This week's series of episodes features images from Asheville, NC, which was devastated by Hurricane Helene this past week.
Please consider donating to the various organizations in and around the area.
Episode 714 features music by Pan•American, Maria Somerville, Patrick Cowley, The Gaslamp Killer and Jason Wool, Der Stil, Astrid Sonne, Reymour, Carlos Haayen Y Su Piano Candeloso, Harry Beckett, Tarwater, Mermaid Chunky, and Three Quarter Skies.
Episode 715 has Liquid Liquid, Kim Deal, Severed Heads, Los Agentes Secretos, mHz, Troller, Mark Templeton, Onkonomiyaki Labs, Deadly Headley, Windy and Carl, Sunroof, and claire rousay.
Episode 716 includes Actors, MJ Guider, The Advisory Circle, The Bug, Alessandro Cortini, The Legendary Pink Dots, Chihei Hatakeyama and Shun Ishiwaka, Arborra, Ceremony, Ueno Takashi, Organi, and Saagara.
It is fitting that I already mentioned Joy Division, as Peter Hook once saved an Ike Yard show at the Ukrainian National Home by stepping in as a replacement soundman (the venue's own soundman was completely ruining the simmering subtlety of their sound).According to Stuart Argabright, the soundman had made it clear that he hated their band, yet I can easily imagine that achieving Ike Yard's aesthetic of thick bass, buried vocals, hallucinatory guitar and synth textures, and austere, dub-inspired drumming in a live setting would be an exasperating challenge for anyone (particularly for someone unfamiliar with the band's vision).Without the right balance of clarity, space, and visceral bass rumble, it is not hard to imagine Ike Yard's unconventional songs falling completely flat, as they are more of a thoughtful, precarious architecture of complementary textures than anything that would pass for conventional music (melodies and hooks were very much anathema to the Ike Yard vision).Predictably, bassist Kenny Compton was already the star of the show even at this early stage, as his propulsive riffing is the bedrock of everything on Night After Night, though Argabright's unusual, minimalist percussion played quite a significant role in shaping these songs too.That is especially true on the opening title piece, which is essentially just a driving bass line, a thumping kick drum groove, and a deadpan monologue from Argabright.That said, the contributions of guitarist Michael Diekmann and Fred Szymanski (synth) are considerably more prominent on this EP than they are the full-length.Admittedly, neither quite brings a unique voice to the opening salvo, but their playing gets significantly more compelling as the EP unfolds.
Obviously, I cannot fault Ike Yard for evolving into a considerably more distinctive and minimalist entity by the time they recorded their album for Factory, but it is worth noting that Night After Night's "Sense of Male" could easily have been the inspiration for a similarly great alternate direction.In it, the focus is shifted away from Compton's bass line and onto snarls of guitar noise and eruptions of warped, siren-like synths.As such, it feels significantly more colorful and explosive than the seething, monochromatic fare to come, though Argabright's austere, off-kilter percussion remains as unconventional as ever.Similarly stellar is "Motiv," which marries a thick, biting bass groove with burbling synth tones that call to mind a hallucinatory jungle scene.Admittedly, "Motiv" lacks vocals, so it perhaps does not qualify as a fully formed song, but it is nevertheless an extremely appealing vamp.Argabright returns to the microphone for a strong closer though, as "Cherish" combines his bloodless, elliptical vocals with an insistent bass groove, slashes of guitar noise, and a chirping tour de force of unusual synth flourishes.That makes for a collision of aesthetics not commonly found elsewhere, approximating some sort of deep, fragmented psychedelia equally informed by industrial music and Jamaican dub.While I am not sure it quite scales the same impressive heights as the earlier "Sense of Male," "Cherish" is an illustrative example of Ike Yard was such a singular entity: they were obviously listening to much cooler music than most of their peers and had an uncanny knack for assimilating disparate influences in appealing new ways.I suspect they probably had some very cool non-musical inspirations as well, given how dramatically and quickly they evolved.
