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artist: Steven R. Smith
title: The Anchorite
catalog #: IMPREC108
format: cd
upc: 793447510828
release date: Sept. 26, 2006
This is the 7th release in Important Records' ongoing Arts & Crafts Series. The Anchorite is a full length vinyl only release packaged in a hand made linocut created,printed, signed and numbered by Steven R. Smith. Limited edition of 500
Eleventh full-length solo release from multi-instrumentalist, instrument builder Steven R. Smith. In contrast to the more labored arrangements of many of his solo records, The Anchorite was recorded in the winter of 2005 without the use of overdubs straight to stereo 2-track using three separate amplifiers and a combination of loops, tapes and live performance. As the title suggests, the record focuses on the nature of solitude and draws upon a black spaciousness seemingly born in the spirit of Popul Vuh, Arvo Part, and Medieval troubadour music.
Steven R. Smith also releases records under the Hala Strana moniker which focus on the traditional music of Eastern Europe, and is a member of the San Francisco improvisational group Thuja. He has recorded for numerous labels including Catsup Plate, Soft Abuse, Emperor Jones, Last Visible Dog, Jewelled Antler, and Darla.
Important's Arts & Crafts series combines hand made packaging created by the artists featured on the recordings that the packaging contains. Previous artists in the series have been Lee Ranaldo, The Dresden Dolls, Jad Fair, The Hafler Trio & My Cat Is An Alien.
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Christian McShane and Aaron Molina make music from instruments that they don’t know how to use (this is a deliberate move, not a criticism of their playing technique!). On this fourth album by the duo, they are joined by a few guests to jam out a few improvisations. The music they create ranges varies in quality but there are some choice nuggets dotted throughout the disc.
Silber
The pieces on I Have Nothing are all quite short. In a few cases I could have done with some more time for the piece to develop but for the most part the lengths are spot on. “Cymbol” is the perfect length; it gradually develops from some abstract scratching noises to a slow rhythm and melody. It hits its high point and peters out at the right time. In general I find it’s hard to get such minimalist arrangements like this to work when they’re under five minutes but If Thousands manage to do it well. The first four or five tracks are wonderful vignettes, capturing strange moods and atmospheres beautifully.
Unfortunately, after starting strong the album loses its steam about half-way in and doesn’t recover. “Walking Otis” marks the start of the decline; it is a dull piece that goes nowhere (almost literally as the field recording used sounds like someone walking in circles). The rest of the disc follows this piece’s lead and ambles about doing nothing. There is the odd track of interest like “Children with Horns” and “Alpha” (and “Alpha” only regurgitates what they were doing earlier on “Cymbol” albeit better). There are a couple of pieces that are OK but don’t fit at all with the rest of the material such as the banjo-led “Stella and Me” which seems like it’s thrown on at the end of the album.
It’s a shame that some great tracks are hidden among so many average pieces. This album could have been reduced down to a fantastic EP but as it is, I’m disappointed. McShane and Molina should have spent more time on I Have Nothing, the two days of improvisation that made up the recording sessions obviously weren’t enough. With more work and a better track selection this could have been a lot better.
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On the surface, Follow the Train’s full-length debut has it all. The production is sumptuous, and the skilled musicians frequently create gorgeous, yearning passages. Even the cover is vaguely arty and aesthetically pleasing. Scratching a little deeper, however, I found ordinary lyrics, sometimes painfully so, and little else that generates much excitement.
It seems that songwriter and vocalist Dennis Sheridan has been going through some growing pains recently, from realizing the value of unfulfilled yesteryears on "Endless Summer," to his disastrous yet unrepentant loquaciousness on "I’m Not Sorry," to his existential fears on "Afraid." He rarely sings above a whisper, as if his anguish is too great for him to raise his voice. Given the not-quite-poetry of the album’s title, I’m not surprised. It’s probably for the best, though, considering how unremarkable the lyrics are when looking closer in places. I’m certainly not questioning Sheridan’s sincerity, but the ways he sings combined with the simplicity of some of the lyrics themselves makes any genuinely grand emotions he conveys sound trite.
