Kitty-Yo
Think back to 2001 and try to remember Max Hecker's first album.Remember how it teetered dangerously on the borderline of campybrilliance and revolting sappiness? Unfortunately, for his secondfull-length album, Hecker has fallen over the line, completely onto theside of sappiness. Gone are the edgy guitar distortions, swirlingcalliope-esque melodies and brilliant acoustic guitar fingerpicking.What we're left with is a weak collection of soft-rock rejects withwimpy guitar solos, not even edgy enough to earn rotation in hotelelevators. Sure, Hecker's crybaby falsetto voice was never rugged tobegin with, but the music now is unchallenging and the words areoverrepetitious and almost completely brainless. On Infinite Love Songs,words like "Hide your cheeks with dirt / come and wear my shirt," werejust an example off the top of my head of the somewhat attractivelybizarre word choices, while hearing "Hold me now / heal my wounds," inthe song "I am Falling Now" here is a perfect example of a pitiful messof a man of whom I have absolutely no sympathy for. The closest thealbum gets to the glorious marriage of chaos and order is probably theblurry noise in "My Friends," but the noisy section is haphazardlysandwiched by a MOR film theme-ish piano and synth melody. "My Love ForYou Is Insane," however, is a completely new direction in garbage witha revolting generic drum 'n bass loop and more whiny lyrics. PerhapsI'm just a snotty, jaded critic, but hints, subtlety, and abstractsurrealism gain far more ground with me in a pop framework thanunchallenging, overtly simplistic narrative prose. I guess what itboils down to is that I'm more keen on Tim Buckley than ChristopherCross.
Think back to 2001 and try to remember Max Hecker's first album.Remember how it teetered dangerously on the borderline of campybrilliance and revolting sappiness? Unfortunately, for his secondfull-length album, Hecker has fallen over the line, completely onto theside of sappiness. Gone are the edgy guitar distortions, swirlingcalliope-esque melodies and brilliant acoustic guitar fingerpicking.What we're left with is a weak collection of soft-rock rejects withwimpy guitar solos, not even edgy enough to earn rotation in hotelelevators. Sure, Hecker's crybaby falsetto voice was never rugged tobegin with, but the music now is unchallenging and the words areoverrepetitious and almost completely brainless. On Infinite Love Songs,words like "Hide your cheeks with dirt / come and wear my shirt," werejust an example off the top of my head of the somewhat attractivelybizarre word choices, while hearing "Hold me now / heal my wounds," inthe song "I am Falling Now" here is a perfect example of a pitiful messof a man of whom I have absolutely no sympathy for. The closest thealbum gets to the glorious marriage of chaos and order is probably theblurry noise in "My Friends," but the noisy section is haphazardlysandwiched by a MOR film theme-ish piano and synth melody. "My Love ForYou Is Insane," however, is a completely new direction in garbage witha revolting generic drum 'n bass loop and more whiny lyrics. PerhapsI'm just a snotty, jaded critic, but hints, subtlety, and abstractsurrealism gain far more ground with me in a pop framework thanunchallenging, overtly simplistic narrative prose. I guess what itboils down to is that I'm more keen on Tim Buckley than ChristopherCross.
Someone needs to tell the rock stars who like to listen to punk thatlistening to it does not qualify them to play or record it. The Finger,whose double album is only available on import but will soon beavailable on these shores, cannot record under their real names due tocontractual obligations. However, recent interviews and coy commentsmade by Ryan Adams and Jesse Malin reveal them as two of the cohorts inthis punk ensemble. So, to avoid problems with their respective recordlabels—who might not take kindly to their mild-mannered signings comingout with a blistering punk album—the members adopt "clever" pseudonyms,such as Jim Beahm, Warren Peace, and Rick O'Shea. The music inside isjust as trite as the names they came up with. Both albums total about35 minutes, and feature probably the most trite lyrics a punk recordhas ever had. On "Vendetta," vocalist Beahm shouts repeatedly "Vendettais my pleasure!" and on "Collar," he emotes "I give... you my leash...and I'll keep the collar!" Even though it seems impossible, it goesdownhill from there, like the latter 95 minutes of any Luke Perry film.Not that all punk had deep and meaningful lyrics; hell, most of themyou were lucky if you understood a word. On this recording, it justshows how painfully out of their element the contributors are. Everysong is about the punk lifestyle, not the regular socio-politicalstance or vital satire shown by the Sex Pistols or the Buzzcocks. Everysingle song falls flat, so thankfully they're all very short, with mostlasting a minute or less. A word to this lot: if you're going to ripoff a genre, even for fun with your buddies on a weekend, make it anearnest take, not some half-baked album about the atmosphere you thinkexists around it.
