Plenty of new music to be had this week from Laetitia Sadier and Storefront Church, Six Organs of Admittance, Able Noise, Yui Onodera, SML, Clinic Stars, Austyn Wohlers, Build Buildings, Zelienople, and Lea Thomas, plus some older tunes by Farah, Guy Blakeslee, Jessica Bailiff, and Richard H. Kirk.
Lake in Girdwood, Alaska by Johnny.
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Zero have made an odd, joyful and coherent debut, despite lurching from post-rock tension to whimsical melody, covering Devo, and borrowing vocal styles from at least two eccentric Englishmen.
Zero includes former members of the group Bastard, and given those names, it is perhaps not too surprising that their accessible and well-structured sound is tinged with an alluring nihilistic nonchalance. The opener "Big Screen / Flat People" has fuzzy, chiming guitar as well as stumbling rhythms familiar to anyone who loves The Fall (an association reinforced by the weird approximation of trademark Mark E Smith vocals: snotty, languid, and yet laser-like). Indeed, a whole album of that would have been absolutely fine with me. But Jokebox shows that Zero has more than one trick up its sleeve.
"Go Stereo" uses a repetitive post-rock riff-and-shuffle to back lyrics about the technical information related to some equipment. "Derby" could slot nicely onto Appliance's unfairly overlooked record Manual. Oddest of all is "Drag Queen Blues," a song that—had Vivian Stanshall pulled a Lord Lucan-style disappearance instead of perishing in a house fire—would have Bonzo Dog Band fans scouring France for a glimpse of the blighter. The loony vocals sound like Viv's whole Vegas-rock-n-roll-in-an-echo-chamber shtick before they accelerate completely into audio-madness.
The instrumental "The Desire and the Importance of Failing" has ticking percussion and a pedal-steel glide that put me in mind of The Books; "Crosby and Garfunkel" is as light and airy as its title suggests; "Pride of the Kids" recovers from worryingly anthemic guitar chords, and mutates into an equally urgent and fluid cousin of Life Without Buildings' "The Leanover"; and the final piece, "Cars, Buses, Etc," meanders through a nocturnal terrain in the footsteps of William S. Burroughs and Robert Quine. The best of Jokebox would have made a very fine EP and there is plenty of promise here. Encore.
Jesu's latest EP takes Justin Broadrick's new direction of slow and melodic to the next level. The record is bound to turn off some diehard fans of dense and brutal metal, but it is likely to appeal to the masses of people like me who miss those halcyon days of shoegaze in the '90s.
With heavy use of synths that pad out the backing on every track, Lifeline sounds almost like a Cure record with Broadrick playing over it in spots. That's a good thing if you ask me, but I can see how some folks are going to hear this and think that it's a little more lightweight than expected from a guy known for bleak, menacing works of angst. Even when stacked up against other Jesu records, this one seems intentionally more accessible and maybe sentimental, but that's okay.
The truth is, all that heavy grind scream pound collapse type of material just wears on my soul anymore. I still like to get my catharsis on, but there's only so much of that I can take and maybe it's because I just don't feel the need to stick it to the world on a daily basis like I used to. I welcome the softer and more approachable stuff that Jesu is doing now because it still has enough depth to be meaningful but it's not necessarily reliant on bonding with my inner demons to be successful.
The only track here that doesn't work for me is the one where Jarboe sits in on vocals. I've never been a great fan of her work but I know that she's done some things that I like or can appreciate. Here, her voice just seems out of place and forced as it changes through three or four different vocal styles in five minutes. The approach would be fine if the execution were better, or if Jesu didn't do such a tremendous job of creating a consistent ambiance. Her voice in the middle of a Jesu record reminded me of the affect that an M. Night Shyamalan cameo tends to have in his movies—it takes me out of the experience and breaks the vibe just long enough to kill any dramatic momentum. That can be dangerous for a record that's only got four songs on it. Let's all be thankful for customizable playlists!
You don't get many more image heavy titles than "Bruise Journal" and Slow Listener has created a unhurried burner of a track here. This drone warped piece creeps out the speaker like a living breathing thing, though not for long by the sounds of it.
