collaborative sessions, and eventually the songswere becoming something so special that they deserved and beckoned tobe finished. It's somewhat of a mixed bag in terms of pacing andsubject matter, and the songs come off as a bit of a sampler platter ofthe different bands that these members play in. The more the CDprogresses, however, the more I got the feeling that this music isgetting further and further away from the pure drama and epic dynamicsof the mothership group and more into the territory of smallercharacter pieces. The politics are still present, notably in the firstmoments of the EP where echoing shouts of "More Action! Less Tears!"are heard and on the second track "Microphones in the Trees," aparanoid study of the relentless monitoring of a nation's citizens.Through it all, Efrim is becoming a more capable and stronger vocalist,and the four voice choir adds real gusto to these fairly simple songs.As usual, my pulse quickened any time there was a swell in the song,where the instruments rose in volume or the playing became morefervent, but even during the quieter, subtler moments I was stillentranced. The raw energy of "More Action! Less Tears!" is certainlywelcome, especially considering the quiet nature of most Silver Mt.releases, and even though there is an incredibly sloppy rhythm thatnever maintains a consistent timing, it's still a hair-raising affair.Then the band descends into nigh-Cerberus Shoal territory on theaforementioned "Trees," with odd vocal prowess and gentle piano andguitar. The strangest and most captivating track is the last, whereEfrim goes it alone with toybox and guitar, letting whatever strikeshis fancy escape his lips. The track represents his most assuredlyrical and vocal performance ever, and the beauty of the whole releasewill capture me again and again whenever I listen to it.
Whenever the weather gets warm, and my seasonal affect disorder slipsback into hibernation, I tend to want to put away my stacks ofaggressive noise discs and cuddle up to something a little morecomfortable, a little more bright. Last year around this time, thechoice was A Northern Chorus' Spirit Flags,a brilliantly pretty record that made up for a lack in dynamicism withsome gorgeous, soaring melodies born out of the shoegazer ethic. So itis not entirely by surprise that friend and labelmates Raising the Fawnare an early contender for a prime spot on the springtime soundtrack.Led by Broken Social Scene contributor John Crossingham, Raising theFawn's The North Sea is another brisk breeze of northern air toflush out the senses. The band has crafted a collection of memorablemelodies and vocalizations that dazzle in a diverse group of songs thatare sometimes comforting and sometimes unsettling. In either case, thesongs are well designed to leave a lasting impression. "Gwendolyn" isan effervescent blast with a looping, springy backbeat. The vocals arelively and vibrant, as Cunningham devastates the wistful, tender lyricswith an expertly employed falsetto. "July 23rd" is the fuzzy, dejectedballad that chronicles an inconceivable loss with such aplomb and anaffecting arrangement that simmers in the brushes as they coast acrossthe cymbals and the snare heads, sounding like the sea spray againstthe rocks. The intricacies of The North Sea elevate the subjectmatter of isolation, loneliness, the remote alienation they illustratewith imagery of derelict ships and drifting captains, so that thedarker tones are polarized and ultimately uplifting. The peakingchoruses of the title track are a perfect example of the lushness ofRaising the Fawn's sound shining through the conceptual mists they havecast around themselves. The richness of the band's sound conjures up aslightly less unhinged version of the full-band Songs:Ohia of Magnolia Electric Co..The final two tracks, which register at just over ten minutes each, areheavy hitting pieces. "Drownded" surges ahead with dense squalls ofguitar that erupt in a collision of chords and expansive post-rockelaboration. The song is a massive presence on an album that built itsfoundation on spacious melodies and singing, a true climax. "E.T.A."finds Raising the Fawn collapsing, emotionally rather thanstylistically, under the drama of their subject, sprawling out in anappropriately stirring last gasp. The North Sea is a perfectrecord for that seasonal transition, clinging to the colder thoughtsbut irrevocably enveloped in the searing yellow light and verdantgreens of spring.
