4AD
After a long wait with no signs of life of any kind, Vinny Miller isset to confound the world on his debut full-length for 4AD. Signed overfive years ago and with only one song released on a 4AD compilation,Miller is the label's longest signing without a record to speak of, andOn the Blockshows exactly why. Listening to the record, I got the overwhelmingsense of someone who is looking for the sound that defines him, movingin all directions at once, and wrestling with the whole process and thevoices in his head all at the same time. There are moments when, nodoubt in my mind, he's figured it out and he's created a song thatmoves and completely crushes the soul at the same time. There are alsomoments when he's lost the plot completely, and yet I think it'simportant to him that people hear those moments more than the others sothat he can grow as an artist. Either way, it is a genuinely confusingalbum with sketches of brilliance from time to time that hint at a muchgreater work that will obliterate us all. The album opens with arecording of Vinny calling into a radio program quiz show where notsaying yes or no is the key, and the DJ's reaction to speaking withhim. Then, seamlessly, the first true song begins in "Breaking Out ofYour Arms," and it's a stunner. Just Vinny and a guitar rend absoluteheartbreak from even the staunchest joy, and he even reaches a bit toprovide some histrionics that do not disappoint. His voice is a veryfragile one on most songs, due mostly, I think, to attempts to soar outof his range, but it suits the material perfectly. The pace continueson the mellow side, but then on "Pigpen," Vinny unleashes the darkside. It doesn't seem like it at first, but in the middle of the trackhe shifts immediately from pan effects and minimal percussion to allout burn. It's delicious, and even though it seems a bit schizophrenic,my whole body shook with the force in the speakers. The more bizarremoments ruin such a brilliant progression, however, with the vocalblends and grunts of "Cromagno," destroying the momentum just beforethe calm returns. And so it goes on, with highs then lows continuing towar for control with neither fully winning. The awkward starts andstops intermingled with the annoying side tracks that go nowhere blindthe wonder of it all, and thus I'm left with the feeling that this is afine debut, too long in the making due to the artist's confusion. I'mmore than inclined to give Vinny time, though, because the best momentsof this album eclipse entire catalogues of other bands.
After a long wait with no signs of life of any kind, Vinny Miller isset to confound the world on his debut full-length for 4AD. Signed overfive years ago and with only one song released on a 4AD compilation,Miller is the label's longest signing without a record to speak of, andOn the Blockshows exactly why. Listening to the record, I got the overwhelmingsense of someone who is looking for the sound that defines him, movingin all directions at once, and wrestling with the whole process and thevoices in his head all at the same time. There are moments when, nodoubt in my mind, he's figured it out and he's created a song thatmoves and completely crushes the soul at the same time. There are alsomoments when he's lost the plot completely, and yet I think it'simportant to him that people hear those moments more than the others sothat he can grow as an artist. Either way, it is a genuinely confusingalbum with sketches of brilliance from time to time that hint at a muchgreater work that will obliterate us all. The album opens with arecording of Vinny calling into a radio program quiz show where notsaying yes or no is the key, and the DJ's reaction to speaking withhim. Then, seamlessly, the first true song begins in "Breaking Out ofYour Arms," and it's a stunner. Just Vinny and a guitar rend absoluteheartbreak from even the staunchest joy, and he even reaches a bit toprovide some histrionics that do not disappoint. His voice is a veryfragile one on most songs, due mostly, I think, to attempts to soar outof his range, but it suits the material perfectly. The pace continueson the mellow side, but then on "Pigpen," Vinny unleashes the darkside. It doesn't seem like it at first, but in the middle of the trackhe shifts immediately from pan effects and minimal percussion to allout burn. It's delicious, and even though it seems a bit schizophrenic,my whole body shook with the force in the speakers. The more bizarremoments ruin such a brilliant progression, however, with the vocalblends and grunts of "Cromagno," destroying the momentum just beforethe calm returns. And so it goes on, with highs then lows continuing towar for control with neither fully winning. The awkward starts andstops intermingled with the annoying side tracks that go nowhere blindthe wonder of it all, and thus I'm left with the feeling that this is afine debut, too long in the making due to the artist's confusion. I'mmore than inclined to give Vinny time, though, because the best momentsof this album eclipse entire catalogues of other bands.
