We have finally cleared out the backlog of great music and present some new episodes.
Episode 711 features music from The Jesus and Mary Chain, Zola Jesus, Duster, Sangre Nueva, Dialect, The Bug, Cleared, Mount Eerie, Mulatu Astatke & Hoodna Orchestra, Hayden Pedigo, Bistro Boy, and Ibukun Sunday.
Episode 712 has tunes by Mazza Vision, Waveskania, Black Pus, Sam Gendel, Benny Bock, and Hans Kjorstad, Katharina Grosse, Carina Khorkhordina, Tintin Patrone, Billy Roisz, and Stefan Schneider, His Name Is Alive, artificial memory trace, mclusky, Justin Walter, mastroKristo, Başak Günak, and William Basinski.
Episode 713 brings you sounds from Mouse On Mars, Leavs, Lawrence English, Mo Dotti, Wendy Eisenberg, Envy, Ben Lukas Boysen, Cindytalk, Mercury Rev, White Poppy, Anadol & Marie Klock, and Galaxie 500.
Skolavordustigur Street in Reykjavík photo by Jon (your Podcast DJ).
Get involved: subscribe, review, rate, share with your friends, send images!
The follow-up to 2008's Khora, Fragments of the Marble Plan adds an electronic carapace to Aufgehoben's cataclysmic noise-rock foundation. The prevailing sound evokes the Mego label before it added "Editions" to its name and became enamored of American guitar mavericks—back when it purveyed cyclotronic, abstract electronic music that had the centrifugal force of an irrefutable Ph.D. thesis.
Such is the overwhelming power of Aufgehoben on the British group's sixth album that even exposure to the MP3s makes one relieved to have health insurance. Music this apocalyptic has few peers, but some approximate touchstones are the most radically "out" and knotty moments of Norwegian post-jazz ensemble Supersilent, This Heat after realizing that Brise-Glace didn't pay them a penny in royalties, or Farmers Manual after extensive immersion in Mainliner's back catalog. Fragments of the Marble Plan is a terrifying force of nature, a Rube Goldberg machine run amok, the sound of civilization atomizing into controlled chaos. It's so cold, it's hellish. Although Aufgehoben feels your need for catharsis, they convince you that being ready to jump out of your skin is the new normal.
If Aufgehoben prompted clichés, one would say that they "take no prisoners" on Fragments of the Marble Plan. This music is war—with all of the fascinating horrors and grisly casualties inherent in that endeavor. Get a helmet.
Apostate started as a rough set of ideas batted back and forth digitally between Bobby Donne, Gregory Darden and Jimmy Anthony. Three sections emerged, each made up of smaller segments. The completed work is one of austere beauty undercut by overwhelming drones and sounds of undetermined origin.
The artwork and song titles give hints to the meaning behind the sound. A dark gateway with carvings from some long lost, or imaginary language is vaguely off kilter and dark.
References to religion like "Sutta" and "Muezzin" are matched by the sound of bells and a call to prayer. But then the album title itself and titles like "Betrayals" direct thoughts toward darker emotional realms.
All from a band that has practiced it's craft in obscurity, using the tools of digital soundscaping to transform and conceal. Apostate invites you to walk through that gateway to see what you can hear.
Apostate will be available from the FSS Bandcamp page on a pay-what-you-want basis.
How subtle is too subtle? Because Cristal, a trio containing Bobby Donne of post-rock legends LaBradford, is so subtle. There's samples so deep in the mix that you're never quite sure if you've heard them or not, and when you try to listen out for them you just miss them.. an exercise in soundtracking what could be about to happen rather than what's actually happening... Climaxes are for chumps FACT
Together since 2001, the group has refined its approach over the years, and the evidence can be clearly heard... Fans of Deaf Center, Elegi, and Svarte Greiner clearly would do themselves a disservice in not familiarizing themselves with Cristal's work too. Textura
A lot can happen in 26 years, including the return of industrial/noise pioneers Cabaret Voltaire. While now pared down to solely Richard H. Kirk, Shadow of Fear is still a very much a worthy release in the band's canon of dystopian paranoia, hearkening back to the inventiveness of Red Mecca with the rhythms of 2x45, and further improved by rich, expert production. Kirk drags all of the band's musical past into the future, encouraging the listener to dance with boundless abandon as a panacea from the "shadow of fear." The result? Kirk succeeds in injecting a new freshness into Cabaret Voltaire, sounding more energized than like-minded artists a fraction of Kirk's age.