Obviously, plenty of merely good or somewhat unusual releases are hailed as newly crucial "lost classics" these days, but Night After Night is the rare exception that has arguably earned such high praise.There is an asterix though, as this EP went largely unheard upon its release, then was rendered nearly irrelevant by the full-length that followed.If Night After Night had had been better distributed and reached more ears in the US and UK during that brief window, I suspect most post-punk fans would have been playing it in heavy rotation along with their Gang of Four, Cabaret Voltaire, and Joy Division records, as it features a strong batch of songs and the band's stark, brutalist, and post-apocalyptic broken funk was (and is) unique and visceral.Night-era Ike Yard were still a bit ahead of their time, of course, but they nevertheless sounded more or less like a good post-punk band comfortably within the bounds of the zeitgeist (perhaps akin to a menacing, subversive mirror-world version of A Certain Ratio).It is hard to imagine how Ike Yard's career might have unfolded if they had stayed on that track, but the exceptional thing about Ike Yard is that they almost immediately jumped onto an even more fascinating and almost post-human vision with their LP, leaving Night After Night in a strange no-man's land in which it suddenly resembled the Peel Sessions for a better album by a better band rather than a great, stand-alone debut in its own right.It deserved a better fate than that.At least it will now find itself in heavy rotation in my life four decades later as a somewhat Pyrrhic example of delayed cosmic justice.Obviously, if I could only have one Ike Yard album, it would still be the self-titled LP, but it is damn nice to now be able to alternate that with its almost-as-good predecessor.
Cardinal Fuzz and Feeding Tube Records are delighted to be able to bring to you the much anticipated vinyl pressing of Dark Country Magic from this wonderful Maine trio (Quinnisa making her first intentional effort with "Moo Hoo" on this release).
Caleb Mukerin and Colleen Kinsella have been key personages of the Portland sonic underground as members of the cosmically-shifting Cerberus Shoals and the folkily psychedelic Fire on Fire before forming the more personal and hermetic Big Blood back in 2006. The band's multi-phasic discography has thus far reminded people of everything from the Comus to Portishead to Julee Cruise at different moments, yet none of these thumbnails comes close to capturing the intimacy and directness of their recordings where they take things to a higher plane of personal expression.
In Dark Country Magic haunting effects and experimental sounds combine with wailing fuzzed-up garage folk anthems and twisted poetic freak-folk as lyrical layers peel away endlessly, tiny amps weep in pain, crude percussion booms thunderous, and ragged, beautiful hooks unfurl straight out of the void. On "Coming Home Pt.3" Kinsella’s quivering bewitching vocals ask you to succumb to the hauntingly melancholic drift while acoustics strum quietly up front before Dark Country Magic's playful closer "Moo-Hoo," where Quinnisa performs a children’s story. The combination is head spinning and gloriously original, but will be immediately identifiable as Big Blood by anyone who knows the band's music.
Since 2016, I maintained there would be the advent of a new mantra: "Make Music Great Again." Sometimes the reference became more specific, replaced with Punk or Deathrock depending on my mood, but the message remained the same: the impetus for music with a message would be opened. We’ve seen legends returning to take advantage of the era to release new work, so there was a mix of both surprise and lack thereof when, completely unannounced, legendary punk band X dropped ALPHABETLAND, their first studio release in 27 years (and the first with their original line-up in the past 35 years) to coincide with the 40th anniversary of their classic 1980 debut Los Angeles. A fresh blast from the past that looks to the future, X come racing out of the gate with the same ferociousness and insistent melody of any of their classics.
It is worth checking out the cover of ALPHABETLAND, a work from L.A. artist Wayne White titled Curdled American Dream. The most prominent visual is the brightly painted title, primary colors in large block letters, with a large X underneath. This may well be the only thing a casual viewer sees. A closer look reveals the brightly colored title is worn, with an underlying scene showing a run-down rural house in the background. The house sits near an overgrown yard filled with broken boats and wagons that lie near an idyllic pond, while to the side, men prepare to fish, and a small gathering of people can be seen on the home’s porch. The grandiosity of the letters proclaim the positivity of the "American Dream," but closer investigation reveals the dream in decline, with X as the messenger.