The creak of organ has an organic rot to it, the switches in frequency sometime a little heavy/clunky. There are swirls like falling ash, the dry croak of a flickering flame in the wind sending mini-drones through passages of closedown. There could not be any better compliment than to say this could have easily been an American tapes style release, a cleaner take on John Olson's Full Scales project. If it is possible to get a ghost in the machine, then this is the sound of the body’s internal organs closing down before the ghost is born. Read More
There's something initially not quite right about finding a First Person 3" CD-R release from Lee Stokoe's (Marzuraan, Skullflower) catch-all drone/noise project. The incredibly prolific Culver normally inhabits a world of hazy noise feedback, more suited to his Matching Head label's photocopy wrapped cassettes than First Person's almost cute transparent plastic sleeves. First PersonFermenting its own black murmur, this bleak single track nurtures in its grooves a well of static. Floating face up in the dead zone the undertow bass strum stirs slowly, too soft for distant thunder this becomes the first of perceptible layers. Subsequent listens provide different peaks and highlight different paths through the coating of sounds. The occasional lapses into almost conventionally musical tones sometimes disappear altogether, like sound peeling away from a lathe cut on its last legs. Heavy bass stones slip through the shaking, buffeting the speaker with blows and threatening to sink it as multiple levels become apparent. The Psychic is a nineteen and a half minute avalanche onboard an adrift ferry, the onslaught almost feeling like a loop at points. It may be dark black, but there is nothing on this release that sounds like it is built to create fear. There is a total absence of malice within this noise, leaving just the unknowable drift. Read More
It may have taken a few years longer than hoped, but that other Cornish madman has at last perfected the formula he has relentlessly toiled over with this batch of infectiously quirky acid-blasted instant classics.The chronic unevenness that hindered many of his releases this century is noticeably absent from this gooey mix of "grown folks" electronica.
2007 is shaping up to be quite productive for Vibert. Chicago, Detroit, Redruth, his second long player for Planet Mu, was preceded by The Ace Of Clubs' Benefist album and Rubber Chunks EP on Firstcask.Furthermore, he unleashed a whole slew of digital reissues exclusively via Warp Records' Bleep.Com download service, including several out-of-print Wagon Christ releases and the coveted Plug album Drum 'n' Bass For Papa. As for the remaining months, Lo Recordings is just about to drop his anticipated full length Moog Acid collaboration with the legendary Jean Jacques Perrey, and, according to the Rephlex website, a follow-up to 1993's Vibert/Simmonds album appears due out this year.Still, without having heard these latter two releases, Chicago, Detroit, Redruth is positioned to be his finest this decade.
Though remarkably cohesive as a whole, the album engages in a fair bit of genre hopping throughout, from the dangling boom-bap and fidgety squiggles of "Clikilik" to the astonishingly straightforward Plus8-referencing techno of "Argument Fly."Spectacular opener "ComfyCozy" brilliantly slaps a drum n' bass rhythm against a piano-driven jazz performance gilded with electronic touches, recalling for this fan the very first time he heard the aforementioned Plug.As expected, Vibert doles out invigorating acid like "Brain Rave" and the joyously retrospective title track.However, there are some real surprises here, such as "Swet," an eight-minute freaky groove that tactfully samples the instantly recognizable doorbell sequence from The Jetsons.Here, an unanticipated maturity surfaces from a producer oft noted for having his tongue permanently stationed in his cheek.
Of course, the sacred Roland TB-303 box returns as a pivotal weapon in the Vibertian arsenal, delivering those signature squelchy sequences that simply cannot be beat.However, the artist has finally mastered just how to best use that invaluable box in the context of his irreverent yet enticing productions, far more so than on less satisfying affairs like YosepH and Lover's Acid.But any music geek worth his salt knows that acid was—and is—more than a box.The essence of those good old days dominates on "Breakbeat Metal Music," which only sparingly utilizes the 303, and the heavenly "Radio Savalas."
With nary a drippy track in the bunch, Chicago, Detroit, Redruth redeems the unsettlingly hit-or-miss nature of his 21st century work, be it Kerrier District's daft disco, Wagon Christ's kitsch-funk, or any number of styles wielded by his elusive collection of monikers.Though last year's high-energy-meets-deep-bass Amen Andrews vs Spac Hand Luke deviated delightfully from that trend, this new set for Planet Mu represents a creative triumph from a producer who now appears unstoppable.
David P. Madson continues his explorations in musical collage with this dense mix of chance sounds, "real" instruments such as Dee Kesler's guitar, samples, and the voices of such guests as Jessica Bailiff and TV on the Radio's Tunde Adebimpe.