Unlike the often lackluster vision that plagues reboots of classic bands, intrinsic energy fills Shadow of Fear, burgeoned by a year that should not have been. Armed with an arsenal of sound sampling and electronics, Kirk launches musical assaults that span state-sanctioned cruelty, iron-fisted fascist rule, white supremacy, scarcity, and industry loss. Mimicking Plasticity or International Language may have put the raison d'etre for the return of Cabaret Voltaire into question as so many have regurgitated this formula. Kirk instead emerges as a dystopian envoy from a Thatcherian era, mapping that fear onto a present that, in recent times, has felt too similar.
"Be Free" initiates that fear from the onset, disembodied sampled voices reminding the listener to be free even though "the city is falling apart," the message's urgency backed by discordant energy, harsh noise, and persistent rhythm. Rhythm is significant throughout, packing the album with dark dancefloor rippers like "Night of the Jackal," "Papa Nine Zero Delta United," "Universal Energy," and "Vasto." The album ripples with Cabaret Voltaire's most commanding declaration of movement to date, harsh aesthetics working in perfect synchrony with clangorous rhythms. "Universal Energy" is a superb example of this, an almost 11-minute belter that deserves played at top volume. This track is immediately followed by techno groover "Vasto" which masterfully interpolates the classic riff from Bronski Beat's "Smalltown Boy" with throbbing percussion.
Shadow of Fear evokes considerably more than a desire to return to the dancefloor, though there is no mistaking the mad dancing to be had. The music of Cabaret Voltaire has long moved both body and brain. Kirk remains respectful of these roots, upholding Cabaret Voltaire's core mission as a prescient musical voice, dance music masquerading in an almost oppressive intensity. Solo Kirk has successfully crafted a sound that's unmistakably Cabaret Voltaire, as opposed to a solo Kirk album, by leveraging pieces of the sounds he initially helped create. Kirk generally stuck to older synths and drum machines for the album to better sonically recreate the group's early work's dense and twitchy sounds, rather than use the modern electronics he has used for his solo and remix work. These primitive sounds are more timely than ever, a soundtrack for dancing while doomscrolling, moving while quarantined, or simply settling into the new reality with a good pair of headphones.
Unlike his usual penchant for releasing single, album long pieces, this two disc compilation collects nine distinct, different pieces with the only specific commonality being the year that they were recorded. For that alone it makes it a wonderful introduction to López' complex, often difficult to absorb artistry.
Across the two discs, López utilizes most of his varying techniques of composition, resulting in tracks that sound significantly different from one another.Even those with a similar source can vary drastically:while "Untitled #241" and "Untitled #264" both use source material from other artists, they go in entirely different directions.The former remains rather static through its 11-minute duration, sticking mostly to a layer of clicky textures and digital skips, resulting in a sub-rhythmic collage of sound.The latter clocks in at a bit under three minutes and sounds like the infinitely drifting rattles of a metal cymbal that fell to the floor, without a sense of rhythm at all.
López' use and dissection of field recordings is also employed in a few pieces.Both "Untitled #265" and "Untitled #268" use this technique, the former using environmental sounds from Spain, the latter from southern Holland. "Untitled #265" trades in ultrasonic frequencies that build to a dramatic, droning crescendo before falling away to reveal vast sparseness and an intermittent, heavily treated thud."Untitled #268" keeps things more identifiable, with obvious animal noises and ambience with the addition of some percussive rattling later on.
"Untitled #269" uses even less processing on its field recordings, collected at various Buddhist monasteries across Myanmar.Initially it is a heavily layered collage of voices chanting and singing, creating a chillingly disorienting cacophony of unintelligible voices before peeling them apart, leaving more individual voices singing and chanting with only a smattering of reverb.Separated they seem harmless, but layered together produces a disturbing effect.