The music is so well played at the beginning that I didn’t pay attention to the lyrics until the aforementioned "I’m Not Sorry." When he sings, "I’m not sorry/But I’m still sad/I still feel sad," I can only roll my eyes at his self-pity. I thought things might get a little more exciting with a song called "Up in Flames" in which he even mentions the words "Rebel Yell," but alas he’s only talking about the song by Billy Idol and not the bourbon of the same name, which would have been appropriate considering that the group is from Kentucky. Coincidentally, the name of the song that follows is "Kentucky," and it is also the album’s nadir. When Sheridan shares the profound revelation that "Kentucky/Is beautiful," I have to agree. On the couple of dozen North-South trips I’ve made in my life, Kentucky has always been one of the biggest highlights (sorry, Indiana!) with its dramatic hills and exposed rock, yet I would think that such a breathtaking landscape would inspire a sentiment more vivid than "Is beautiful." While it’s no "Georgia On My Mind," this song should at least guarantee the band a coveted slot at the state fair.
In some ways, this feels like a waste of good musicians but sometimes the band isn’t helping. Although the music is well-played, it does little to distinguish itself from its Anglophilic leanings apart from some enjoyable synth flourishes. In all honesty, though, the album is so glossy, unobtrusive, and self-absorbed that there could be a couple of Top 40 hits buried within it and the band will likely have the last laugh as I’m forced to hear them piped out of clothing stores at malls, in car commercials, and during the parts of romantic comedies where the estranged couple dramatically reunites. Until that happens, and it very well could, I’ll be doing my part to bolster Kentucky’s economy by the quantity of Jack Daniels I’m about to consume after hearing this.
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Waterline spends some time brooding upon the shattered landscape of New Orleans, as should anyone with a heart. When the waters of the flood receded, a dirty brown/black/beige line remained on buildings everywhere. The disturbing unease of Potpie's avant-expressionism perfectly compliments this physical manifestation of the community's psychological scar.
As per minimalist instruction, Potpie's releases have largely pursued his own version of a straight line for nigh on a decade. All the better then, for being a straight line unfit for use as a sobriety test. At their best, in spite of (or due to) the use of comparitively primitive methods, his hypnotic slabs of monolithic sound have a balance between disquiet and allure akin to a Rothko, albeit one in wax-crayon or marker pen.
On Waterline the trademark sine-wave-generated drones are as intense as ever, yet guitar, chord organ, bullhorn and their ilk, are succesfully reintegrated, without compromising the less-is-more aesthetic. Opener "The Embryo Hunts In Secret" slowly comes into focus as if offering an answer to the unasked and unanswerable question: To what would The Sphinx listen? By contrast, the urgent jolt of "Saturn Jam" suggests a sudden change in circumstances. Perhaps the imagined sound of Sun Ra's life support system being switched off and his soul instantly transported to an unexplored outpost, for a final welcome from jabbering angels and demons.
The clever "Manson/Nixon Jam" has a shrill, threatening atmosphere, but with a detectable Canterbury feel sauntering innocently through the space inhabited by bullhorn and guitar. I anxiously began to imagine Robert Wyatt's injuries arising from a stray bullet on an Ohio campus, rather than from his tumble out of a window.
With very few exceptions, mostly yet to be heard, I detest the sound (almost as much as the social history) of the organ. So, while I personally don't care for "Untitled chord organ solo #1" as a track, (and hope #2 remains unconceived or is strangled at birth) the piece definitely provides useful contrast. Similarly, although organ-free, the immersing and complex claustrophobia of "Instruction in the Great Science of the Six-Syllable Mantra" is every bit as impressive as it is unloveable.
Potpie—like cave painters, boxcar artists, and Mark E. Smith—appears driven to articulate with whatever tools are to hand and in a style of his own choosing. The music has evolved despite an environment predominently composed of disinterest, puzzlement, passive hostility and accidental acclaim. Nevertheless, some of his previous pieces could have flushed Orwellian-style enemy figureheads from hiding, days before Metal Marine Music could take effect. I mean that as nothing less than the square root of a compliment.