Over more than a decade of splurging fast guitar strumming and melodicsynchronised shouting, Trumans Water have proved themselves to be aforce for the ridiculous side of rock music. Yet again they crashmeteorites for troglodytes and yammer silly of the joys of resistance.Original guitarist Glen Galloway has rejoined mainstays the Branstetterbrothers Kirk and Kevin for recording and writing but doesn't tour withthem because he wants to stay home with his family. (Kevin now lives inParis.) Some of this album shows them at their most straight ahead anduncomplicated, kicking out the jams on tracks like the hotwired-heartopening salvo "Rock of Gibralter," "Some Things Feel Rough," and acover of the Flesheaters "Pony Dress" that'll have old fans bouncingaround and wondering how they lost track of the band. It seems to be acommon problem for them, mostly because almost every album comes out ona different label but it doesn't help that their website is a littleout of date. Maybe they were just too busy flooding the roads ofEurope. "Rock of Gibralter" is one of their catchiest tunes and unlikeNick Cave's unrelated MOR ballad of the same name it probably isn'tabout to get requested by servants of government. More likely it'llremind Thurston Moore not to sleepwalk to disconnection. "Say Hi to theLie Machine" is another fairly straight ahead rocker, propelled by drumclatter but pulled left by tunings that make people who work in guitarshops turn blue. The verse of "Airs Smudgy Blanket" even recalls "IFall" by The Damned, and Trumans Water manage to capture the spark ofsuch early punk bands but avoid cliche and retrogression by crankingthe weirdness levels and ditching corny rawk speak in favour of theirown tower of babbling tongue. This is the band that introduced ageneration of indie rock fans to Faust with their cover of "SadSkinhead," and the almost epic "When Diet and Exercise Fail" has asimilar momentum of magic roundabouts spinning absurdly out of control.Is that a theremin wailing above? They get out the sax to meander andobliterate a telephone recording of a woman ranting on the last track,but as speed flags here, interest wavers. There's certainly enough ofthe old Trumans Water magnetic energy to keep things moving and thisalbum is as good a starting point for the curious to step into theirtrip as any. There are still the more chaotic moments, like the openingof "Pulverizer Bear," which also ranks high in the celebratory dementedsynchronized shouting stakes. Dramatic lurching spells are neithercreated nor destroyed, but dangerous stunts for "Trapeze Sharks" arefun to hear. Trumans Water might be some kind of antidote for an ailingspirit, most represented by a stomach covered by airs smudgy blanketwhen diet and exercise have failed.
Maquiladora are the modern equivalent to The Band, recording slower,soulful rock music with an all-encompassing country influence. Theyswitch vocalists, vary between dense and sparse compositions, andthroughout each release, they plunge deeper and deeper headlong intoterritory that both soothes and expands the reaches of humanconsciousness. This music doesn't so much play through the speakers butswirl and mist out like a vaporous mist that the ears inhale. There areawkward moments like vocal stumbling and strained falsetto, but inlistening to the record as a whole they hardly matter. On Dreaming,they found quite a cast of characters to assist in their endeavors.From Blackheart Procession member Phil Jenkins, to a few of the AcidMothers Temple roster, the guests add interesting flourishes. With thecore members' strong songwriting, it makes for the most cohesive andexpansive record Maquiladora have mustered yet. "Sudden Life" opens therecord with an almost "Money for Nothing" approach: minimal sounds arejoined by tom drumming and, eventually, guitars and eerily treatedvocals. It's honestly enough to make me rise off the ground, soaringtowards the sky. As the album progresses, the lyrics paint a delicatepicture of loss, hope, and the world around us all. The trio of shamansthat are Maquiladora sound in tune with the elements, and it informsthe sounds their instruments and voices make. They describe themselvesas desert music, but on What the Day Was Dreaming, they provethat setting too barren for music as full of life as this. Dreams willbe haunted, and the day will be colored with shades of this music,making it a just little warmer and brighter.