Oddly enough the pieces on disc 1 are not given the same sort of description in the liner notes as they are on disc 2. "Untitled #242" twists and folds the recordings into high pitched, shimmering affairs that are initially understated, but eventually evolve into microscopic recordings of glass shattering loudly before dropping to near silence."Untitled #246" goes in an entirely different direction, using some textural noises with less treated field recordings, clearly recognizable from the sound of flowing water and occasional environmental clatters.While the former piece was heavily digital and distorted, this one is more natural and organic.
Like his Untitled (2009) collection from last year, this is representative of López' often oblique and challenging, but ultimately rewarding catalog.The Nowhere box set is another example of this collection approach, but 10 discs is a bit daunting.The presentation, however, is a bit odd on this release.Packaged in a sumptuous, die cut and multi-folding package of geometric patterns and colors (which seems to be a label trademark), the look of the release is such a far cry from López' usual stark, sometimes completely absent artwork.The design and aesthetic is wonderful, it just seems a bit out of the norm for a usually austere artist.
Across two side-long tracks, this "spontaneous composition" using only the Grafton Alto Saxophone, Bengt is an in-depth study of a singular instrument, as well as of the artist himself. The unique tonality of the instrument, and Gustafsson’s unique approach to playing it makes for a fitting tribute to Bengt Nordström, who whom this work is dedicated.
Nordström is the father of the Swedish jazz scene, being one of the earliest practitioners in the country, as well as having produced Albert Ayler’s first album, Something Different, in 1963.Gustafsson was heavily influenced by his unique improvisational style, and though his own playing and work is different, here he adopts the style and sound of his friend and collaborator in a fitting tribute.
The A-side of the vinyl sticks to lightly played, higher register notes at first, quiet and carefully controlled.The erratic notes become just as important as the spaces between them, sometimes silent, sometimes the mechanical clattering of keys.The short, bleating, clipped notes become louder and louder, occasionally drifting into recognizable free jazz territory, but staying even more disjointed.By the end, the sound shifts into extremely short notes that sound more like percussion than tone, and by the end just the subtle breathing of Gustafsson.
On the flip, the percussive, rattling noises from sax notes appear again, more restrained but no less effective.The first four or so minutes of the track sound nothing at all like a woodwind instrument, more about breathing and mouth sounds.When the more traditional sound of the instrument comes in, they’re almost delicate, pretty outstretched notes, compared to the tightly clipped and scattershot ones from before.By the half-way mark it goes all out into dissonant skronk, sounding like the instrument shrieking in pain, but closes on the most quietest of notes possible.
The thought of a 40 minute album of just saxophone improvisations was a bit intimidating to me at first, because I was simply unsure how it would hold my interest, but Gustafsson’s unique playing and approach to the instrument gave it a depth and complexity that made all the difference.Even if he was intentionally channeling Nordström, he still put his own unique stamp on it.Plus, I have to appreciate the label going above and beyond the traditional download-code digital option and instead including the album on CD as well as pristine white vinyl.
I am sure that working under the shadow of a massively influential father (Graham, in this case) is not an enviable position, but Klara's brief and enticing debut is unusual and eerie enough to avoid any annoying comparisons or unmet expectations.  Culled from field recordings made in Europe, Russia, and Turkey, Lewis' pieces sculpt a host of unmusical sounds into spectral and unsettling minimalist dance music that is deliciously alienating and undanceable.
Amusingly, "sound collages made from exotic travels" might be my single least favorite micro-genre amidst the cassette and CDR underground, as they are often pretty inept and also make me angry that other people have more interesting lives than me.  Consequently, Lewis' success and ingenuity with similar material is both refreshing and unexpected.  Of course, these are not collages so much as a forlorn 10-minute long musique concrète dance party and even within that very bizarre aesthetic realm, Klara is anything but straightforward.  For example, while she manages to create an infectiously scratchy rhythm in "c a t t," it is an ephemeral one and periodically gets displaced by ghostly swells and echoey clangs.  Also, a tea kettle makes a prominent appearance, adding a pleasant dash of absurdity to Lewis' haunted and hollow pulsings.