The band is said to have written most of the tracks in the 18 months leading up to its release, but the messages here are timeless. Probably the most poignant of all tracks is "Water and Wine" which gets to the meat of the matter: "The divine that defines us / The evil that divides us / There’s a heaven & a hell / And there’s a live to tell / Who has to wait at the end of the line / Who gets water & who gets wine." ALPHABETLAND touches on some powerful topics throughout, starting out with the title track that seems to address gentrification and the dangerous changes that come with it. X deliver smart punk lyrics for tough topics: the quest for individual American liberty regardless of the consequences; powerlessness in the face of authority; squelching of the freedom to protest; the influence of media; support for the "Me Too" movement.
Not entirely political, X also takes the time to be nostalgic, taking time to reflect on their past as in "Star Chambered." Closing track "All the Time in the World" has a sense of finality about it, a heartfelt track that has X looking back on friends and family who have gone before, and touches on why the band still does what they do:
"And why do we still care enough about Or even too much To make words In the hope that someone in the future will hear History is just one lost language after another, After another And when they’re all taken together We still can’t decipher the past Or decode the future We’re just lost without a map
We are dust It’s true And to dust we shall return Me and you But it was fun while it lasted
All the time in the world Turns out Not to be that much"
A collaborative project between guitarist/composer Michael Pisaro-Lu and Zizia (the duo of Amber Wolfe Rounds and Jarrod Fowler), Pisaura has debuted with quite a complex album, both conceptually and compositionally. Constructed from field recordings and found sounds and composition strategies guided by astrological maps, it is a dense and intricate work from a conceptual standpoint, but also a fascinating one that has secrets that are never fully revealed.
I first listened to Asteraceae intentionally avoiding any specific information regarding its construction, because beyond the cover art and packaging of an album, I like to focus on just the audio elements at first.For all its conceptual depth, the sleeve of the disc is kept rather minimal:a detail of the hybrid celestial/geographical map that Pisaura created for the project with a tiny bit of the written score hidden in the art. A full explanation of the work, as well as the extensive list of audio sources, can be found at http://zizia.xyz/aster.html.
There are a lot of traditional and electronic instruments used by the trio throughout the album, but the most overt element would be field recordings.For example, there is a melodica passage that appears heavily processed (but perceptible) throughout opening piece "ht01 °41 suruaT norihC," but the primary focus is on a multitude of quiet, hushed elemental sounds, including insects and other organisms.Sampled spider recordings (from the publicly accessible Ohio University's Borror Lab of Bioacoustics) also appear frequently throughout the entirety of the album, which is fitting given that Pisaura is a species of spider and also likely the first time I have specifically heard an arachnid featured on a CD.
The trio’s restrained and heavily processed use of other instruments is also a fascinating element of Asteraceae.Treated guitar is restructured into shimmering bell-like melodies throughout "Sun Sagittarius 3° 5th" that is fleshed out with plant percussion and other less specific field recordings.For other pieces, like "Mars Aquarius 9° 7th," the focus is on layers of combined guitar performances, resulting in a pleasant churn that is more of a traditional, though well executed, take on darker ambient sounds.Drawn from the same sources, "Saturn Sagittarius 18° 5th" is a beautiful suite of expansive tones, enriched by some subtle field recordings of water.
The bulk of this disc showcases the less conventional sound sources, however.There are some digital interference sounds and drifting electronics for "ht5 °81 suirattigaS nrutaS" but beyond that it is a series of water and other nature recordings primarily, none of which are too obvious.The back-to-back sequenced short pieces, "Pluto Libra 17° 4th" and "ht5 °51 suirattigaS nrutaS" work perfectly in their contrast with one another.The former sounds to be a far off metallic clatter of indistinct origin, while the latter is a warm, organic piece that feels far more inviting than the chaotic work that preceded it."st1 °92 recnaC tnadnecsA" fits with the organic theme as well:opening with a wet, wobbling crunch that quickly subsides, there is a strangely natural tinge to the electronics and droning tones that pervade.