Eluvium's Matthew Cooper has eschewed the use of electronic and digitalmanipulation for his second album on Temporary Residence, preferringinstead to sit down a piano, turn the microphone on, and record thepure output of his fingers on the ebonies and ivories. What I came toenjoy most about last year's Lambent Material(a beautifully narcotic album) was the stark monotony of the tones.There was very little variation in a given song: piano restructured byway of electronics and effects. Each measure was laid out economicallyand in the perfect amount to satisfy the movement of the piece. Here,however, Eluvium produces an undiluted and more robust sound, full ofvirtuosic piano suites without any tampering on the end production. Thepace is slightly faster, the playing more frenetic (sounds simply slideinto each another), and the output is altogether a differentexperience. The sound is palpably lonely, as if you are peeking inunnoticed on a master at work alone is his studio, a painter engaged inthe first brush-strokes on a canvas. Likewise, Eluvium grants us accessto the very inner workings of his musical creations, isolating thesub-atomic particles of them. These particles are kinetic and lush andelegant in their spareness. The pensiveness is evident in every songregardless of length, be it only one-minute long ("An AccidentalMemory") or seven-minutes ("The Well-Meaning Professor"). Ironically, asong like "Nepenthe" is more lambent than anything on Lambent Material:notes flicker and collide, gliding up and down in arpeggios andcascades. It is not a long album; 27 minutes and suddenly the end hits.I feel as though I've been truly listening in on a daily practicesession (half an hour of piano playing squeezed in between a biologylab report and the Proust reading). Throughout my listenings of thisalbum, I could swear that I heard a telephone ringing, not in thebackground of the music, but somewhere in my apartment. I don't knowwhat aural resonance or vibrational frequency was causing thisphenomenon, and so it makes me think that someone, somewhere is tryingto get through to me. But I don't care. The music is still playing andI am a little transfixed by what I hear. 
Chancing upon Basil Kirchin's previously unissued album Quantum: A Journey Through Sound in Two Partsreleased on Trunk last year was like stumbling onto a briefcase full oflarge, unmarked currency. The densely structured combinations oftime-stretched field recordings, jazz improvisations and tenseatmospherics had that dreamlike, dark, subconscious quality that I hadpreviously attributed only to 1980's underground cassette heroes likeRoger Doyle and HNAS. Technically, Kirchin's works could be describedas musique concrete, but his unorthodox, hallucinogenic collages ofsquawking geese, autistic children and backwards-tracked saxophonesolos seem well beyond the spectrum of academia to me. The Quantum release was one of my favorites of 2003, and it led me to seek out Basil Kirchin's amazing soundtrack to The Abominable Dr. Phibes and his pair of early-70's experimental masterpieces, both entitled Worlds Within Worlds. With Charcoal Sketches/States of Mind, Trunk continues their schedule of unearthing never-issued works by Kirchin. The Charcoal Sketchesof the title are three brief instrumental improvisations, overlaid withthe now-familiar recordings of birdsong, slowed and mutated to resemblethe bellowing hoots of a wounded gryphon. This material was recordedduring the nascent period before the Worlds sessions, and itdoesn't share the same furious and unpredictable fieriness of the otheralbums. The musicians appear to be playing off of the mutatedbirdcalls, cautiously weaving through a sparse work of gentle radiance.At times, the smooth funkiness of the guitar and bass, mixed with theotherworldliness of the fluttering whoops and chatters, reminded me ofthe soundtrack to Fantastic Planet grafted onto In a Silent Way-era Miles. States of Mindis considerably more disturbing, a collection of nine briefinstrumental sketches each meant to illustrate a different mentaldisorder. This music was used in the soundtrack for a short film shownonly once at an international conference of Psychiatrists held in 1968.The title of "Plaques and Tangles" refers to the brain degenerationcaused by Alzheimer's Disease. The track begins in a chaotic swell ofcompeting neuron fires, and eventually digresses into a dark fog ofconfusion. Frantic evocations of mania and paranoia are supplied byEvan Parker's frenzied saxophone solos. My only complaint is that themost of these tracks are far too brief and fragmentary, with not enoughtime given to fully develop the tantalizing themes. Consequently, it'snot nearly as immersive and powerful as Kirchin's other works. AlthoughI realize that this is inherent in the original sources from whichthese brief sketches are drawn, I hope that Kirchin chooses to revisitthis material at some future point and weave it into the kind ofmasterpiece I know he is capable of. 