Klara only allows conventional musicality to infiltrate her work on the closing piece, "49th hour," which incorporates an undead-sounding Russian opera singer and something resembling a simple bass line near the end.  It fits seamlessly though, probably making it the EP's most accessible "song" without sacrificing any of the darkness and dislocation of the previous pieces.  Obviously, music this unapologetically bleak and fragmented is not for everybody, but it is complex, unpredictable, and uncompromising enough to be quite striking to jaded ears like mine.  In a distant way, in fact, this EP shares quite a bit of common ground with bleaker UK dance luminaries like Raime and Demdike Stare, but takes things to a much more abstract and difficult extreme.  That said, it seems like Klara will have her work cut out for her if she ever attempts to sustain such a pure anti-music aesthetic for longer than ten minutes.  For now, however, this is a very promising and distinctive debut.
This was recorded at the same time as last year's spectacular Pages on a Plane album (which is still in heavy rotation at my place), but takes things in a dramatically different direction.  I dearly hope this new direction is merely a one-off experiment though, as Michael Jantz's current manic, maximalist psychedelia streak is decidedly not for me.  Fortunately, there is one truly great "old-style" piece included that prevents Go Around, Again from leaving me totally exasperated.
While he has certainly diverged from my expectations in the past, I have always felt that the core of Jantz's aesthetic was a kind of warm, rustic Americana.  I never expected Black Eagle Child to churn out acoustic guitar instrumentals forever, but I also never expected such a drastic shift in tone and approach.  Somewhat perversely, Jantz's acoustic guitar remains prominent for this effort, but it is the backbone of an overwhelming one-man ensemble rather than the intimate focal point.  That would not be a problem if the arrangements and compositions were more compelling, but on pieces like the 15-minute "Sun Cylinder," Michael endlessly flogs the same cheery motif and basically uses all the extra instrumentation solely for doubling and density.  That piece is not a fluke either, as "Running Around the Room" follows a very similar trajectory.  Texturally, Jantz has some good ideas, as the pieces are filled with spirited clopping and clapping, odd burbling, and twinkling xylophones, but it is not quite enough to prop up the fairly weak, one-dimensional material.
But then there is the simple, bittersweet banjo piece "Phrases of the Moon," which easily stands among Jantz's finest work.  Despite featuring a thumping bass drum and a xylophone, it sounds nothing at all like the rest of the album, differing drastically in both mood and approach (opting for spaciousness rather than wall-of-sound layering).  It is pretty much a perfect song in every regard, from the languorous melody to the subtle interplay between instruments to the quietly insistent maracas, yet it somehow manages to get even better around the halfway point due to the appearance of delay-heavy electronics that seem like lingering afterimages.
I think "Phrases" makes this album grudgingly mandatory for Black Eagle Child fans, but I found the other three songs to be pretty grating despite their occasional flashes of inspiration.  All of the other reviews that I have read seem uniformly excited about Jantz's foray into wobbly, candy-colored exuberance though, so perhaps Michael is merely the hapless victim of my subjective aversion to happiness.  I bet history will vindicate me though.
This is the kind of release that easily could fall through the cracks, as it is merely one humble CDR amidst a daunting slew of higher profile reissues, remasters, and Edward Ka-Spel solo efforts.  On one hand, that makes some sense, as much of the material is very abstract and atmospheric.  On the other hand, the narrative title piece captures Ka-Spel at his most bizarre and compelling and should not be missed by anyone interested in his work.
Ka-Spel's bizarre spoken-word tale of the titular being begins the album in brilliant fashion, unfolding the story of a hapless space creature being studied by a doctor.  Content-wise, it almost resembles a children's story, as nothing particularly disturbing ever happens and the nurses all have silly names (also, Ka-Spel gamely provides the female voices himself).  In execution, however, the base material is transformed into something truly gripping and more than a little disturbing.  Much of the credit goes to the band, who bolster Ka-Spel's curious story with simmering ambiance, hollowly shuddering guitars, and timely eruptions of entropy.  However, I suspect Edward could have even made it work without any accompaniment at all, as his deep voice sounds so intense, grave, and insistent that it seems impossible to turn my attention away from it no matter how many times I hear the story.  Also, the pacing is extremely effective and the humor drolly deadpan.  Ka-Spel has rarely been more magnetic and he and the band do not make a single misstep.
