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).
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Gold Standard Laboratories The downfall of any musical trend begins at the point where the music becomes too easy to make. From there, hoards of immitators flood the market and are scooped up by any record label wanting to compete in the "new market" just like a lipstick company has to have the coolest color of the year to compete with their competitor or the trend-setting upstart who got a major break. I Am Spoonbender have not only remained relatively quiet through the electroclash explosion, but refuse to allow keyboard presets, generic production and predictable riffs drive their music. While this hasn't made them as popular as the biggest offenders of dullness like Felix da Housecat, releases like this, along with their previous EP, 'Teletwin,' will still be as listenable years from now and just as tasty as they are today. 'Shown Actual Size' is only three short songs totalling less than 14 minutes, the first thing they have released in two years, and serves as a teaser for the forthcoming DVD/album, 'Hidden Persuaders'. It opens with the forceful "I Went and Had My Knives Sharpened," where a ripping, sassy, distorted bass (thanks to Dave Edwardson of Neurosis) undercuts nasty, angular synths and strong vocals from the female and male singers. "Remover-Installer" relentlessly continues with the same energy while the closer, "Re-dial Meant 'Remember'" recalls to a darker side of 1980s synth music, left in the past thanks to the absence of radio hits and perky videos.
DFA As the art punk progression tends more and more towards electronic experimentation, Black Dice are ready to offer their interpretation of the movement, fusing their improvisational noise rock with an electronic sound which calls to mind Beaver and Krause, and a musique concrete similar to Xenakis. There are clicks, beeps, voice samples, chirps, echoes, robots, chimes, wails, mystic hums, crunches, and Oriental pentatonic scales. The group's previous releases for the Gravity and Troubleman Unlimited labels were unbalanced by their composition: many extremely short, kinetic songs combined with one or two longer songs. Here, the songs start off long and get increasingly longer. The band chooses to employ its heretofore unexplored potential energy in these songs, rather than just brashly offering their kinetic formulae. It's fascinating to hear this evolution, particularly because I used to think Black Dice were one-trick ponies. Live shows of the band were always intense and fun, but not always well-suited for translation onto record. With this record they have proved me wrong, and have developed into a forceful and imaginative experimental collective to listen to in my room. What will be interesting to see is whether their new sound is adaptable to their explosive live performances. 'Beaches and Canyons' starts out with the six-minute long "Seabird," an appropriately maritime number which unmistakably features some perturbed plover signaling the unjust encroachment on its nesting sand dune with constant squawks. The plover may or may not be robotic, and may or may not actually be a tern. By the end of the song, the intruder has clearly left, but bird is still squawking, albeit a little less virulently. "The Dream is Going Down" takes us to a canyon where robot voices bounce of the eroding limestone walls, while during the last six minutes of "Endless Happiness," waves and tidal sounds wash over us as the supposedly interminable bliss eventually does fall off. By the time the seventeen minutes of "Big Drop," the last song, comes about, we have literally dropped from the canyons in an errant spelunking mission into a cave where sound bounces about violently and the vocals scream, recalling Black Dice's older output. Wherever we find ourselves by the end of the album, the echoes in the music remind us that we are still in Black Dice's canyons, while the crashing of waves reminds us that we still have one foot rooted on the shores of an undiscovered beach.
Fans and critics have uncontrollable tendencies to place far too many expectations on something they had no expectations of to begin with. Think back to the first time you heard this Canadian collective: there was something about that very moment which COMMANDED your attention whether you care to admit it or not, even if you like the band or not. The sound was fresh and warmly welcomed, grand and overwhelming at times. Transcending a number of genres, there was little room for comparisons or classifications. They achieved something which my friend, Jeremy, of Temporary Residence considers a mark of success: people started comparing -other- things to them. There was something more, however—something almost indescribable and intangible—which started out like a small mystery and has built to a frenzied, inescapable force-field which surrounds this simple instrumental rock group. Godspeed certainly could share the blame of setting the winds in motion—perhaps due to the choices of samples and the use of symbols and messages tucked inside artwork or projected on the stage screens. Couple these with a feverish, caustic and sensational media, aching for a soundbyte to exploit or an individual to single out, and things can easily spin out of control.
