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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Scott Ferguson has a unique voice. Of course, like fingerprints, every voice is unique to a degree. But Scott has found his voice, and conformed it to his introspectral lyrics. Whether it is hiding submerged beneath the shadows of etheric guitar work, or rising triumphant into the light above the steady tambourine pulse and murmur of electronics, the experience is haunting. Listening to this succinct EP is like brushing up with a ghost in the haunted Midwest landscape. While the machines of industry may be dead or dying, something invisible still moves among their rusted skeletons, in the empty homes. And now I can hear them.
Scott Ferguson has a unique voice. Of course, like fingerprints, every voice is unique to a degree. But Scott has found his voice, and conformed it to his introspectral lyrics. Whether it is hiding submerged beneath the shadows of etheric guitar work, or rising triumphant into the light above the steady tambourine pulse and murmur of electronics, the experience is haunting. Listening to this succinct EP is like brushing up with a ghost in the haunted Midwest landscape. While the machines of industry may be dead or dying, something invisible still moves among their rusted skeletons, in the empty homes. And now I can hear them.
The first song, "Slumber" has ominous portent, and is an esoteric homily to crows, doll houses, punctured lungs, and the long sleep of death. Propelled by driving guitar rhythms, courtesy of Sean Whitaker, who recorded and mixed the disc, and simple but effective drums, the piece fades out into a swirl of upper octave, hazy clarinet fritter. "Wise Wide O" begins with schizoid vocals bleeding from a telephone or cheap radio speaker. Some nice synth moments, mimicking a harps pluck, add a brighter tinge to dark lyrics, minor key finger picking, and dissonant drone, carrying over into the next song "Corpse Candles."
The centerpiece of the album, both literal and figurative, is "Archover." This is the song I find myself humming while at work, or running through my head while out on a walk. Compared to the other pieces it is stripped down, and finds the singer lingering over the words, sustaining them longer, holding the notes. The acoustic guitar is elegiac and the synth is somber. It is followed by a very brief number, consisting of distorted piano scales, and unintelligible whispers. "Stark Lots" emphasizes the drums more than any other track, as the cymbal is run through some kind of phase effect. Spacey electronic washes and bright colors give it a treatment that would work as the soundtrack for a latter day episode of the Twilight Zone.
This EP is a hopeful first utterance from Fosdyk Well. The group shows an adroit skill at songwriting and structure, adding many tenebrous elements which contribute to the tone of the seven songs as a whole. For my part, I’d like to listen to what they do on a full length album, with the hopes that they will be taking greater risks.
Since parting from Kranky after 2002's Trust, Low have been at a crossroads. Alan Sparhawk and Mimi Parker, the band's guiding lights, have experimented with Low's blueprint, slipping into costume as a proper rock band on The Great Destroyer, then deconstructing that sound on Drums and Guns. Both are littered with great songs, but sound restless and unfocused in contrast with Low's previous work—the distinctive, low-key beauty that had drawn me into their world was often missing, at odds with their forays into dissonance and distortion. For their third Sub Pop album, Low have discovered a wonderful middle ground, merging the simplicity of their early recordings with the scaled-up production of their last two albums.
C'mon leaves behind the tense political overtones of Drums and Guns and the overblown, fuzzy distortion of The Great Destroyer, taking lessons learned from those production techniques and applying them to ten cohesive, elegiac songs that, at many points, recall Low's earliest work. C'mon was recorded at Sacred Heart Studio, a converted Catholic church where the band recorded 2002's Trust, but the production is warmer, more inviting, and the songs have less empty space. The songs are supplemented with pipe organ, bells, slide guitar and ornate embellishments, coupled with lyrics about love, family, security and spirituality. Truly, this is Low's most mature and introspective work to date. Its closest antecedent might be "In Metal," the phenomenal ode that Parker sung to her first child a decade ago: "Wish I could keep your little body / in metal."