Along with plenty of dub thump and melodic blast, Level Live Wires has some pleasing swells and crackling electronics reminiscent of Tim Hecker. The disc is packed with disparate elements, sudden lurches, swerves, complete stops, slowdowns and glides, yet Madson's skill is such that the overall flow stimulates and engages.
For a long time it was a struggle to get into this record. It didn't make sense to me on headphones, and when played through speakers several people demanded that it be taken off. One morning though, I grabbed it as I headed to work and finally its perfect setting emerged: it sounds great on a busy drive when in danger of being late for an appointment. It is all mirrored in this record—the anxiousness, the feeling of speeding along highways, glancing in the rearview mirror, slowing to a crawl, being stuck at lights that appear to be broken, zooming past slouches, picking your nose, braking sharply, keeping one eye out for a traffic cop, pulling away from the lights like shit off a shovel, watching the clock and the speedometer, getting trapped in the purgatory of being behind parallel drivers across all lanes at the same speed, relaxing when some time has been made up, a peripheral glance at a smart young woman in a newer, bigger vehicle, and so on,... Level Live Wires sounded right when I was in motion.
Oddly, only later did I notice that the back cover art shows a car on fire, and the track "Burner" features Madson's recording of an abandoned vehicle exploding in front of his apartment, horn blaring. The overwhelming feeling of the disc is of being alert and anxious. Luckily, I'm usually late and Level Live Wires will be staying in the car.
This recording of a partial Wolf Eyes reunion line-up, ex member Aaron Dilloway joining Nate Young and Steve Kenney's Demonic duo, shows that chemistry doesn't ever dissipate. Using synths more as manglers of notes rather than creators or melodies, this 2007 show sees a swollen Demons absorb Dilloway into their mass like they were The Blob back in 1958.
Taking out penance on the audience, the big industrial rhythmic opening is like jackbooted monks marching to some chilly crypt. The melting solder notes course like tunnel excavations or the passing of some great sky ship's daylight blackout. The very un-silent running of black panelled freighters smearing everything in LED pocked audio oil slicks. Like insect legs Dilloway's spindly tape work jangles and bonds with the conserve mass of Young and Kenney's work.
The second piece converts a grand old modulated melody into swirls of a sprawling chthonian counter notes. Dilloway's click-and-brutal-chop bursts wire and sockets into a full-on electricity moulting, synths and boxes tuned to putrefy mode. As it stirs, the piece becomes something akin to snail's pace wintery doom metal…sort of.
With a big black low slung bass sound, legs spread in rock mode Demons are continuing to swell their sound.
This is the least modern sounding new release of the year. Rick Tomlinson's Voice of the Seven Woods creates druggy, foreign sounding psychedelica that sounds like it was performed 30 years ago in some unknown, possibly mythical, land. The ten pieces exemplify all that is good about the guitar and all that is holy about music.
What impresses me most about Voice of the Seven Woods is the reverence for the guitar as a musical instrument. There is little messing about with feedback, unnatural effects or even amplification; instead the guitar is played masterfully. Tomlinson's fingers must be under an unreal amount of control, the licks and melodies he pulls from his instruments are incredibly detailed but sound completely effortless. While Voice of the Seven Woods would have been almost run of the mill in the late '60s and early '70s, today there are so few guitarists who push the melodic capabilities of their instrument in any meaningful way that an album like this sounds almost alien.
Only "Second Transition" lets the album down in any way; its over reliance on guitar effects sometimes smothers Tomlinson's playing and this number is of a slightly lower quality compared to that of the other pieces. However, this is just one small fly in an exquisite ointment. Every other second of music on this self-titled disc sounds sublime, mixing the kind of exotica that the Sun City Girls would murder for with a western sheen, most excitingly realised with the funk/folk trip of "The Fire in My Head." Later on with "Return From Byzantium," Tomlinson summons up the ghosts of Can's most blissed out moments to produce one of the album's most exhilarating segments.
Previous experiences of Voice of the Seven Woods in both recorded and live capacities have been patchy at best but with this release I am well and truly converted. My jaw hit the floor from the get go and only when the drool was forming an unsightly pool could I manage to close my mouth again. Granted that there is absolutely nothing here that is new or forward-thinking but thinking like that misses the point of this music entirely, it is a refinement both musically and emotionally of a fine art.