Interestingly enough, considering its highly structured and deliberately composed nature, Pisaura has also intended this disc to be played fully on shuffle mode.Which explains the multitude of shorter pieces that appear throughout the middle portion of the disc, with the more dense compositions bookending the album.Much like Gescom's MiniDisc release, the juxtaposition of a slew of short, sparse works presented in varying contexts give an added level of unpredictability to the album.With the sounds being sometimes consistent, sometimes disparate, having them sequenced in an unexpected way adds a new layer to the disc.
Being one of the most conceptually deep albums I have heard in a while, Asteraceae sounds as if it could be a daunting experience, but it is anything but.First listening to it as I would any other album, and then going back again following the "guide" that is posted online, it added to my appreciation for what I was hearing, as well as answered some questions I had regarding sound sources and the like.However, there remains a significant amount of mystery and ambiguity, which is exactly the sort of thing I want to hear on this type of record.
This unusual and inspired collaboration between a Finnish experimentalist and one of Jamaican music's most iconic rhythm sections has its roots in an even more unlikely previous pairing: 2018's Nordub album on the venerable OKeh label. On that album, Sasu Ripatti's role was primarily that of a producer for a melodic and accessible jazz/dub hybrid, but the very different 500-Push-Up documents the far more cacophonous and freewheeling side of their collaboration that resulted from Ripatti's move into the driver's seat. Moreover, this second reunion occurred at a particularly interesting time, as Vladislav Delay's harsher recent work is light years away from Ripatti's heyday as a dub techno producer. While I am sure that a version of this album featuring the Vladislav Delay of the early 2000s would have been absolutely wonderful as well, the less disparate aesthetics of the participants would have likely led towards considerably more familiar territory than this one does, so maybe it is for the best that this union did not occur until now. At its best, 500-Push-Up sounds almost like it is carving out an new genre that blurs the lines between hip-hop beat tapes, fluid reggae bass lines, and hallucinatory electronic chaos.
While it is admittedly still an uncommon event, there have been several recent collaborations between contemporary electronic/experimental artists and luminaries from the golden age of Jamaican dub and it is always intriguing to see which direction they head in.The reason for that is quite simple: in this case, Sly and Robbie have a resume that stretches back to classic fare like The Upsetters, The Aggrovators, and The Revolutionaries, but the pair did not remain frozen in time and have continued to evolve over the ensuing decades, exploring other genres and collaborating with artists as varied as Grace Jones, Yoko Ono, Bill Laswell, and Bob Dylan.In short, Sly and Robbie have proven themselves to be a rather adaptable twosome with the one real constant being that they are excellent instrumentalists with a deep chemistry.Given that unquestionable and influential prowess as a tight rhythm section, Ripatti wisely decided to make Sly and Robbie's signature grooves the foundation for this project (as opposed to their production skills), visiting Kingston in early 2019 to record some bass and drum rhythms with the pair (as well as few field recordings and vocal passages).For the most part, Ripatti generally leaves those rhythms fairly unmolested, but it is primarily Robbie Shakespeare's bass playing that drives these songs and holds everything together, as Dunbar's drumming is sometimes deconstructed or enhanced with visceral industrial heft.The latter is most evident on pieces like "(520)" and "(519)," as the sounds of Dunbar's kit seem enswathed in a reverberant chaos of machine-like textures.The former approach is evident too, as the drums actually fall completely away by the end of "(519)," revealing quite a complex and hallucinatory sound collage lurking within its hum of industrial ambiance.