The music of David Y. Wang, who has releases on Bpitchcontrol,Tigerbeat6, and Violent Turd, suffers from a case of nostaglicschizophrenia with a touch of sentimental aural influenza, and as aresult some technique-obsessed modern day electronic music listenerswill undoubtedly have trouble with Uzumaki. Well fuck them.Fragmented sounds and fractured samples litter this short album likebeer bottles on a public beach in a way that reminds me of the good ol'days circa I Care Because You Do and Tango N Vectif.Whether intentional or not (as many patients are often unaware of theirillnesses), Mochipet has created a charming little retro IDM disc, withoccasional fits of childlike grumpiness mixed with carefreeplayfulness. "Labha" starts off almost innocuously like a symphonyorchestra tuning their instruments over a bed of subtle digital errors.Unable to restrain itself, it ultimately erupts into a hardcore technodrum assault, truly setting the tone for the rest of this dizzyingrelease. "Adosa" almost sounds like a tender love song or lullaby for aspecial someone with its clean guitar plucking, even with itsskittering sliced snares and cymbals. Of all the tracks on Uzumaki,"Alobha" stands out with a quirky melodies battling with one anotherover spastic beats that would make most breakcore producers blush likeschoolgirls. On the remix front, Schematic's poster boy Otto VonSchirach provides a typically unbalanced, uneven remix of the track"Polka Electronic Death Coutry," where hysterical samples,pitch-shifted soul hooks, and speed metal riffs and groans do battlefor control, ultimately leaving no clear winner and not offering much.Component artist Xyn, however, brings the album to a close with a farmore coherent reworking of "Doboro," offering up something akin to anupbeat version of Boards Of Canada, if you can imagine that.Considering how many IDM acts these days spend more time harping on theprocess than the melody (*cough* Autechre *cough* *cough* RichardDevine), I imagine many jaded electronic music listeners will get awell-deserved simple pleasure from the enjoyable sounds of Uzumaki.
There's a dead horse over here that needs some more kicking. Honestly, this collection takes me back,... way back, to say, two years ago when the last compilation of Pixies was released. As of this release, Wave of Mutilation: Best of Pixies,Pixies now have as many "officially" released albums as "officially"released collections. This collection is by far the most pointless asit offers nothing that can't be found anywhere else. I refuse tobelieve anybody reading this review has never heard Pixies or the hypethat has built up since their death in 1992, so, commenting on themusic is almost pointless at this time. They were a perfect band at aperfect time and I liked them a lot in my teenage years. They helped tousher out the hair bands of the 1980s, perhaps indirectly, as theirconfrontational style of pop, dissonant guitar leads, and abstractlyrics were big hits with music snobs, record store clerks, andmusicians, but never digestible enough to crack the top 40. I loved thegroup, but they recorded four albums: all of which can be bought atmidline prices without having to buy this pointless piece ofenvironmental waste. 4AD is sitting on a mountain of great music butrather than feed the fans a DVD compilation of Lonely Is An Eyesore,Cocteau Twins music videos, or a CD collection of out of printsingle-only tracks from various artists or anything that's out ofprint, junk like this is peddled to the consumer. There's a number ofreasons why the music business is on the decline: one of the primaryones is that record companies don't listen to what fans want. This discis a record industry tool. It's a way to make a more affordable hitscollection to be in the shops while the band stages the "we need moremoney" comeback as well as it's a chance for 4AD to finally make themoney without paying a dime to AOL Time Warner Elektra. So I'm jaded,but, hey, wasn't their attitude all about challenging The Man to beginwith? I might talk less smack when a video compilation is released, butfor now, this is the only thing sitting on my desk (as I stare at itwith disgust). 