Unfortunately, opening in such stellar fashion sets the bar unfairly high for the rest of the album and it cannot help but fall somewhat short.  Nevertheless, most of it is still remarkably good.  The 17-minute drone epic "Premonition 34" is enjoyable and appropriately hallucinatory, culminating in a very satisfying and noisy catharsis.  Then, the much shorter "Poor Louis" sounds like I am hearing a distant free-jazz concert while rapidly dying from a drug overdose, which is certainly a neat and novel experience (and it even manages to end in supremely creepy and unnerving fashion).  Even the album's weakest piece, the closing "29.12.11," is pretty impressive, unleashing a harsh torrent of electronic and field recording chaos over a bludgeoning and insistent rhythm.
I am amazed that an album this impressive is only being released as a CDR, but I suspect that is more due to financial constraints rather than the band feeling like this was somehow a minor effort.  Granted, there are not any real "songs" here, but 18 minutes of sustained excellence is appealing no matter what shape it takes. Additionally, I found this is to be a lot more listenable than many of LPD's more formal and celebrated efforts.  The fact that the Dots can casually and quietly release something this great reminds me yet again that they are among the most woefully under-appreciated bands and that they are always capable of releasing great material, even after 3+ decades.
Nad Spiro has a new album project : Atomic Spy. Released in a limited run of 101 copies, is the debut CD on the new GaSaG imprint within the GEOMETRIK RECORDS family which will be focusing on unpublished gems and different formats. Official distribution from www.GEOMETRIKRECORDS.com (gr gsg 01) Also via Bandcamp : listen to Atomic Spy >> http://gasag.bandcamp.com
In Atomic Spy, Nad Spiro explores further her world of shadows and uncovers hidden and twisted sounds, electronic spells that occupy your attention. Her sound fictions evoke secret accidents and car-park conspiracies, body invasions and auditory hallucinations, ghost transmissions and melodies from a lost city.
The art work of the cd is by master of photo-montage Josep Renau (1907-1982), an image in tune with the Atomic Spy's Electricity Zone
Mastered by Ferran Fages. - - - - -
Rosa Arruti has worked for many years under the alias NAD SPIRO -a solo venture where complex processed guitars are built into a world of electronic textures- and her recordings have been released on the pioneer Sspanish experimental label GEOMETRIK RECORDS . Member of some of Barcelona's cult underground bands (Mohochemie, Tendre Tembles...) she has collaborated with other experimentalist like Kim Cascone or My Cat is an ALIEN.
Recently reissued by Staalplaat, this massive 1995 double-album is one of the jewels in Bryn Jones' "industrial phase" and a serious contender for one of the finest albums in the entire Muslimgauze oeuvre.  Naturally, it is packed full of percussion experiments and plenty of obsessive "locked groove" repetition, but Izlamaphobia is unusual among Muslimgauze albums in that Bryn seemed to have had so many great ideas that he did not resort to self-cannibalizing or reworking much at all.  Also, he seemed to have experienced an atypical window of patience and lingered on this album long enough to flesh-out his grooves with some great dub touches rather than just immediately launching into his next project.  Anyone annoyed by the fact that most Muslimgauze songs are just percussion vamps will probably still fail to warm to this release, but Izlamaphobia unquestionably boasts some of the most vibrant and inventive loops of Jones' career.  More importantly, it is simply a great album from start to finish.