The band's fourth recording feels like their attempt to wrestle control back into their court. 'Yanqui' is a simple and pleasing instrumental rock record, as straight up as Godspeed can probably ever get—void of the musical gimmicks in which the band has become known for. The songs are once again lengthy, but noticably absent of the multiple-parts approach. The build up on each of the five tracks is simple but no less enjoyable than anything else they've done, whether it's with the droning strings on the second part of "09-15-00" or the quiet yet piercing bell-like opening of the first part of "Motherfucker=Redeemer." In addition, there are no speeches of the moral decline by senile old people or random Iron Maiden fans roaming the streets. Either they didn't want to go "mining for shit" through various tapes of field recordings or they're sick of people actually believing these bits are far more than instrumental coloration. The only extra-curricular additions are some pleasantly odd chords struck by wind instruments during the quiet moments of "Rockets Fall on Rocket Falls." For an album which is not meant to be their crossover or major breakthrough, I think the band has successfully conveyed, musicially, that they are simply a rock band, and don't want to be either saviors nor Satan's spawn.
When Guided By Voices initially left Matador Records to record with TVT, it was rumored that the main point of contention was Rob Pollard's prolific songwriting, and his inability to concentrate on just one release. Solo records, records under different band names, EPs, and singles dotted the marketplace from GBV, and Gerard Cosloy wished Pollard wouldn't cause fans confusion over which release to buy. After all, who has money to buy 9 releases a year from Mr. Pollard? (Especially when some of which aren't any good.)
Now, Pollard has the Fading Captain Series, where he releases all of his wacked-out side projects in limited pressings, and they're back on Matador. So it seems surprising that that label is willing to let Pollard release this "odds and sods" collection under the Fading Captain name, especially since it is a Guided By Voices release, not the Circus Devils or Airport 5. Pollard and Co. do thank Matador in the liner notes, but it still feels odd considering the past. But these tracks, recorded during sessions for 'Isolation Drills' and 'Universal Truths and Cycles' are an interesting sort that hint at both the past and present without being either. They're partially in between both aforementioned records—too tame for 'Truths', yet too strange for 'Drills,' which was arguably their most accessible release. The title track is a perfect example: catchy yet annoying, solid yet sloppy, and in your face yet distant, it is as study in contradictions. Which makes it one of the most compelling GBV songs ever. "Dig Through My Window" is better than anything on their last two records, with its careful strings and irresistable melody. Elsewhere, it's more than the same, but with a touch more class. 'Pipe Dreams...' is a quick listen, with ten tracks at just over twenty-three minutes, but it's also a great introduction to this, the most consistent and most hard rocking, incarnation of GBV. Loyal fans will rejoice, casuals will waffle but give in, and once in a blue moon fans will avoid like the plague. And that's exactly the way it should be.
The Mountain Goats have finally released a true Euripidean goat song, a sparkling Floridian tragedy which places an alcoholic couple whose once true love has soured in a two-story bungalow filled with cases of vodka and ashtrays teeming with stale cigarette butts. We have seen this couple before: they inhabit all the songs with "Alpha" in the title. The difference is now their exploits are being documented with the assistance of a fancy recording studio, sometimes even complemented by bass, drums, piano, and other instruments.
It's not that The Mountain Goats have never recorded in a proper studio before. They have. They have just never released an album filled entirely with songs not recorded onto John Darnielle's Panasonic FT-500 boombox. 'Tallahassee' sounds much like last year's Extra Glenns's 'Martial Arts Weekend,' which paired Darnielle with Franklin Bruno (who also appears on this album). This time, Darnielle teams up with Peter Hughes who, coincidentally, also played with Bruno in Nothing Painted Blue. The album ostensibly deals with the tumultuous and strenuous relationship of the Alpha couple. But sometimes it is hard to perceive that the songs are about the lamentable side of the relationship because sorrow usually takes place in metaphor and abstraction (with notable exceptions: "No Children" features the lyrics "I hope you die; I hope we both die"), and the melodies and tones are not particularly somber, doing nothing to suggest that the fall of the house of Alpha is upon us.