The short "Blues For The Lower 9" is undoubtedly the centerpiece of this release and leaves me wishing the track was at least five times as long. It combines a poignant acoustic guitar figure, a drone, and apparently the faraway voices of urban children at play. You've seen them: yelling and barechested, laughing at play in fire-hydrant water, oblivious to being as statistically doomed as kids can be. In New Orleans, they are largely absent now. Eat shit Dr John, Aaron Neville and Wynton Marsalis, for this simple collage is as apt a post-Katrina depiction as I can imagine, in part because, like so many of the displaced lives to which it's echoes pay subtle tribute, it is destined to never be widely heard.
The Backporch Revolution label issues Potpie’s releases in editions of 18, with hand drawn and submerged CD covers. This particular Waterline will soon disappear.
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If I could capture a band as a sex symbol, I get the impression that Tapes 'n Tapes would be Johnny Depp and Jessica Alba: nearly everyone wants to sleep with one of the two or both. Like with most sudden sensations, however, there's more sugar coating here than real substance.
Evidence of how much Pavement still means to some people can be found in the reaction this band elicited after their performance at SXSW. There wasn't a single Pixie loving, Malkmus worshipping writer and/or music nut in existence that didn't have words of praise for this four piece plastered across their website at some point. Practically find an entire album's worth of free music from these guys can be found online because everyone wants to spread the joyous word of Tapes 'n Tapes. The Loon is not, however, everything everyone has made it out to be. While it doesn't inspire dry heaves in me every time I hear it, it doesn't exactly make me want to sing hallelujah. Letting the dust settle around a band always seems to reveal a sensation for a dud. The Loon isn't a dud and it thankfully doesn't revolt me. In fact, I like a couple of songs on this album.
The record begins, there is singing, guitar playing, drums pounding, the usual, and then later the album is over and I feel as if I've been cheated of my thoughts. All the musicians are obviously talented and they play well together; all the things that don't necessarily form the building blocks of a great record are present. I wish the band were much worse or much better than they are, because their popularity has now baffled me. How can a band be hailed as a group of mavericks and simultaneously be praised for their apparently deft handling of indie scripture? This is another rock record, another indie album that successfully rides a line between accessible pop and so called sophisticated, tasteful rock.
I suppose it's just another lesson in how out of hand praise can be when a bored or perhaps overexcited fan witnesses what he or she perceives to be a genre or musically defining moment. With the internet, MP3s, blogs, message boards, and a myriad of band sites available, anybody with a computer can access an enormous history of music. Such an advantage can be expected to breed dissatisfaction with repetitious, generic, and derivative music, but the opposite is happening. Everyone knows who Pavement was and now this generation wants a Pavement of their own. I'm bored with it: mediocre music by anyone (Pavement and Tapes 'n Tapes included) is still just mediocre music.
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When I read the album title and saw the inner sleeve (men playing flutes and acoustic guitars around a fire with a naked woman in the background), I was expecting something psychedelic about fairies but when I listened to the music I realised I was way off. Wolves in the Throne Room are black metal with a few twists and surprises thrown in.
Vendlus
Diadem of 12 Stars is made up of four lengthy songs that meander through not only the nighted realms of black metal but there is also more melodic elements (a big folk influence from the sounds and looks of things). Musically Wolves in the Throne Room remind me of early Opeth with their blending of styles. Within the first five minutes of “Queen of the Borrowed Light,” they not only have the two guitarists unleashed a healthy amount of face melting riffing but they also break seamlessly into a gorgeous clean interlude. I know it’s not exactly innovative but they pull it off well. Also worthy of mention is the second part of “Face in a Night Time Mirror” which combines both the overdriven assault and a delay drenched refrain that sounds like an outtake from one of Constellation’s releases.