While I would not necessarily characterize it as a flaw with this album, it is worth noting that a significant part of classic Jamaican dub's appeal lies in the fact that producers were deconstructing and repurposing actual songs: it was the collision of strong hooks, melodies, and grooves with an experimental approach to composition that made the genre so unique and enjoyable.There are no such songs lurking at the heart of 500-Push-Up, so the relative success of these pieces tends to lie in how successfully Ripatti's electronic assault manages to fill that void, though sometimes the grooves are solid enough to carry the day on their own.Obviously, it would have been great if some label had both the resources and the will to enable this trio to devote themselves to a fully fleshed-out studio album of real songs with vocals and hooks, but Ripatti thankfully proved to be impressively resourceful in reshaping the trio's raw material alone in his studio in Finland.As such, 500-Push-Up is an absolute delight when it hits the mark.To my ears, that happens with roughly half of these songs, while the other half feels more like cool experiments that fall a bit short of truly catching fire.I suppose that ultimately makes this album a bit uneven and a comparatively minor entry in the discographies of all involved, but that does not detract from the exquisite pleasures of this one-off detour's high points.Moreover, 500-Push-Up reveals a welcome glimpse into the more loose and fun side of Ripatti's artistry, making this a comparatively accessible counterbalance to the wintry, abrasive vision realized earlier this year on Rakka.
William Basinski's reputation as the foremost producer of profound meditations on death and decay has long been established, but on his new album, Lamentations, he transforms operatic tragedy into abyssal beauty. More than any other work since The Disintegration Loops, there is an ominous grief throughout the album, and that sense of loss lingers like an emotional vapor.
Captured and constructed from tape loops and studies from Basinski's archives – dating back to 1979 – Lamentations is over forty years of mournful sighs meticulously crafted into songs. They are shaped by the inevitable passage of time and the indisputable collapsing of space – and their collective resonance is infinite and eternal.
Some bands struggle to transcend their initial mythos, those stories that introduce them to the public eye. But The Dead C is a notable exception. They appeared in 1986 under a cloud of mystery, their unconventional location (South Island, New Zealand) helping to fuel their erratic sound. Name-dropped through the nineties by groups like Sonic Youth and Yo La Tengo, they gained influence and acclaim but never strayed from their original mainlined performing technique, which can sound like chaos to the casual listener.
What kind of a world greets them and their new album Unknowns in 2020? New Zealand culture is better known throughout the world, not to mention a low-virus paradise. Yes, isolated as in the past, but this time for being a nation of efficacy in tackling a public health crisis. But what about the rest of us? The music of Mssrs. Robbie Yates, Bruce Russell and Michael Morley endures, partially because their errant sounds, once so alienating, now feel like they've been made flesh in a large part of the modern day world.
Continuing to delve inwards for inspiration with tin ears towards trends, styles and technique, The Dead C forge onward. Unpolished, dusty and gritty, these three have again taken two guitars and drums, a combo which has less to say than ever, and leave us stunned. Unknowns has Morley slurring over spiraling dissemblance, with tracks ricocheting from intense to assaultive to drained, yet consistently magnificent.
As reliable as ever, The Dead C are firmly grounded as an unassailable Truth.
I have to admit that I have always been somewhat confounded by stated The Ghost Box aesthetic of "artists exploring the misremembered musical history of a parallel world," as I have little nostalgia for hazily remembered '60s and '70s children’s television and a limited passion for the vintage sci-fi sounds of the BBC Radiophonic Workshop. In short, I had insufficient whimsy in my heart to properly appreciate anything that sounds like a retro-futurist alternate soundtrack for The Wicker Man. After fully immersing myself in this latest fairy-themed opus from label co-founder Jim Jupp, however, I am beginning to see the unique appeal of the willfully anachronistic collective. I am not sure if the changing world or my changing self ultimately led me to this point, but the idea of spending some time in a kitschy fever dream evocation of a cheaply constructed puppet world suddenly seems extremely appealing to me. Granted, The Gone Away still rubs me the wrong way during its more "vintage lounge music" moments, but it nevertheless feels both good and pure that Jupp is so single-mindedly focused on extracting genuine pathos from our weird, dated, and ostensibly ridiculous cultural memories.