Robert Pollard's Circus Devils are back with their fifth album and I cannot say it does much for me. There is some solid rock on this disc but ham-fisted lyrics and a few too many guitar clichés make the album tough to listen to more than a couple of times. For every good piece of music there is a set of accompanying lyrics that completely alienate the listener. I have a strong sense that more thought was put into making incomprehensible lyrics than making fully-formed songs in any shape or form.
On "Summer is Set" Pollard sings of an "avalanche of mumbo-jumbo" and this just about sums up the album. The lyrics remind me a lot of Buzz Osbourne's of the Melvins and Les Claypool's of Primus: weird in a very American way; an unhealthy obsession with B-Movie sci fi and odd phrases seemingly included in order to rhyme with other odd phrases. Unlike the Melvins (or to a lesser extent Primus), Circus Devils never manage to blend the surreal with the tangible. The music is too easy going; there is no bridge between the oddities of Pollard's vocals and the mundane garage band rock. There is no indication whether Pollard intends his lyrics to be humorous or serious. Even if they are meant to be funny, the joke is lost on me. As a result, the vocals sound silly and detract from the listening experience.
Credit where it is due, Sgt. Disco is not always a chore to listen to. Some of the music does break out from its generic guitar band aesthetic and develops a little bit of edge. Even the lyrics of "In Madonna's Gazebo" cannot take away from the savage guitar playing that cuts all the way through the song. One of the few songs that manages to be good both musically and lyrically is "The Constable's Headscape," which comes closest to sounding like the militaristic disco of the album's title. Aside from this and a handful of other good songs, Sgt. Disco is unfortunately bereft of much excitement.
I found it very hard to listen to this album more than a few times to review. There are so many songs (32!) on this album that I feel like it should be winding down when it is only a third of the way through. I have a feeling that this fatigue is another factor in Sgt. Disco's complete failure to engage me. If the album was chopped down to a more sensible number of tracks then I feel it might work better but as it is, it is much too long to waste time trying to appreciate.
Alongside D'arcangelo's recent Eksel, this eagerly awaited new album from the well-regarded producer has rekindled my appreciation and even my passion for chin-scratching, toe-tapping IDM.
Darrell Fitton's music has always exuded an affective, pastoral beauty betwixt his skittery rhythms, somewhat akin to the work of the comparatively over-hyped Boards of Canada.It might seem somewhat vexing to operate in the exquisite shadow of an act that has achieved such an uneven level of attention despite the fact that their breakthrough records both appeared within the same year.Yet throughout the past decade, Fitton has persevered with roughly twice the output of his pseudo-cabalistic Scottish peers, maintaining as well as growing a passionate fan base that relishes said output.His continued partnership with Skam has arguably kept that label from fading into the shadows like so many others that peaked in the mid-to-late 90s.Kroungrine, his latest full-length for the imprint, shows the artist undeterred in executing his creative vision and disinterested in callous trend hopping.
"Zoft Broiled Ed" kicks off this album of mutant hip-hop with subcutaneous bleeps and caustic percussive hits.The kick-snare combo of "Noop" slams deep into the guts of the genre with an intensity that is markedly strengthened by its soothing pads and digesting bass groans.The instant classic "Waknuts" slowly builds a plodding old-school rhythm around a misleadingly simple tonal melody, building on and subtracting from the mix at all the right moments.Fitton lets his sense of humor seep into his material, as on the cheekily named "Halylooya," containing video game loops, celestial lacquer, and an enigmatic vocal sample that conspicuously straddles a not-so-fine line between the divine and the impious.His minor blasphemy is easily forgivable when followed up by the warbling sonics of "Urenforpuren" and the razor-sharp rhythms of "Phulcra."The pensive and penultimate "Rainslaight" marries a timeless tenderness with its gurgling contrivances, while the protracted closer "Diamortem" consumes itself in an ambience that attempts a balance between darkness and light, admittedly leaning towards the former, as it morphs elegantly and cinematically through its fifteen minute duration.
Euphemistically speaking, Kroungrine is like ear candy for urban somnambulists, a mesmerizing confection of enchantingly hazy atmospheres and deep brooding beats.This estimable album has so much to explore that repeat listens yield previously unacknowledged textures and layers that lie veiled in a subtlety worth unraveling.For those seeking relief from the noise in their everyday lives, but don't wish to be bored in the process, Bola's latest effort may prove to alleviate, entertain, and, perhaps, comfortably discomfort.
A cross-generational collaboration between these two giants of the world of esoteric sound manifests itself exactly as would be imagined, and for the listener who is willing to give it the close attention it requires, there are great rewards.