There are no disastrous downfalls in these songs, only the banal everyday annoyances and grievances which plague most married couples. Unlike every other Mountain Goats release, this album is devoid of the signature frenetic guitar strumming, a strange omission when you consider how suggestive that particular sound could be of the looming animosity which courses through the album, or at least the anxiety surrounding it. Most of the songs are deliberate without being languid. The album starts out with the title track—an ambling and sedate song which takes its time building into a combustible and emotionally restrained ditty, just screaming to be let out of its cage. Darnielle refuses to let it out entirely. His tight reigns are masterfully manipulated and his discipline is astounding. It's not easy to find the chaos fomenting under the skin of each song, even though the liner notes let us know it's there. If anything, it is Darnielle's voice which divulges the entropy underneath. It sometimes twists and writhes with itself, sometimes shrieking in a tenor which would likely shatter the windows in the two-story house where his Alpha couple lives. The gem on this album is "International Small Arms Traffic Blues." The song could be a love paean, with its almost whispered vocals, optimistic coda (the lyrics a reference to either The Eagles or The Emotions), and love sonnet-like metaphor. Each verse begins with an absurd love simile ("My love is like a Cuban plane"), which quickly becomes less absurd as the verse takes shape. When it is all over, you realize how much sense it all makes; how this couple can be in so much grievous trouble behind the scenes of these lovely songs; how dangerously and delicately balanced their lives are on this northen Florida swampland.
Stunning collection of works from 1998 to 2008, MY CAT IS AN ALIEN's first decade of adventure in outer space and modern music. All ultra-rare and long-out-of-print material from space brothers Maurizio and Roberto Opalio finally available for the first time in digital format, including a previously unreleased gem entitled 'Where The Lines Go To Sleep' (2004).
The selection starts from MY CAT IS AN ALIEN's 1999 first milestone 'Landscapes Of An Electric City' (originally spread throughout the world by Thurston Moore's Ecstatic Peace!). In these early years, MY CAT IS AN ALIEN decided to entrust thier own 'pictures of infinity' to several obscure labels specialized in producing limited as well as specially curated vinyl-only releases (not to mention the duo's own Opax Records imprint), thus creating a monumental corpus of work that gave birth to the brothers' myth.
Among many other fundamental works, this huge set also contains what MY CAT IS AN ALIEN have called 'The Great Void Trilogy', which was originally released on three separate LPs by Ed Hardy's legendary Eclipse Records in the middle of the last decade. The latest work presented in the set is 'Alien Blood' (2008), original soundtrack to the homonimous film by Roberto Opalio, which was shown at various European museums as part of the 'SONIC YOUTH etc: Sensational Fix' touring exhibition.
Each work has been accurately remastered and re-edited appositely for this box set release. The box also includes extensive liner notes, plus special art cards. A unique occasion for every adventurous listener to experience some of the most inscrutable and essential music of all times.
DISC 1 - 'Landscapes Of An Electric City' DISC 2 - 'The Rest Is Silence' (part one) DISC 3 - 'The Rest Is Silence' (part two - extended version) DISC 4 - 'When The Windmill's Whirl Dies' DISC 5 - 'There's A Flame___Sometimes' DISC 6 - 'Where The Lines Go To Sleep' (previously unreleased) DISC 7 - 'Greetings From The Great Void' DISC 8 - 'The Secret Of The Dancing Snow' DISC 9 - 'For The Tears Of The Land_Prayers From The Outer Space' DISC 10 - 'Alien Blood - Soundtrack To The Film'
Rainfall, thunder, crickets, and the toll of a distant church-bell introduce the title track of YOB's sixth album. It sounds nearly identical to when Black Sabbath used the same handful of effects to open their debut 40 years ago. If a lesser band was doing this, I'd cry foul—but this is one of the year's most accomplished metal albums.
After four solid albums, culminating in 2005's monumental The Unreal Never Lived, doom metal torch-bearers YOB called it a day. Fast-forward a couple years, and YOB reunited for a few live shows and an excellent "comeback" album, The Great Cessation, also released on Profound Lore. Atma, the band's second full-length since their reunion, is altogether more varied and vibrant—all the way down to its colorful cover painting, a stark contrast to the tar-black artwork of The Great Cessation. Also, compared to their last effort, there is a gritty, distorted tone to Mike Scheidt's guitar that cuts sharply through the production like a warm knife into butter.