Both guitarists also provide vocals and unfortunately they didn’t always gel with me. One of them isn’t that bad, his growls are competent if a bit run of the mill. However the other one spends too much of his time sounding like Dani Filth (from the pantomime that is Cradle of Filth). The singing fits the music but because of this association I have with the sound of his vocals I keep cringing whenever he opens his mouth. I’m sure I’ll get over it. There are a lot of female vocals (actual singing as opposed to growls and screeches) which complement the two lads’ more extreme cries. The woman singing on the first part of “Face in a Night Time Mirror” sounds both corny and great for her overly dramatic delivery.
As much as I’ve blathered on about mixing styles, Diadem of 12 Stars is unashamedly metal. The double bass drumming is constant; almost too constant as it becomes background noise at times. Apart from that and the slightly annoying vocals this album shows Wolves in the Throne Room in a very good light. While I won’t go so far to say that they represent a mainstream version of black metal, they are more polished and less contrary than most of the underground metal bands. Diadem of 12 Stars is a solid album and I hope the Wolves don’t leave it long before howling again.
samples:
- Queen of the Borrowed Light
- Face in a Night Time Mirror (Part 2)
- (A Shimmering Radiance) Diadem of 12 Stars
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Neil Michael Hagerty has certainly paid his dues, from his early days with Pussy Galore to his years with Royal Trux, and if he doesn't always enjoy the reputation he deserves, it's certainly not for lack of trying.
If anything, he's been more prolific than ever with his Howling Hex project. In recent years, he's released a number of albums, some of them on limited vinyl, and last year's You Can't Beat Tomorrow even came with a DVD with the pilot of a half hour variety show of the same name. Such a shame, then, that he would release a dull album as undistinguished as this one. The group is a trio this time around, with hand drums replacing a more conventional rock kit. It's an effective substitution, but the album needs more than that to save it. Hagerty's use of the baritone guitar in the place traditionally held by the bass is an attempt at versatility but isn't quite so smooth. Perhaps the instrument's partly to blame. I've heard other bands try to use the baritone similarly and it's a tough one to pull off. Instead of a satisfying combination of the best aspects of both a guitar and a bass, it often doesn't sound enough like either. For example, when Hagerty tries to get funky on "Lips Begin to Move," the instrument comes off surprisingly flat.
"Hammer and Bluebird" and "Six Pack Days" are probably the most fully realized tracks on the album, yet even these aren't without their indulgences. "How Many Steps Now" isn't far behind, but the chorus eventually becomes tiresome in its repetition. As much as every song's male and female dual vocals remind me of Hagerty's previous group, they're still the biggest draw here and perhaps the most enjoyable element overall. In fact, these are just about the only sections that work, period. What I don't like is the noodling in between the vocal parts in which I find my mind wandering as much as the guitarist does. The worst part about these songs, though, is their length. Each one goes on far too long and the improvised parts have too few changes or other instrumental interplay to support them.
Trimming the fat on these would severely reduce the running time of the album, but it would make it far more enjoyable.
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Coming across as a stripped down version of Pelican, Una Corda combine melodic playing with a heavy edge. There’s no denying that Una Corda are tight; all of the pieces on this EP are performed with acute precision. Unfortunately the power that they displayed during their performance at Supersonic recently isn’t prevalent for most of the disc. There are times when the vitality they have pokes through (such as on “Three” which was worth the purchase alone) but thanks to a slightly muddy mix Proper Position for Floating [1881] isn’t as good as it should be. However it didn’t cost me much and hopefully Una Corda will release a better document of their work soon.
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The Norwegian group’s second album is a dark and powerful collection of sinister soundscapes. Combinations of unearthly drones, organic sounds and traditional instrumentation are used to make a potent and captivating album.
Silber
Looking past the unsightly layout of the sleeve (fantastic drawings with disgusting fonts), the album opens with “Faint Echoes Ran Round the Unseen Hall (Part 1)” which sets the mood for the rest of Dronesyndrome: unease. Thick drones and incidental noises immediately fill the room and smatterings of drumming and guitar add a hint of menace to the piece. As first impressions go this has definitely put Kobi in my good books.