As properly befits an album from Muslimgauze's industrial era, Izlamaphobia opens with "Hudood Ordinance," a sputtering, squelching, pummeling, grinding, and metallic percussion work-out that sounds about as machine-like as Muslimgauze ever gets.  After that initial salvo, however, the "industrial" tag starts to seem increasingly inappropriate, as the only thing machine-like about many of the other pieces is the obsessive repetition of their loops.  Izlamaphobia is actually quite an unusual and varied album within the Muslimgauze discography, especially on the second disc, as Jones apparently started to grow weary with his relentless onslaught of grooves and starting exploring some more abstract and experimental themes.  Or maybe he just ran out of cool beats before he had a full double-album.  Regardless of his motivation, he covered an unexpected amount of stylistic territory–just about every phase of Muslimgauze's career bleeds into this album at one point or another.
The best pieces, of course, tend to be the ones that boast the best (and most fully realized) grooves.  In that regard, the propulsively shuffling "Gilded Madrasa" is a definite highlight, as it also benefits from a haunting melodic snippet, an ideal duration, and an impressive knack for dynamics (it never gets boring because elements are quite prone to stuttering or dropping out at unexpected times).  Other highlights include the buzzing tambura and break-beats of "The Public Flogger of Lahore" and the backwards percussion and water-driven pulse of "The Emir of Aqua."  The more bizarre pieces also tend to work quite well.  The best of the lot is probably "The Ottoman Muzeum Of Cherished Momentos," which embellishes its wonderfully clanking and plinking rhythm with an unexpectedly loud exhalation ('80s hip-hop beatboxing, Muslimgauze-style!).  The charmingly titled "Zindan Bug Pit" is yet another strange delight, taking an obsessively repeating metallic percussion pattern and warping it with counter-intuitively treble-heavy EQ and a host of dub-influenced disruptions.
As mentioned earlier, the second disc features an unexpected number of varied divergences from the standard Muslimgauze template.  On a couple of pieces, for example, Bryn plunges wholeheartedly into the disorienting potential of playing loops backwards, most notably with the nightmarish and hallucinatory "The Fragrance Aroma" and the blearily languorous "The Landless of Bazzars."  Jones plays with time yet again on "The Suffocator of Hindustani," slowing a looped tambura motif to a menacing crawl while ratcheting up the hiss and sizzle.  Elsewhere, "The Limb Amputator of Riyadh" resembles nothing less than a hip-hop DJ trying to get a party started in the middle of a tornado.  "The Female Guand of Libya," on the other hand, seems like it has all the makings of the usual Muslimgauze fare, but it is purposely hamstrung by a stalled loop that endlessly maintains a sickly sway that prevents the song from ever moving forward.  None of the more experimental pieces are among the album's best, but all are definitely welcome and none feel like filler.  If anything, they provide welcome contrast for Jones' more beat-driven fare and deepen Izlamaphobia's immersive spell of mystery, exoticism, and increasing unreality (or at least a heavily stylized hyper-reality).
While it unquestionably boasts many more instant classics than most other Muslimgauze albums, the primary appeal of Izlamaphobia lies in experiencing it in its entirety.  There are plenty of inventive, wonderful grooves to be found all over Jones' insanely voluminous discography, but it is truly rare to get to experience such a painstakingly crafted, memorable, and deeply surreal tour of Jones' imagined Middle East.  A few pieces are too beat-centric to make much of a significant impact, but they are in the minority and Jones was a goddamn wizard at weaving shifting and evocative atmospheres here.  I imagine this album is a lot like wandering through a crowded bazaar in an exotic city, but with the beauty and menace both amplified (though the orchids, magicians, and views of the Nile seem a bit outnumbered by the limb amputators, poisoners, suffocators, and floggers, if the song titles are any indication).  If Izlamaphobia has a flaw, it is only the one inherent in every Muslimgauze album: just about every piece is a groove that begins and ends without a hell of a lot of development in between.  That is Muslimgauze though and Izlamaphobia is one of the best (and most sustained) versions of Bryn Jones' unique brilliance around.