Following in the wake of doom heavyweights like Saint Vitus, Cathedral and Electric Wizard, YOB are the decade's best candidate to carry the torch of Sleep. Atma follows in the tradition of such indisputable classics as Jerusalem and Holy Mountain, with higher aspirations than grinding out heavy-as-concrete riffs all day. Instead, there is an intense focus on mantra-like repetition and spirituality that aids the seeking of higher planes of consciousness—even for folks like me, who don't partake in any type of "sweet leaf" unless to brew a fragrant cup of green tea. Most of Scheidt's lyrics are unintelligible, but I managed to catch a few lines early on: "One hundred thousand / repetitions / recite the mantra / flowers unfold." (I'm guessing that's a representative sample, unless proven otherwise.)
The 16-minute centerpiece, "Before We Dreamed of Two," is a highlight, beginning with Scheidt's guitar wailing over the steady, forceful rhythm section. Shortly thereafter, Scheidt falls into lockstep playing with the others, firing off his words in rhythmic, meditative fashion, like a possessed shaman. Minutes pass, the tempo slows to a crawl, and the rhythm section drops out, leaving a low rumbling sound and the gentle ebb of waves, alongside Aaron Reiseberg's rubbery bass lines and Scheidt's ruminations on self—until the band comes crashing back for the finale. Perhaps this is what Om would sound like if Al Cisneros popped a Vicodin or two after an intense yoga session, cranked the low-end distortion up to 11, and let completely loose with his latest band.
By the time the final song, "Adrift in the Ocean," comes around, YOB have built up a sky-high framework of tension through repetition. The song starts to move through interweaving bass and guitar lines—sinewy and complex, sounding like an instrumental outtake from Tool's Lateralus. (I liked Lateralus.) Once the doom strikes in full force, Scott Kelly of Neurosis makes his second guest appearance on the album, trading spiritually prescient lines with Scheidt: "To the universe / we send a reflection." Meanwhile, the rhythm section encircles the monster riff at the song's center like a pack of bloodthirsty wolves. By the time Scheidt strikes with a searing solo at the song's end, I cannot help but declare that Atma is YOB's strongest work to date.
These 11 excellent pieces hint at the ideal image of the motor car; one shrouded in the mystical allure of desire and personal freedom. There are no traces of potholes, gridlock, murder, accident, or low-speed chase. Even the short ode to (notoriously congested) "The 405" has the impressionistic beauty of an orchestra of very faint car horns. Elsewhere, synths bubble gently under clean, driving bass lines and an occasional fuzzy chord low in the mix hits like a distant wave heard on a coastal drive in an open-top car. On "The 57" gorgeous soft guitar creates a musical landscape that is part polluted sunshiny perfection, part neon heaven. The music throbs with a gliding, cooperative movement akin to "Autobahn" rather than the bouncy optimism of, say, "Route 66." Xavier creates uncluttered, shimmering, cruise-controlled moods, by lightly and smoothly applying drum machines, guitar, field recordings, bass, casiotone, organ, and synth. The moods are pleasantly familiar but as unnatural as a passing world, seen through glass.
Released on cassette, CA 80’s-90’s makes me wish to drive in California again (and for a tape-player in the car).
While 2010 was an insanely productive year for Chicago's Locrian, 2011 has been relatively quiet: other than the two releases with Horseback, this single is the only thing that’s been released. Mixing a Popol Vuh cover on one side with an original piece on the other, the result is an all too brief example of the band excelling at what they do best.
"Dort Ist Der Weg" is the band at their most "rock," I would say, and I mean that as a total compliment.Rather than their more abstract work, this is rather straight forward:Steven Hess' steady drumming, glacial synths by Terence Hannum, and alternating dissonant and melodic guitar by Andre Foisy.With female vocals provided by an uncredited performer (possibly Hannum's wife Erica, who has contributed on other works), it has all of the cold precision of the best krautrock, but an inviting, memorable sound to it that stays faithful to the original version while still going in its own direction.
The flip side, "Frozen in Ash," is more traditional Locrian, with Foisy's rapid-fire blackened guitars and Hannum's effected, pained screams.However, a bit past the half way mark, the harshness is balanced with clear acoustic guitar chords and subtle keyboard punctuations.The combination of noise and melody eventually builds to a dramatic climax before quietly fading away.