Fat Cat have compiled two discs that show them to be one of the mostdiverse and eclectic labels in the UK. I'd be surprised if you can'tfind at least a few tracks here to enjoy. The bait of a previouslyunreleased and fairly low key slice of Sigur Ros ambience opening thesecond disc is probably strategically placed to lure in their fans.Soon they'll be smacked about the ears by Xinlisupreme's anthemic synthsoaring "Murder License" which does distortion battle with Black Diceto see who can be the fattest cat. The Japanese duo win on brute force,but Black Dice know "Things Will Never Be the Same" for post-Boredomspsyche-stews after the "Murder License" has ben revoked. Mum's "GreenGrass of Tunnel" still retains its child like wonder and beauty afterso many plays and Party of One's bratty "Shotgun Funeral" is by fartheir best song and the only one I really need from them. Other albumexcerpts that ought to intrigue are the perky opener from David Grubbs'Rickets and Scurvy and one of the more concise and engaging tracks from Set Fire to Flames' low key desolate Telegraphs in Negative.Fennesz is always welcome round here and his "Badminton Girl" is awistful, exhausted summer evening memory fading, representing the FatCat split 12" series. Matmos, Duplo Remote, Kid 606 and Com.A also havea track each lifted from their splits, each shimmying on with fractureddancefloor moves. This does however beg the question of why they don'tcompile the split 12" singles onto CD albums once the singles are outof print. The label's weakest tendency is a penchant for middle roadquasi-avant pop and I could happily live without the sugar coatedtedium of Bjork and Funkstorung, the Emiliani Torrini remixes from TeamDoyobi and Process, and the gag-inducing Grain track. Mice Parade,Transient Waves, Him (misnomered as Seen) and the Dylan Group all coastby pleasantly making little impression. Giddy Motors stick out like ahammered thumb on the other hand, rockin' hard with the flipside of asingle that hasn't been on CD before. Almost everyone should find acouple of surprise tracks from someone they've never heard before thatimpresses. Stromba and Programme were the new finds for me. Strombatake a grooving Tortoise turn and Programme hit hard with a robustFrench rap meets Big Black drum machine onslaught. Sylvain Chauveau'shaunting piano isolation is a beautiful comedown to end the collection.
Dual lives, fraud, Nice, satanic ritual, artistic theft, mightyWurlitzers and trade unions—this CD has got them all. The captivatingstory behind this reissue on CD of George Montalba's first two LPs istoo long and complex to get into here but is well documented in thesleeve notes for the curious. The background adds a certain aspect offun to this disk that is much like the Simpson's, that is, it can beenjoyed on several different levels. There's the 18's exoticainstrumental aspect with its pang of goofiness that I, for one, find isalways a plus. There's the material being played: stomping rhythms andstrong melodies that have you singing along in no time, mostlyarrangements of very familiar material from Saint-Saëns,Rimsky-Korsakov, Falla, Borodin, Tchaikovsky, Grieg and Sousa, to namea few. Much more than all that is Montalba's (actually his name was BobHunter) brilliant arrangements for organ and two percussionists. Hisplaying on the genuinely fabulous, mighty and majestic Wurlitzer pipeorgan is a delight and it's all captured expertly and lovingly in hi-fimono. The music is enormous in every way: dynamics, richness andvariety of tone color, opulent expansiveness and dazzling showmanshipin borderline bad-taste. It has an intensity (there's enough organtremolo here to supply half a dozen or more 50s horror flicks) thatwill make some cringe, others smile, and most weary if not taken inappropriate doses. My advice is to pause the CD at half-time, take anap, a shower and a cup of coffee (in that order), and then resume.Putting the smug perspective of hindsight aside, Bob Hunter's versionsof these tunes really are spectacular—his mastery of different styles,playful combinations of familiar and exotic, restraint and lack thereofadd up to some genuinely fascinating listening in the manner of, say,Quincy Jones. For a listening recommendation, perhaps what it comesdown to is how you enjoy cheese—if you like your cheese rich, funky,exotic, made with artesian perfectionism and well aged then GeorgesMontalba's Mighty Wurlitzer is what you crave.