Instead of relying purely on drones (and Kobi are adept at creating spectacular drones) they also utilize a sparse drumming style on many tracks. They capture a primal feeling that is all too frequently absent in music. This is the sort of music that is best experienced in the dark while lying down. It is easy to get lost between the sounds and occasionally get pulled back into the land of the living. One of the song titles nails this sentiment: “Interspersed with Semi-conscious Moments.” This piece is claustrophobic and unsettling. The watery noises and scraping made me feel ill at ease. Here the group do not just rely on synthesised drones but also with cello which makes the piece sound closer to home, intensifying the force of the piece.
Some elements used during Dronesyndrome I’m less than hot on. “This Inclusion is not a Simple Operation” uses a recording that sounds like it was taken from a pre-recorded tour guide from some crappy museum. The music used in this piece is of the same quality as the rest of the album but the sound of this man talking about local history doesn’t sit well with it. Luckily these niggling moments are few and Kobi mostly bypass the usual pitfalls of dark, atmospheric music.
Kobi make great use of dynamics throughout Dronesyndrome. Careful attention to detail (it’s taken two years to make and it shows) has paid off because this album sounds amazing. The mix is never overcrowded; there is plenty of space between the sounds. This meticulous production on top of the distinctively good music means that I’ll be placing Dronesyndrome in a place of prominence on my CD rack.
samples:
- Faint Echoes Ran Round the Unseen Hall (Part 1)
- The Evening was Unusually Sultry and Heavy
- Such Variations will be Encountered Again
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Never a group content to rest on their laurels, Mission of Burma's third studio album and their second since reforming after a 20 year hiatus finds them raising the bar higher than ever with surging guitars, pummeling rhythms, and some other surprises that show a remarkable growth and renewed vitality in their songwriting.
When I heard about their reunion a few years back, I was glad that they were giving themselves the opportunity to enjoy the fan base that had grown around them in their absence since their premature dissolution. Yet when they took that a step further and announced an album of new material, I was afraid they might be tempting fate by risking their legendary status with songs that betrayed the fact that they hadn't played together in so long. In some ways, the resulting ONoffON did little to assuage my doubts. The stronger songs were from the later end of Burma's first era and the others showed signs of rust as they overreached a bit trying to figure out whom exactly their new audience was. As a result, I wasn't terribly excited when I found out about the release of The Obliterati, but I had no reason to worry as it has in abundance everything I thought the previous album lacked.
Something I've always liked about Burma is how democratically they operate. No instrument is more important than another, and yet each element remains distinctively compelling within the whole. From the beginning they're tight and crisp as"2wice" hits with punchy drums that eventually culminate in a stunning anthemic statement that other lesser bands spend an entire album trying to discover, yet Burma's only getting started. Their sense of dynamics has always been one of their strengths, and in that respect this album is no different, such as on "Spider's Web" when they use space as a compositional tool or the beginning of "1001 Pleasant Dreams," which effectively builds tension. This also works on a larger scale in the way they sequence their songs, keeping things fresh by building momentum and then changing the pace, whether from the straight thrust of "Man In Decline," the slower yet effective "Period," or the instrumental "The Mute Speaks Out."
One thing that's a little different is the way they use vocals this time out. The first couple of tracks have unexpected harmonies and falsettos, but it's not until "Donna Sumeria" that the vocals steal the spotlight in a harmonic break that harkens back to Motown without straying too far from their own sound. The good thing about the chances they take with the singing is that they work. Even the unholy, airy chorus in "Nancy Reagan's Head" feels like a natural diversion rather than something arbitrary. Lyrically, they've retained their passion and conviction even while exploring some tender thoughts without having to sacrifice the music in the process. Of course they still have their smart-ass sense of humor, epitomized when they take a shot at our Former First Lady on, appropriately enough, "Nancy Reagan's Head": "And I'm haunted by the freakish size/Of Nancy Reagan's head/No way that thing came with that body." Bob Weston deserves a lot of the credit for the sound of this album. Not only does he make every element sound vitally important and unique, but the various loops and other noises he adds in Martin Swope's former role are exquisitely placed within both the songs' structures and the mix itself.
With this album, Burma prove that whatever curse may have hung over them in a previous era is long gone and rather than merely deserving success, they've done more than enough to earn it.
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