Sufjan Stevens continues to build a deserved amount of attention with his fourth solo album. On Seven Swans,the multi-instrumentalist continues in the trends set forward byearlier releases by creating some powerful pop tunes with a deceptivelyminimal amount of effort. I'm almost taken back to my affinity tohearing Red House Painters in the beginning of Mark Kozelek's career.The lyrics are introspective windows into the author's psyche while themusic is simple and discreet and equally as vulnerable. I truly hopeSufjan doesn't follow the path of the Painters and become an overblownwall of proto-classical rock-by-numbers in a few years time. Theinstrumentation here is perfect for my ears. His musical goal seems tobe to use only what's necessary and not excessively add more that caneither cloud the music or be more than what an independent labelproduction can afford. As a result, acoustic guitar, piano, and hissignature banjo playing are frequently unaccompanied by drums.Lyrically, the album is mostly focused on the themes of relationships,god, and Stevens' relationship to god. As an agnostic, biblicalreferences and the like are completely lost on me, however that's notstopped me in the past from falling in love with music from AmericanMusic Club or Low. While the album is a great listen from start tofinish, I'm reminded of last year's Greetings from Michigan, asthere's that one standout track which strikes an emotional chord withme and will probably end up on numerous mix CDs and radio shows for along time until I get sick of hearing it over and over again. The trackhere is "In the Devil's Territory," where a seemingly simple chordprogression is played by doubled notes in a waltzing time signature.It's somewhat ambiguous songs like that and "Size Too Small," whereSufjan sings about being a best man in a size too small, askingquestions of love and committment that attract me for more listens,while every other song are undeniably pretty treats along the way.Stevens gets assistance from Daniel Smith of Danielson Famile alongwith a bunch of other Smiths, but his live crew is small and simplefrom what I heard on a recent on-air radio interview/in-studioperformance. I personally don't buy into the whole hype surrounding Greetings from Michigan, with respect to plans to record an album for each state, as there's a notable number of references on Seven Swansto Michigan. Enjoy this album now and don't count on something that'llmost likely be regarded as only an overblown rumor years from now.
The Horse Hospital has carved out a unique place among London'snumerous arts venues, serving as central headquarters for the moreeccentric fringes of the underground and avant-garde media and culture.They've hosted art exhibitions from the likes of Joe Coleman, MarkRyden, David Tibet and Steven Stapleton, in-person readings from PeterSotos and Adam Parfrey, as well as film screenings, DJ sets and liveperformances from various personages too numerous to mention. Recentlythey've expanded into experimental radio broadcast, hosting afortnightly hour-long show on London's Resonance FM. The show reflectsthe obsession shared by The Horse Hospital's curators for pop-culturemashups, audio distortion, easy listening dimentia and transgressivemusical forms. Far from the gimmicky "The Strokes meet ChristinaAguilera" of Freelance Hellraiser or the bland over-processing ofartists like Knifehandchop, Horse Hospital Radiois a sidereal window into our collective pop-culture imagination,performing a series of variable-speed exorcisms of the extreme ends ofthe musical spectrum. Programmed by the inimitable Mister Sloane, Horse Hospital Radio Volume Threeis a free-form continuous DJ mix that plunges Johnny Mathis into a gaschamber, vents in the laughing gas and sprinkles the whole mess withdialogue snippets from George Ratliff's Hell House. GreenVelvet's rave flashback is slowed down until it resembles a funerealpsychedelic march into a zero-gravity rabbit hole. The siren sounds andthe mix takes a sharp left turn into the joyful drum n' bass insanityof Lightning Bolt and a quick drop into the tweaking aggression ofhardcore dancehall, and it's off into a hypnotic, 10-minute quagmire of18 Cent's "In Da Club" genetically grafted onto the flip instrumentalside of The Neptunes-produced "Grindin'" by The Clipse, pitched downand time-stretched to slow-motion tribal pummeling. Punk godfatherBertie Marshall pipes in with an abbreviated rap about his favoriteprescription painkillers. These post hip-hop mutations come courtesy ofThe Penalty for Harbouring Partisans, partially the work of artist IanJohnstone, John Balance of Coil's new partner in aesthetic terrorism.Jhon Balance can be heard towards the end of the track, blanklyintoning "Nothing's too sad for words." Some uneasy digressions intograting noise and black metal follow, including a stunning marraige ofThe White Stripe's "Seven Nation Army" to the murky sludgecore of SunnO))). Complete with bizarre shout-outs from Michael Jackson and VincentPrice, the whole thing washes over like passing out watching MTV on alethal mix of Quaaludes and DMT. But more than that, it's able toreveal thrilling new dimensions of trash culture and extremeexpression, pointing to a possible new direction for the cultural heirsof the post-industrial milieu.