This entry in Thirsty Ear's ambitious Blue Series finds the series'headmaster stepping out once again to explore the realms of both thefamiliar and the unfamiliar. Shipp's reputation as a complex composerin avant and free jazz make him a prime choice to lead the Blue Seriesendeavor, and not content to simply orchestrate the undertaking, he hasseen fit to step up to the plate with his own solo and guest spots. On Equilibrium,he touches on traditional jazz structures as well as free-jazzexplorations, often augmented with accents of the urban and electronicmodern. "Vamp to Vibe" does just as it says, with Khan Jamal's vibestrickling over Shipp's vamping, seesaw chords with a confidence andfluidity that is astonishing. Jamal is given free reign to work hiswonders all over Equilibrium and his addition to Shipp'scoterie of distinguished and talented musicians is a masterstroke."Nebula Theory" is a free jazz excursion with the band members slowlydrifting apart, tenuously held together by strands of notes that breakand reform lending the track an amorphous quality that uses silence aseffectively as sound. "Cohesion," like "Vamp to Vibe," relies heavilyon a deep groove provided by Shipp's left hand and bassist WilliamParker. The ensemble digs deeply here, and the funky feel of the piecebenefits from the contributions of the programmed breakbeats ofelectronic producer FLAM. His additions are subtle, never seeking tosteal the spotlight from the ensemble, but they give the pieces adistinct energy, flirting with urban and club beats that breathe newsoul into the already lively jazz compositions. He and livepercussionist Gerald Cleaver work to act as a propulsive force, neverletting the potential for conflict or excess disappoint the potential.Shipp leaves his mark all over "The Root," with FLAM sitting out onthis more spacious piece. It is a virtuoso moment on Equilibriumwith Shipp conjuring a flowing melody from his piano that captures theattention, unbound yet never meandering. "The Key" bounces, lettingParker's bass, Jamal's vibes, and FLAM's synths and breaks all shineout, each of them seizing a portion of the piece and making them oozewith ingenuity and makes this a particular highlight on the disc. Thefinal track, "Nu Matrix," is another composition of sound and silence;patience and satisfaction. It stretches the ensembles interplay, eachcomponent loosely bonded and nearly independent. Equilibriumfinds strength throughout its duration, effectively trying its hand ata variety of sounds and ideas, and convincingly making them feelnatural together. The mix of traditional, free avant, modern, andexperimental fusion results in a remarkably compelling whole that won'tfrighten off new listeners, but rather draw them deeper into the idealsthat have come to comprise the Blue Series.
As soon as Dictaphone's debut album starts, I'm immediately put into anew world where I am a private detective in a modern neo-noir film. Thestreets are unfriendly in these times, and I am one of those whoprotects the innocent, taking cases for low prices or for freesometimes, just keeping the peace. Every good detective has his crossto bear, and Dictaphone is a perfect backbone to the life of a lonerwho walks a fine line between the light and the dark. M.=Addictionis full of tracks that ooze modern cool, with electronic and livepercussion, guitar, keyboards, and live horns. The beats and groovesare jazz flavored, and the music does lean more towards that genre thanany other, but to call this music jazz would be to rob it of itsmulti-dimensional character. Each track is a different person, adifferent canvas, a different case to be solved. "Tempelhof" is thescorned lover, needy only of answers, walking the lonely streetswondering why the night has cursed her so. The title track is the shotfired in the night, striking an innocent person. Who fired the gun? Whodid they intend to hit? The awkward and sudden silence in the middle ofthe song asks a million questions in one second. It's as though thecompositions call out for justice, for the answers to these questionsthat haunt them. Few tracks have vocals, but those that do carry alittle more mystery, a little more depth, that makes the air theytravel throuh palpable. Oliver Doerell and Roger Döring have creatednot just music, but a storybook of emotions and characters that can beaccessed just by pressing play on the CD player. It is a fascinatinglisten, and I look forward to more cases to solve very soon. 