With the Popol Vuh cover channeling their more "rock" oriented Territories album, and "Frozen in Ash" capturing the dark, foreboding caverns of The Crystal World, this brief single really acts as a brilliant statement of purpose for the band, really emphasizing their ample strengths.
Mixing an unabashed appreciation for the alternative scene of the early to mid 1990s, Boston's Soccer Mom have a familiar, but not derivative sound that arouses nostalgia without being stuck in the past.
Putting this EP on, I was instantly reminded of that post-Nirvana world of alternative that briefly existed before it became commercially viable.The sort of music that was played on the original incarnation of 120 Minutes:the residuals of jangly '80s melodies and the feedback and distortion that bands like Loop did so well.
"Salty Wyoming," for example, pushes a bit of that early REM jangle with outbursts of tremolo-laden guitar squall that, at the time, were very different scenes, but here the two sides come together perfectly, resulting in a catchy song that feels familiar, yet retains its own identity.
Other tracks, like "Celebrity Unrest," are a bit more adventurous:after a protracted, chugging instrumental intro, vocals appear briefly, only to lead to the song fragmenting itself, leaving traces of feedback and deliberate guitar melodies behind before launching together once again.
The atmospheric "Unwanted Sounds" also strikes a delicate balance, with a rather pretty ambient backing juxtaposed with rapid-fire drums and overdriven bass.Similarly, the initially skeletal structure of "Southern Bells" becomes fleshed out with sheets of caustic guitar that just as quickly pull away to its original sparseness.
While I usually go for harsher, more aggressive sounds, this debut EP manages to bring in just the right amount of ugly noise with a catchy framework.Coupled with that warm, inviting feeling that reminds me of watching the VHS tapes of 120 Minutes after school on Monday afternoons, there was a lot to enjoy on here.While '90s nostalgia seems to be rushing in unabated, Soccer Mom isn’t riding on that current alone, instead they’re channeling the past while still focusing on music more than trends.
Compiled from various limited sources, this two disc compilation captures a distinct period in Anthony Mangicapra's art, all recorded while he was living in Eureka, California. Even though they are from the same relative time, there is a distinct variety in sounds and textures. Never in the two-plus hour span does the work begin to drag, which is a rare feat in compilations such as this.
Mangicapra's work is quite unique, though there does seem to be some unity with the likes of NWW and some of Coil's more esoteric, ritualistic output.The pieces on here are just so multifaceted, sometimes mixing droning tones with textural studies and even a little bit of "traditional" music, such as the combination of sounds on "Secrets from a Silk Purse."With what sounds like piano being piped in from across the hall, there's a balance of raw, high frequency tones and heavily reverberated crashes of unknown origin coming together.
Other pieces have a bit less of the maximalist approach going on, but the mood is never hindered by a reduced sonic palette.Both "Departure of the Icicle Man" and "Everything Gets Devoured, Eventually" focus more on deep, rattling bass tones and a more subtle sense of fluctuation, both slowly slithering along to create a distinctly dark, menacing mood.
The darkness that is exemplified on these two tracks are present throughout all of the pieces, but it is never the main focus.Rather than wallowing in malevolent or depressing moods, it is simply another ingredient in the work.It’s actually quite overt in "In the Distance, it Shimmers," though:violent, aggressive crashes and shattering glass erratically interrupt the otherwise sparse ambience surrounding them.It is jarring and disquieting, to say the least.
While picking favorites is a fool's game, I did find myself most impressed with the pieces that precariously balance pure chaos and traditional "music."Processed field recordings provide an abstract foil to the more plaintive guitar playing on "The Broken Windows of a Fertile World," which is overall pretty simple, especially when compared ot other pieces, but I found it quite effective.The messy, cut up voice fragments and bass guitar on "Sobering Peaks Backward Twins" are another good example of this, and together they weave this bizarre form of psychedelic music that sounds like no one else.
Whether going the musique concret route and using "instruments" such as ripping paper (on "Lacking a Cast Shadow") or putting thudding rhythms with synths and pure noise (on "The Self is an Onion Self"), Mangicapra's work is complex, idiosyncratic, and brilliantly diverse.Bits of noise, drone, krautrock, etc, can all be found here, and thankfully this material has been compiled, rather than being lost to the purgatory of limited formats.