My one true test for any soundtrack or "music from" compilation is whether it can stand alone from the subject matter it was written for. Otherwise, it makes little sense to release it on its own, as the value of having "that music from that one scene" must be incredibly low. Enter the Kadane brothers' EP of music from the film Hell House, and for the most part they pass the test. Unfortunately, some of the tracks are just sketches — as they should be for a soundtrack — and do not blossom into full-fledged compositions.
Mantra of Love marks the second instance that the Acid MothersTemple have drawn their primary inspiration from the traditional folkmusic of the Occitan region of France. The first was 2000's La Novia,a moderately successful attempt at scaling back the band's usualbombast to create a hypnotic side-long group harmonization thatrespectfully paid tribute to their European forbears. However, itcertainly wasn't a very satisfying release for hardcore fans of theAcid Mothers, entirely devoid as it was of the band's trademarkmulti-layered cacophony of reverbed electric guitars and screamingsynthesizers. With Mantra of Love, Makoto Kawabata and companyattempt a marriage of heaven and hell: merging an Occitanian trad-folkpiece to their visceral guitar shredding and hallucinogenic symphoniesof rock n' roll noise. The album consists of two tracks. The first, "LaLe Lo," is a trance-inducing song consisting of no lyrics other thanthe melodic glossolalia of the title, repeatedly sung in the cyclicalstyle that seems de rigeur for Occitanian folk. Cotton Casino takes thelead with her sonorous falsetto, sounding more like Renate Knaup fromAmon Duul II with every successive release. As usual with AMT, reverband delay pedals are turned way past eleven, creating an ocean ofdebris and sonic squall that ripples out from every vocal refrain andstrum of the acoustic guitar. These noisy tendencies seem ever slightlymore sedate than usual on Mantra of Love, a continuation of the trend towards cleanly produced studio efforts begun on 2002's Univers Zen ou de Zero a Zero.The track is gently hypnotic until about the seven-minute mark, atwhich point Makoto Kawabata unleashes a majestic guitar storm ofparticularly defocused fury. Seemingly capable of playing ten wildlydifferent and entirely unrelated guitar parts at once, Makoto's soloingcreates a complex web of cosmic shredding that begs for deconstructionand analysis. The track wanders through several more movements ofrelative quiet juxtaposed with overwhelming thunderousness, finallyfloating up to space on galactic streamers of Hawkwind-esque KORGfuckery. It might be culturally irresponsible, but it's massivelyentertaining. The second track is "L'Ambition dans le Miroir" (for whatit's worth, Babelfish translates this as "The Ambition in the Mirror"),a 15-minute addendum to the first track, beginning in synth-heavy spaceterritory not unlike Atem-era Tangerine Dream, quickly joined byCasino's gleeful chanting before expanding into planet-crushingKrautrock. Although it takes zero risks and does nothing to expand theAMT sound repertoire, Mantra of Love does the trick for now. 
Subject to Change Without Notice is the marriage of all-out sonic assault and the total respect of brevity in an effort to destroy anything in the path. My brains were tapioca and my eardrums numb at the end of this third release from Cleveland's Keelhaul, and while not a pleasurable experience in itself, that's definitely not a negative thing.