The time for the great summer records has arrived, and Meow Meow havecrafted one hell of a good time in their debut, though it may not seemlike it at first. One glance at the album artwork with exploding flowerhead, or at the tracklisting with titles like "The Killing Kind" and"Sick Fixation," may not reveal this; but both belie the music foundinside, even if they correctly reflect the lyrical content. Clearlythis band loves melodies and musical trickery — with burbling andstatic sounds surrounding the opening song on the album — and there's afirm country influence that's even more evident when the pedal steelcomes in. But all those pieces together do not ensure that the bandknows how to wield them and shape them into their bidding. Time andtime again on their debut, Meow Meow had me checking websites anddiscography sites asking "This is their debut?"Kirk Hellie and Christopher O'Brien are deft in their songwritingabilities, and their influences in '90s noise pop and '60s beach rockmay be obvious but they still manage to make some toes tap and somesmiles pour in with an originality all their own. These songs areinfused with sunshine and upbeat rhythms but still have some darkimagery poured all over them. There's laments about fucking it all upto open the record on "Cracked," then talk of killing off the cool kid,then talk of leaving people for dead, and on and on about depressingand deplorable subjects, while still maintaining enough of a party rocksound to forget about it all while listening. The noise continuesthroughout the record, with distorted guitar, static, and fuzz effectsdominating the mix on most every song. This is the most infectiousmusic I've heard this year, though, and despite the lyrics venturingfar into the morbid and disturbing, I was in a good mood from beginningto end.
Ineffable and at the limits of experience, the sounds inside thisgorgeous little package break experiential limits. Though the imageryin the booklet suggests a cold and drifting place, I imagine the musicto be more akin to viewing the sun from only a few thousand miles away.Rosy Parlane's rich and vibrant pulses eminate and exude away from acenter boiling over with the unspeakable. Divided into three pieces, Iris sounds like the universal Omhissing in through subjective ears, playing with the phenomenology ofexperience, and coming to rest in the form of a vision: perhaps acertain place or a certain time will flash back from memory one listenand, on another, my mind will simply blank and release itself fromtroubles and worries. The bulk of the music isn't all zen-likemeditations on existence, though. "Part 2" hums and modulates away overthe organic sounds of glass, chains, and textured friction washing byin an organized concerto for metal surfaces and brooms. "Part 1" rollsalong slowly, almost like a lullaby, until the processed sound of whitenoise begins raining down over the calm. Raining is a completely aptdescription; Parlane manages to create a digital rainfall out of bitsof white noise that, while going to sleep, had me wanting to get up andcheck if clouds were rolling in. Iris naturally moves into themelodic at times; layers upon layers of sound will suddenly match up inperfect sequence to create moments of strange beauty. The layers driftby eachother eventually and return to the unknown, but these briefforays into familiar territory are welcome when they happen and neverbreak the trance of the drones create. "Part 3" is perhaps the moststunning of the three pieces and the most carefully constructured. Therhythmic popping and snapping mix perfectly with the organ flowspassing above and beneath them. Strangely enough, this last track wasan exotic and ominous soundstrack to a drive into the city - the musiccan be heard a thousand different ways and different people I've playedthis for have described entirely different visuals. The end of therecord runs away like the sound of a projector at the end of the filmroll - it's a movie where everyone sees something different and wherethe images stay unbroken in the mind for days to come.
Every once in a while, a DJ set comes off so well that it's actually worth releasing as an album, and the original In Time, Like Thiswas a pretty good trawl through a crate of head-nodding hip-hophistory. Four years on, the DJs responsible for it have released asequel that broadens its sights a bit, and it suffers for the lack offocus. For one thing, the "four turntables, two mixers, and nothingelse" credo of the original is gone: the Doctor Who sound effects thatcovered up quick transitions in the original have been replaced withdubby echoes and digital delays, and that unfortunately open up thedoor for sometimes-house-DJ Kensei to dump the tired sounds of hisother job into the mix. It would be hypocritical to knock the duo forblending genres on a music-geek site, and the racks of any DJ shop willtell you that plenty of clubs are only too happy to get some peanutbutter in their chocolate, but the lame-dance-club stink of house istoo strong a reminder of hip-hop's more embarrassing "shake your assand damn The Message" tendencies to ignore altogether. When they startplaying records even a bit outside of the usual club fodder, though,the results improve: Deep Purple getting rear-ended by a conga beat anda rocky drum kit while some zippy high-pitched scratching goes on isworth hearing, and it only gets better when some Yello/Art of Noise-ishloops and shards of Missy Elliott worm their way into the proceedings.Unfortunately, the good stuff only goes on for a couple of minutes at atime, and it's almost always dragged to a halt by invitations to waveyour beer in the air; the fact that In Time 2 is acompetently-mastered room recording, or perhaps badly-masteredsoundboard output mixed with one, even lets you hear the audience doingjust that. I'm not sure what the rationale for the crowd noise is, butit really only reminds you that you're not at the Liquid Room and/ordrunk enough to really get caught up in the moment and just enjoythings. For 2000 yen, it's a lot cheaper than going to the show wouldhave been, but that really just softens the edge of the disappointment.