If I had any doubts about whether or not I was projecting my own preconceptions of this project onto The Gone Away, they were immediately erased by the kooky and hallucinatory promotional video made by Sean Reynard's alter-ego Quentin Smirhes.In fact, I may have even read too much seriousness into Jupp's intent, though the teasing ambiguity of Belbury Poly is admittedly part of the appeal: even when it seems silly, that silliness is invariably delivered with real heart and sincerity.Probably, anyway.Only Jupp himself knows for sure.In any case, The Gone Away is the project's seventh full-length, yet marks a return to Belbury Poly's roots in a way, as Jupp departs from his more collaborative recent endeavors for an entirely solo affair.The other salient detail is that the album is inspired by the older, darker side of fairy-based folklore.It would be a stretch to call The Gone Away a dark album though, as Jupp's cheery eccentricity proves to be irrepressible.A few pieces do, however, take on a more somber or shadowy tone.The biggest surprise in that regard is "Corner of the Eye," which initially sounds like a bleary homage to chamber music, but packs a wonderfully haunting and sophisticated central theme that sounds plucked from an impossibly cool scene in an imaginary espionage film.In fact, the entirety of The Gone Away feels like the soundtrack to an imaginary film, but one where the composer was a rather moody fellow with a macabre sense of humor and a propensity for disorienting shifts in tone.The overall effect is akin to watching a goofy and candy-colored stop-motion or puppet film that contains some unexpectedly poignant moments of contemplation as well as a low-level sense of mounting horror that is always threatening to curdle the idyll.Also, there is probably a tropical beach party, some pagan rituals, and a tender love story in the mix as well.
Needless to say, those vivid technicolor shifts in tone make The Gone Away quite a fascinating and oft-fun cavalcade of singular and surreal scenes.In fact, I like to imagine Jupp as an incredibly talented cabaret pianist who can effortlessly play nearly any request, but who has only four possible settings on his keyboard: "harpsichord," "cartoon tuba," "Giorgio Moroder," and "big, bloopy analog synthesizer."As a result, even the most straightforward melodies feel charmingly lurching, blurting, and unfamiliar, though Jupp does occasionally downplay his propensity for big melodies to take a stab at more understated and simmering fare.That side of Jupp's artistry is best illustrated by "ffarisees," which mostly sounds like Moroder covering a somewhat haunting medieval Christmas song, yet ultimately evolves into a dazzling final act of skittering synth arpeggios that calls to mind a fireworks display erupting in an Impressionist painting. The opposite end of the spectrum is exemplified by the bouncy, burbling, and bright melodies of "Fol-de-rol," which would completely destroy my sanity if it was stuck in my head for longer than five minutes.There is a lot of stylistic room between those two poles, however, and some of it is quite good.I am especially fond of "Magpie Lane" and "Copse," which are (of course) quite different from both each other and everything else on the album.In "Magpie Lane," for example, a bittersweetly lilting melody of blobby synth tones unfolds over a clicking melody that I can only presume was provided by a tap-dancing puppet (naturally, said puppet also has a jaw harp)."Copse," on the other hand, feels like the theme music for an epic showdown between a gallant knight and some kind of shambling extradimensional fiend.    