Improbably, this is Leigh’s first true solo studio album after a slew of limited edition home recordings and a lengthy and illustrious career of collaborating with damn near every major artist in the fringes of the improv music scene (Jandek, Chris Corsano, Peter Brötzmann, Smegma, etc.).  Given the volume and diversity of her previous work, I was not at all sure what to expect from I Abused Animal.  I know I did not expect it to sound like it actually does though.  While there is certainly a fair amount of Leigh's distinctively warped and iconoclastic guitar playing, Animal often feels far more like an otherworldly outsider folk album than the work of an experimental/improv guitar luminary.  For the most part, that was a sound directional choice, as Animal is a legitimately unique and compelling album.  I suspect it will probably be a bit too strange and hermetic for some listeners, but that is their problem.
As a genre, the blues has had an extremely unfortunate stylistic trajectory, steadily degenerating from the incredible promise of Robert Johnson and his milieu into a bunch of white baby boomers jamming out and making guitar faces at rib joints.  Fortunately, there was also a much stranger, darker, and more abstract concurrent evolution that eventually yielded artists like Heather Leigh's erstwhile collaborators Jandek and Christina Carter.  Leigh is a similarly intense and idiosyncratic member of that pantheon, channeling life's anguish with uncomfortable directness and casting away any clutter or structure that could potentially distract from the catharsis.  In fact, she even sets aside her pedal steel guitar for the opening title piece, delivering her cryptic and creepy confession as a quavering a capella performance that resembles an old spiritual, a form that she is no doubt intimately familiar with having grown up in West Virginia.  It is a gripping, gutsy, and intimate performance that sets the bar quite high for the rest of the album.  I am not sure the rest of Animal quite rises to the same level, aside from late-album highlight "The Return," but the consolation prize is that Leigh's listenability increases as her intensity decreases.  Great art is rarely comfortable, passive entertainment.
While the addition of guitar does generally make the remainder of Animal somewhat less haunted-sounding, the other five songs are still quite a long way from anything remotely conventional.  Even at her most melodic and vibrant, as she is on the unexpectedly This Mortal Coil-esque "Quicksand," Leigh reduces her guitar playing to nothing more than an echoing, hyper-minimal four-note repeating pattern.  Elsewhere, such as on the gnarled, vibrato-crazy "All That Heaven Allows," she stomps her distortion pedal and erupts into a wild, one-woman psych-rock freak-out that she somehow manages to wrap a vocal melody around.  It might not be entirely successful as a song, but it is certainly a bold, memorable, and striking effort nonetheless (it sounds like someone mashed together a Big Blood album with an especially lysergic and free-form Blue Cheer live recording).  Later, "Passionate Reluctance" abandons the guitar again for an unexpectedly pretty and folky second vocal performance before Animal plunges back into darkness for good.  "The Return" is my clear pick for album highlight, enhancing one of Leigh's strongest vocal melodies with a distorted, ugly, and intermittently disrupted pattern of heavy guitar swells.  The final "Fairfield Fantasy" achieves a similar degree of warped beauty, albeit in very different fashion: its finger-picked arpeggios are frequently derailed by wild vibrato that transforms the otherwise heavenly piece into something that sounds like a curdled and disorienting Hawaiian nightmare.
While both the songs themselves and Leigh’s singular guitar approach are the obvious draws, I actually found Leigh herself to be Animal’s single most compelling aspect, as her aesthetic is quite a fascinating puzzle to try to wrap my head around.  Aside from frequently sounding possessed, somnambulant, and otherwise alien, Leigh has quite a singular knack for bringing together seemingly very disparate threads and making them all seem perfectly natural (albeit within the context of a very unnatural album).  I can perhaps see how her harsher, more cathartic fare is the inverse of her more melodic, simple, and tender side, but outliers like "I Abuse Animal" and especially the perverse "All That Heaven Allows" muddy the waters quite a bit.  "Heaven" truly feels like someone amusingly dared Leigh to try to make a coherent song from the craziest, messiest acid-rock excess imaginable, which sits quite bizarrely next to the quiet, wide-eyed intensity found elsewhere.  I think she won the bet though.  More importantly, Leigh's many facets somehow all fit together into a satisfying whole and they never feel at all like a jumbled, schizophrenic mess (even though it seems like they should).  In fact, all the various threads only serve to deepen the listening experience, as I Abused Animal easily ranks among the most gripping uneasy listening of the year.