The fingerprints of Sparhawk and Parker's two children are all over C'mon, and its themes frequently center on family and parenthood—but Low aren't about to pen lullabies without any tension. Opener "Try to Sleep" sounds like a sweetly sung prayer for a newborn with its gentle, music-box melody, but holds an ominous twist: "You try to sleep / but then you never wake up." Recent live staple "$20," which the band has played on tour recently, sounds like a laundry list of a caretaker's protective wishes for a child: "A heart that won't burst / and lips that don't thirst / I thought of you first / my love is for free, my love / my love is for free." The lovely "Nightingale" is more conventional, finding Sparhawk and Parker soothing a young child ("Oh nightingale, don't you cry") to a gorgeous, impeccably restrained arrangement. Their kids even appear on the final song, "Something's Turning Over," echoing Alan's "La la la la la" refrain that closes the acoustic guitar-based song after he warns them both: "Get out while you're young / just because you never hear their voices / don't mean they won't kill you in your sleep."
Like Low's prior Sub Pop albums, C'mon houses several of the best songs the band has recorded in recent memory. One is "Witches," which embellishes evocative guitar chords with a banjo that appears mid-song before Sparhawk begins quoting Kool Keith in the song's coda: "All you guys out there trying to act like Al Green / you're all weak." Alongside Alan's father teaching him to fight off witches with a baseball bat—again, a reference to parental protectiveness—it is a brazen and bizarre combination that works beautifully. "Especially Me" is a Parker-sung stunner that pairs a seemingly backwards-looped guitar line with one of her greatest chorus melodies. Several songs recall the minimalistic arrangements of the band's Vernon Yard and Kranky years: the stark vocal melody of "Done," for example, is a dead-ringer for "Will the Night," from 1999's Secret Name. The difference between the two is guitar virtuoso Nels Cline, who guests on slide guitar. (An avowed fan, he invited Low to open for Wilco a few years back, sitting in on lap steel occasionally.) Here, Cline's appearance sells the song: his contribution is restrained and mixed subtly, but effective in imbuing "Done" with its own lifeblood.
Later, Cline also guests on the album's penultimate track, "Nothing but Heart"—one of Low's best songs to date. Sparhawk sets the stage with a few seconds of fiery guitar playing, which cuts out to reveal a single verse: "I would be your king / but you wanna be free / confusion and art / I'm nothing but heart." He then repeats the final words ad infinitum while the song builds for eight minutes: Parker joins Sparhawk on vocals; Cline adds an evocative slide guitar line at first, then starts to let loose, reminiscent of Neil Young's more unhinged moments; volume and tension increase all around, Cline and Sparhawk feeding off each other's energy. As the singing becomes increasingly urgent, Parker steps back from the repeated mantra ("I'm nothing but heart") for her own verse that's hard to make out—it's buried deep in the mix—except for a few words: "Remember that all we are is what we love." Then, slowly, it all fades to black. "Nothing but Heart" is Low at the height of their powers, transcendence via epic build and repetition—a song so finely composed and executed that I haven't listened without slightly welling up with tears each time I hear it.
Admittedly, Low are my favorite band going—have been for a decade. I cited Drums and Guns as my favorite album of 2007 when it was released, but C'mon couldn't be more different in its approach. That said, I have played this new album into the ground and cannot find fault with it. Nearly two decades into their career, Sparhawk and Parker have come far from the soft-spoken newcomers who released I Could Live in Hope back in 1994. Much as I love their early recordings—and truly, each of their albums—C'mon is a step forward, exactly what I would ask from Low in 2011: magnificent arrangements, carefully embellished production, inviting warmth infusing each song. Like a fine Bordeaux, Low continue to improve with age. Moreover, C'mon is genuinely moving, accomplished, and brimming over with love and feeling—nothing but heart, indeed.
(Note: Those who purchase the C'mon CD/LP at independent record stores this week may receive the bonus C'mon Acoustic EP. Its five songs are bare-bones recordings, just guitar and vocals, and structurally identical to the album versions. Those faring best are the songs that remain stripped down on C'mon, such as "Nightingale." Inessential, yes—but a testament to the gorgeous, layered production that Low and Matt Beckley got right on the album proper.)