The inherent modesty and "loving homage" nature of this project precludes me from proclaiming that Jupp is a world-building iconoclast, but The Gone Away does have the feel of great outsider art.Whether or not it is fair to call the co-founder of an influential and beloved label an "outsider" is certainly up for debate, yet it is a challenge to imagine many other artists who are as far outside the zeitgeist as someone orchestrating an unholy and mind-melting collision of early electronic music, classic sci-fi kitsch, H.R. Pufnstuf, and dark folklore in 2020.Or who blurs the line between wholesome and demented so masterfully.No one can say that Jupp and his Ghost Box brethren lack vision.However, that vision would not amount to nearly as much if Jupp were not so skilled at executing it.Aside from his obvious talents for strong hooks, uncluttered arrangements, and tight songcraft, Jupp showcases a genius for something much harder to define on The Gone Away.Normally, I praise artists who skillfully combine disparate for their seamlessness, but Jupp deserves praise for his…uh…seamFULness instead, as he manages to imbue almost every piece with a clunky, self-consciously retro homespun charm.Whether or not that charm is enough to elevate this album from "endearingly strange and otherworldly" to "great" probably lies in how predisposed a given listener is towards classic BBC Radiophonic Workshop sounds, I suppose.In my case, my appreciation for the Workshop lies mostly in its historical importance, but The Gone Away's handful of highlights is delightful enough to make me wonder if I need to reevaluate that opinion.I also wonder if the real deal (Oram/Derbyshire aside) might now pale beside Jupp's inspired re-imaginings: The Gone Away is not so much like re-visiting a long-cancelled, half-remembered TV show as it is like discovering that your weird uncle built an elaborate diorama of the set in his garage and has doggedly continued the plot on his own ever since (with absolutely no dip in quality).
This Italian composer’s latest full-length is quite a significant departure from the aesthetic of 2018's inventively shape-shifting A Conscious Effort, as Novellino decided to head in an entirely non-conceptual direction (he correctly believes that abstract music too frequently has hidden meaning and significance projected onto it in order to lure in both listeners and acclaim). In keeping with that theme, the album's prosaic title translates simply as "strings." That title is certainly apt, as sounds conjured from strings are indeed the heart of the album's aesthetic, but it is also a bit of an amusingly misleading understatement: Strängar is not an orchestral album, but is instead largely a celebration of the many vivid and visceral sounds that one can produce from an inventively misused piano. It is also much more than that though, as Novellino's cavalcade of scrapes, dissonantly jangling metal strings, and assorted percussive sounds intriguingly bleeds in and out of a very different vision of spacey, hallucinatory synth motifs. Admittedly, that sounds like a potentially unwieldy marriage on paper, but Novellino executes it beautifully to achieve a compelling and unique blurring of the boundaries between disparate worlds.
The four numbered pieces that comprise Strängar can all be reasonably described as variations on a single theme, as all are built from a core foundation of strummed, scraped, or hammered piano strings that ultimately dissolves into a second act of simmering synth-driven psychedelia.Novellino proves himself to be quite ingenious in varying the tone and texture of his ephemeral passages, however, and the transitions between them tend to feel both organic and fluid.As a result, each of the four pieces has its own distinct character and that character steadily deepens as each unfolds.In the opening "Strängar I," a slow-moving progression of minor piano chords hangs in the air as a small-scale textural apocalypse of metallic scrapes, buzzing strings, and snarls of noise unfolds below.Unexpectedly, however, it all dissipates to reveal a sadly blooping synth melody that quickly expands into a densely layered and harmonically rich juggernaut of glimmering, undulating electronics and crunching, clattering machine noise.Since A Conscious Effort, Novellino has gotten considerably more adept at metabolizing his influences into something that feels distinctive and fresh, as the most simplistic description I can muster for "Strängar I" is that it sounds like a John Cage performance and an aggressive Tim Hecker remix of Steve Roach's Structures from Silence are blurring together in a cathedral full of industrial machinery.There are still recognizable nods to Novellino's inspirations, but their context and trajectory is never the expected one.That is an admirable bit of transformative alchemy and it is one that Novellino is able to successfully repeat again and again.It almost feels like each piece is some kind of timeless occult ritual that propels me through a portal into a futuristic landscape of neon and gleaming chrome. 