What starts off as a seemingly random collection of noise gels into anamazing conglomerate of unique sounds and atmospheres. Each unnamedtrack seems to have a consistent theme running beneath the random bellsand whistles that holds everything together. If it weren't for thiskind of consistency, Diasporawould sound totally random and become too difficult to focus on. Partof what makes a record of sounds and noises successful is the qualityof the sounds themselves: those used must be interesting and compellingor brutal and confrontational. Diaspora succeeds on this levelby employing some unusual sounds and effects. Futuristic computers, rayguns, drones of impending doom, aquatic fans, solar explosions, andalien bells are all peppered over the duration of the album. In someinstances, like the sixth and ninth tracks, these sounds are arrangedin an intriguing way, as the tracks are both heavily atmosphericglimpses into a world of nuclear winter and heavy-metal killingmachines. I find myself returning to particular songs and then becomingextremely engaged in everything that follows. As I listen to the firstfew tracks now, I realize that I am really attracted to almost everysound used. Hints of melody and coherency do emerge here and there andthe short duration of every song helps things move along nicely. Délirehas molded an album of eleven distinct tracks that belong together.Though the songs are indexed, Diaspora sounds like one longarrangement broken down into its elements. The videos included are abit less interesting than the album itself. The sounds I hear justdon't fit together with the videos in any way and it ends up makingboth the video and the music just a bit monotonous. I think of Diasporaas a collection of interesting sounds more than anything. There'snothing particularly amazing about the arrangements nor the album ingeneral, but the sounds are just so captivating that I keep wanting togo back for more. 
Anyone who has seen the turntablism documentary Scratchwill remember the scene featuring Josh Charles, AKA DJ Shadow. He stoodin the secret basement of his favorite record store (locationundisclosed, of course) amid huge stacks of dusty, obscure vinyl,explaining the philosophy and allure of "crate digging". Hisinexhaustible energy for searching out rare groove, forgotten soul, andhopelessly esoteric breakbeats has given his albums a dark, shadowyatmosphere wholly appropriate to his moniker. While most of Shadow'searly mixes were characterized by clever constructions of breakbeatsfrom rare jazz and funk instrumentals from the likes of David Axelrodand Cannonball Adderly, his recent work (with the exception of most ofhis disappointing major label album) has taken him to the farthestreaches of psychedelia and European progressive rock. Being somewhat ofa rare psych and prog enthusiast, I admire this new direction and amdownright envious of the incredibly bizarre tracks he has managed todig up for this 120-minute live BBC mix. Diminishing Returns isa new, independently released 2-CD set that comprises the entiretwo-hour BBC mix as well as a brand new bonus track. The first hour ofthe mix focuses on underground, old school and leftfield hip-hoptracks. Many of these funny, clever and/or weird raps are matched withalternate breakbeats from another source. There is no tracklisting orsample credits to be found in the nonexistent liner notes, so most ofthese artists remain completely enigmatic to me. Someone more cleverthan I should try to name all of the artists and songs used here, but Iam hopeless at blindly identifying tracks. This first part of thesession is a dynamic hour of rarely-heard hip-hop gems, but it cannothold a candle to the genius of the final 40 minutes. For this last halfof the mix, Shadow creates a seamless adventure through all thingsdusty, strange and rare, focusing on obscure psychedelic rock andstrange progressive. Some of these songs are truly off-kilter andhallucinogenic, featuring trippy, introspective vocals, effects-ladenguitar noodling and mesmerizing beats. This is an impressive assemblageof esoterica that you are guaranteed never to hear anywhere else. Ialmost expected Arcesia, the acid-addled big band leader featured on Songs in the Key of Zto come into the mix singing "Butterfly Mind." At a staggering twohours, the mix still feels tight and engaging, which is an impressivefeat. The bonus track on the disc is an average re-hash of the kind ofhip-hop/rock instrumental constructs that dominated The Private Press. Diminishing Returns is a satisfying DJ mix, right up there with gems like Coldcut's 70 Minutes of Madness.If DJ Shadow wants to retain his credibility, he needs to stay awayfrom the feeble and average material evidenced on his major labelalbum, and stick to the kind of musical integrity he displays on mixeslike this one. 