In one way, this 7" is a departure from C Spencer Yeh’s lovely, wild, textured, drone experiments as Burning Star Core and from his work with everyone from Comets on Fire and Tony Conrad to John Sinclair. Yet, these two engaging songs, with their satisfyingly oblique lyrics, also confirm his interest in the human voice and in the studio as a compositional tool.
Those familiar with some of CS Yeh’s previous music may refuse to believe that he has created this calm, light music. Yeh is very prolific and over the past few years has used a range of tools such as treated loops, computer patches and violin across a range of formats including radio, cassette, 8-track and vinyl. His Burning Star Core releases have received enormous praise from Julian Cope (a lover of sonic wildness) with Papercuts Theatre (edited by Yeh over several years from 60 live recordings) compared favorably to The Faust Tapes and Arc. Equally, Lunar Roulette by Sych (the new project with Yeh, Wally Shoup, Chris Corsano and Bill Horist) is awash in dense free-form improvisation.
So having such a renowned free-form sonic improviser put out "In The Blink Of An Eye" and "Condo Stress" is a bit like Jackson Pollock coming around to your house to build you a very nice wooden chair—and just as satisfying. I reckon, though, that roots of a more song-based venture are clear in Yeh's work; for a portion of it has explored the "most original and dangerous instrument"—the voice. Two examples: his lengthy contribution to a WFMU radio program (a fake morning radio car drive listen) leans heavily on voice, with ads, announcements and singalong hits. Also, his piece "Slow Sex in A Fast Economy" aims for hypnotic intensity from repetitions of treated voice.
This is Yeh’s first venture into something which could be classed as "songwriting" since three titles issued in 2002 and is quite an advance on the earlier songs; with a more coherent structure and a softer, brighter production. Both have accessible rhythm and melody as well as some of the undefinable magic which can transform mystical sketches into good pop music. Both are also very different and have an atmosphere similar to traces of Eno's earliest solo records. I am obsessed with these two songs. They possess quality which harks back to the last golden age of 7" vinyl singles; a lost time when A sides were played on the radio and (if any good) B sides heard often on jukeboxes and at home.
"Blink" seems layered like a sound collage and is an insistent foot-tapper vaguely suggestive of a much mellower version of spiky Gang of Fouresque funk. Yeh’s husky and falsetto vocals flipping between alluring images of fleeting happiness and warnings of regret. "Condo" is a lovely uncluttered piece which initially sounds like John Cale playing piano with one hand tied behind his back and his eyes closed. I am fascinated by the cryptic lyrics and ambiguous emotional atmosphere. The narrator appears to blur gender, lives, and scenes to such an extent that I am reminded of Julio Cortazar’s short story "The Night Face Up" which switches between a motorcycle accident in the 20th century and a victim of human sacrifice in Aztec civilization. In both cases my attempts to deduce which scenario is reality and which is a dream eventually just give way to pure enjoyment.
Scott Ferguson has a unique voice. Of course, like fingerprints, every voice is unique to a degree. But Scott has found his voice, and conformed it to his introspectral lyrics. Whether it is hiding submerged beneath the shadows of etheric guitar work, or rising triumphant into the light above the steady tambourine pulse and murmur of electronics, the experience is haunting. Listening to this succinct EP is like brushing up with a ghost in the haunted Midwest landscape. While the machines of industry may be dead or dying, something invisible still moves among their rusted skeletons, in the empty homes. And now I can hear them.
Hunter has a deep, throaty voice that fills the air. On "Paint a Babe," she drawls out the lyrics while a chorus moans -almost yawns- in response. Wacky title aside, the lyrics are garden variety summer imagery, recounting bike rides and lazy afternoons at the park. The delivery is what sets these songs apart. The fact that Hunter is a real, honest-to-god Texan gives credibility to her twang, but not all the songs rely only on her laid-back charm. "A Goblin, A Goblin" uses vivid personification and Hunter's skillful violin playing to sketch a tender picture of humanity's misfortune.