Don't let it turn your brown eyes blue, and don't let them turn yourblues beige. Andre Ethier takes a break from his day job with theDeadly Snakes to take a stab at a record whose components could befound strewn across dozens of other releases. This is no cut-and-pastepastiche work of interpolations, but rather a slab of traditional(read: tired) old blues motions compiled into original works. Ethierindulges in an brusque exploration of the blue-eyed blues (though Iadmit not knowing what color his eyes are, really), strumming anacoustic guitar along the same world-weary twelve bars that musicianshave been walking for decades, with or without the benefits of a bassline. It's difficult to hear the performer through his influences, withthe arraignments paying a slavish tribute to the core of most songsreleased before 1970 and Ethier's Dylanesque phrasing leaving verylittle room for interpretation. "Little Saddy" is a notable offender,with the regrettable formula of repeating the first line of the versetwice before reaching a new thought. A standard blues move if thereever was one, though such moves only work when that line isparticularly sharp, or delivered with some kind of intense conviction.Unfortunately, when the Dylan recedes, the listener is left with onlyEthier, sounding completely hollow and flat. On "The Hanging Man,"Ethier asks his band mates for a big finish just before the final bars,and the response is an abrupt thud that makes for a curiously anemicclose. Without a doubt, there are elements of this record that willappeal to some. There are the lingering glimmers of Ethier's influencesthat haunt every song, and the purist trappings of the fully acousticsetup and live to tape recording process. The former, however amusingthe familiar sounds might be, does not make for a compelling record,only a catalog of weak versions of other people's hooks, meticulouslystraightened out and made dull. That it was recorded live to tape ispart badge and part excuse, providing a raw and unfettered version ofEthier and company's performance together—a claim that the neat andtidy recording does not back up. The ensemble is extremely reserved,daring not to wander out of the linear structures of their songs. Idon't mean to say that they should have devolved their trad-blues intosome kind of psychedelic freak out, but that their homage is far toopristine and clinical to ever capitalize on the crackling,devil-may-care lineage they seek to identify their music with.
This dismal new offering by Genesis P-Orridge was made in collaborationwith a well-known producer, who prefers to go under the assumed name ofAstrid Monroe for this release, presumably out of sheer embarrassmentat the outcome. I'm certain that I'm not alone in having beenunderwhelmed by most of Genesis' recent musical work, most especially1999's Thee Majesty, P-Orridge's vanity "spoken word" album of apoetic,repetitive blather that featured the painfully dull ambient soundsettings of the talentless Bryin Dall. "When I was young, there weretwo reasons for me to look in a mirror," Genesis intoned on TheeMajesty's debut Time's Up,"The first reason was to see if my parting was straight. The secondreason was to see if my tie was straight. Now I'm older, and there's athird reason." Apparently, this sort of thing passes for profundityover at the P-Orridge household, and perhaps among a small legion ofTOPY holdovers, but for those who are not altogether convinced thatGenesis is a transsexual alien prophet-shaman-guru whose everyutterance must be the very voice of God, it can't help but seem alittle trite. It should come as no surprise my abject disappointmentwhen I discovered that When I Was Young is nothing but a rehash of the same non-revelatory prattle that populated Time's Up.Filtering out the minimal, dark-ambient backing tracks from theoriginal material, Astrid Monroe reuses Genesis' vocal tracks, addingheavy distortion and vocoder effects, placing them in new settings oflaughably swanky, nocturnal trip-hop outmoded by at least a decade.It's hard to say who exactly the real Astrid Monroe might be, butjudging from the dubby, overproduced atmospherics and syrupy strings,I'd place him or her squarely in the Massive Attack camp. Sci-fitheremin and ring-modulation effects are used to contribute to adruggy, night-clubby atmosphere, which sounds frankly ludicrousaccompanying P-Orridge's space-cadet proselytizing. It should be notedthat Genesis P-Orridge is a great artist and a massively importantcounter-cultural figure who has been at the vanguard of art, music andculture for thirty years. Even now, with his transgender surgicalmutations and his recent resurrection and transmutation of PTV andThrobbing Gristle, he is proving that he is still a vital and relevantfigure. Many complained when Psychic TV began experimenting with acidhouse back in their mid-80's Infinite Beat phase, but inGenesis' defense, it hadn't yet become a hopeless clich?, and PTV wereable to innovate and expand the definitions of the genre, influencing ageneration of producers. Unfortunately, When I Was Young comes more than 12 years too late to be even slightly relevant.