The remainder of the EP is rather spare, relying on Hunter's lyrics and her steady but unremarkable finger-picking. It's strange to ask more polish from a folk singer, but the added arrangements heighten the impact of the first two songs Hunter's lyrics are more vivid and well developed on the demos, but her voice is hidden by the lower recording quality. These songs might be of interest to fans seeking rawer versions than what's on There is No Home, but without that context, I would rather hear the album tracks.
The mysterious Burial had the jump on everyone in dubstep this year, delivering the burgeoning underground scene's most anticipated artist album months in advance of anyone else. However, based on the virulent virility of Skream's unpretentious, nearly eponymous debut, I suspect I, and many others, will be more inclined to listen to this album far more regularly.
A dancefloor prodigy, Skream doesn't do the former's recurrent darkness and menacing esoterica. Instead, as famously illustrated in the DJ mixes of his that I have either downloaded or experienced firsthand, Ollie Jones brandishes melody and bass as if they were the deadliest of weapons, though more like a principled honor-bound samurai than a brutal for-hire sadist, and over these fourteen absolute bangers he leaves no doubt of his abilities. The young man painstakingly manipulates woofer-rattling low-end yet also crafts infectious hooks that furiously burrow into the ear and straight into the brain, assuring instantaneous recognition on the mandatory rewind. His breakout single, "Midnight Request Line," did just that, and its inclusion alone makes Skream! a vital purchase.
There are many staples here that, stylistically, define a good swath of the thriving genre, from the gorgeous stepper "Dutch Flowerz" to the warbly "Stagger." Beyond these imitable templates lie several delightful permutations and creative "Rutten" updates "Rottan" from Skreamizm Volume 1 with re-recorded flute melody and an extended sample of the infamous Spliff Politics speech from the film Human Traffic. Proper two-step, a style I first embraced at the height of its popularity in 2000, makes an appearance on "Summer Dreams," a jazzy slice of deep summery hedonism able to combat these dropping autumnal temperatures. If that weren't enough, "Check It," a dubwise collaboration with the almighty Warrior Queen, takes things to a ridiculously high level. Borrowing elements from Mary Wells' classic "My Guy," the dancehall diva sings of a good man over a sizzling reggae-esque beat that simply wont quit.
A lone misstep, albeit a slight one, "Tapped" assuredly would have been better off free of input from Roll Deep affiliate JME both lyrically and vocally, though this raucous tune itself can hardly be held back by some pesky grime MC. Beyond this, Skream's bright, dub-inflected and garage-informed tunes have massive potential appeal and this approachable dubstep album, if distributed and promoted suitably, should make converts quicker than a Billy Graham revival. And if you didn't catch that last reference, it's really for the best.
The primitive sounding blues being played on White Man at the Door is similar to Tom Waits or Nick Cave’s early excursions with The Bad Seeds. The Lost Domain never match those artists for power and originality but like those artists they do give modern blues playing a swift kick. It is the dark mythological blues that only came into existence when white people came onto the scene (something that is alluded to in the title of the album), something that has been done to death but can still provide the odd surprise. By no means is this a masterpiece but this album at least had some life as the band puts their own spin on the blues.
The six recordings included here were started four years ago and never finished. On some of the pieces it is impossible to tell that they are incomplete, elsewhere the shortcomings are obvious. However, the sound of the record is always flawless. All the pieces sound like they were recorded live in a large empty room, the reverb spilling with atmosphere. It’s possible to differentiate the physical distance between the players and the microphone; it is a very natural sounding record. Granted it is rough sounding but the roughness of the recording fits the songs like a dirty glove.
As nice as the recordings sound this doesn’t hide the fact that these are unfinished songs. “Boll Weevil” meanders and dithers for its duration, going nowhere. It sounds like a demo where the band might take one or two details from to make a new song rather than a stand alone piece. The same can be said of a couple of other pieces, they’re the kind of thing that would be of interest if the songs had been completed to see how they had evolved. Instead of evolution, much of the music here sounds extinct. On the other side of things, there are a couple of pieces that sound great as they are. “In My Time of Dying” is a long and repetitive piece with lots of fire and conviction in The Lost Domain’s playing to keep me listening. The simple beat and hollering strip the music and the emotion down to its bare essentials, it is a cathartic fifteen minutes.
White Man at the Door is an average album with moments of brilliance. Alas these moments don’t come often enough as the incomplete nature of the recordings show the songs as bare skeletons without enough flesh or vitality to constitute a song of their own. I’d be interested to hear some finished material by The Lost Domain to compare to this disc but as it stands it’s not something I’ll come back to too often.
With the name Hulk and a sleeve color of an angry Bruce Banner I was expecting this album to be muscular and dominating but instead it is subdued and peaceful. The title of the album is apt, as there is a serene, supernatural feeling permeating the recordings. It is sad yet deeply comforting music.
Silver Thread of Ghosts rarely makes much of a fuss. It is music that sits easily into the background becoming a presence that radiates gently from across the room instead of music that is constantly distracting. Sometimes the music reaches out like a spirit to touch the listener, when it does it is almost shocking. “The Moon Versus the Sea” is one such spirit, the rich sound of the cello and the sudden stop/start structure to the piece is like a slap in the face after the first three pieces which are beautiful but fade into the background. They’re by no means bad; “Star Bed” uses recordings of many everyday rhythmic sounds like windshield wipers and waves lapping on the shore, sounds that are normally ignored and only when attention is drawn to them does their charm become apparent. Hulk do this admirably.
The album is consistent in quality and theme. Only once did I find their music cloying and that is on the mercifully brief piece “8.52am Goodbye.” Apart from this one blemish, the album is wonderful. As well as having a good ear for environmental sounds, they also have a good ear for songwriting. The melodies and rhythms found on Silver Thread of Ghosts are a delight to listen to. They’re not a radical rewriting of music as we know it but they delicate and pretty which suits the mood perfectly. Pieces like “We Ran” and “Mytikas” form the backbone of the second half of the album, showing Hulk at their finest. As the all too brief album comes to a close I can’t wait for it to finish so I can play it again.
Silver Thread of Ghosts sounds like the antithesis of the group’s name: it is soft and sensual. The music is exquisite; the songs are the perfect length, rarely breaking the five minute mark. This gives the pieces enough time to breath but stops them becoming overworked.
Like all great seven inch releases, this Volcano the Bear disc crams a few of this band’s multiple facets into one value for money package. These three utterly independent cuts highlight a band that never seems to settle into a style, even within the constraints of a single piece of music.
Building in ritualistic whispers and steely scrapings, the title track is a moody but fragile creation. Ear pinching whines that burrow into the head are reassured into silence by the other elements. Hidden room piano notes pierce rushing cymbal runs and tape manipulation, providing the song’s core. Volcano the Bear’s ability to shape formless collections of elements without imposing a strict structure is one of their greatest talents; their prescient live playing coming to fruition in their live recordings.
The plucked strings and the thin violin investigations of the “The Ark” run contemporaneously, fuelling the possibility of cross pollinated melody. Purposefully fumbling over these options, ostracising structure, the high single toned horn parts lead the song to is end.
The minute-long closer, “The Pincher,” takes things out on a full of beans high. The sambuca and beer studio party that that birthed the song leaves it swinging unsettlingly between the headphones like a woozy, randy drunk. There’s more than a double of shot of Tom Waits on the breath of this track. Being as catchy as it is this cut-up-and-sellotaped ramshackle bash-along could do with being a few minutes longer.
Another in a long line of brilliantly inspired group (and superb solo releases), Birth of Streissand shows their collective spirit has no sign of dimming.
For a duo that started out as VU and JAMC copyists nearly a decade ago, the Raveonettes have progressed a long way. They came close to perfecting their bubblegum-sweet melodies and blasts of razor-sharp guitar hooks on their last album, 2009's In and Out of Control. Smartly, their new album doesn't look to one-up past accomplishments—it takes a hard left into uncharted territory.