In "Strängar II," Novellino opens with a darkly dissonant and rippling arpeggio pattern that sounds like an autoharp, but presumably originates from piano innards.Gradually, some more gnarled and distorted tones creep into the reverie and coalesce into a dense and erratically throbbing undercurrent.From that point on, the piece steadily evolves in a non-linear fashion, at times approximating a haunted music box or a deconstructed, time-stretched requiem mass, yet ultimately blossoming into a pointillist crescendo of shivering and streaking synth tones.That wonderful finale does not last long, but it is absolutely gorgeous while it lasts, calling to mind a slow-motion fireworks display or a melting night sky full of stars.The following "Strängar III," on the other hand, initially sounds like a jagged, heaving swirl of chiming and scraping metal strings before eventually resolving into a final act of smoldering drones and pulsing loops that slowly burns out and fades away.Both sections are likable and beautifully realized, but my favorite part of the piece lies in the transition between them, as there is a brief interlude of long, slow scrapes and metallic harmonics that threatens to steal the show long before Novellino gets to the intended pay-off.Elsewhere, Novellino saves his most memorable transformation for the album's closing statement.At first, "Strängar IV" resembles a skeleton plucking away at a rusty, cobwebbed, and strangely tuned harp as eerie metallic sounds heave and churn in the background, yet a more coherent form slowly emerges as subterranean pulses, shortwave radio noise, and tender swells of warmth snowball into a quavering and hissing dreamscape of intertwined drones. In a final twist, Novellino then slowly dissolves his elegant structure to make way for a glimmering, receding coda of hazy synth swells and reverberant scrapes and crackles.
While Strängar is an impressively absorbing and oft-haunting suite of songs in general, it is an especially wonderful headphone album, as Novellino's textures are all sharply realized and full depth of his craftmanship does not reveal itself without focused listening.Obviously, there are plenty of other artists in the abstract/experimental milieu who take sound design very seriously, but it is quite rare to encounter one who also pours the same amount of thought and effort into their overall vision or their compositional decisions.In that regard, Novellino is a welcome surprise.Admittedly, it took me a few listens to fully appreciate what he achieved with Strängar, as it is not the sort of album that instantly grabs me by the throat, but rather a quietly mesmerizing slow burn that grows deeper and more vivid with each fresh immersion.I especially love the way the pieces seamlessly transform from rippling, creaking, and scraping metal textures into sublime and harmonically rich soundscapes, as it calls to mind time lapse video of a blooming flower, but with the eerie, dreamlike sensibility of a Quay Brothers film.As a result, I am tempted to come up with some colorful term like "ghost ambient" to describe the darkly beautiful final destination that each of these four pieces reveals, but terms like "drone" or "ambient" would be misleadingly insufficient: Novellino is never content to allow his work to linger in a state of suspended animation, as subtly moving parts are always sneakily assembling the framework for the next transformation. While it is hard to say whether or not this is Novellino's best album to date, there is no question in my mind that Strängar marks an impressive leap forward in shaping his evolving aesthetic into a focused and fascinating vision that is his alone.
I was having a conversation with someone the other evening about what defines "pop" music, and if it can be considered good music. This is a loaded question since there are many varieties of music that could potentially fall into a pop category; the term means many different things, carrying both positive and negative connotations. As this isn’t meant to be an essay arguing the definition, let me simply say this: I enjoy what moves me. There exists simple, straightforward music which has the power to reel me in, winning me over with charming, catchy melodies, making my heart soar. With his sincere delivery, dreamy heartfelt melodies, eighties pop sensibilities and impressive vocal range, the talented John Jagos won me over as Brothertiger on his latest, Paradise Lost.
There has been a wave in recent years of capitalizing on '90s shoegaze and '80s new wave sensibilities—some have termed this combination "dream pop" or "synthwave"—with varying success. Brothertiger mellows it out, unabashedly coating the sound in smooth electronics and hefty homage to '70s pop. This is immediately evidenced on the opening track "Found" as dreamy electronics build to make room for cool, but danceable rhythms, Jagos’ voice reminiscent of an alto choir boy soaring over the unassuming melody. It’s like a little slice of paradise.
But all is not well in paradise. The album is filled with beautiful moments like this, a "happy little tree" that may joyfully be consumed without effort. But listen more carefully to the lyrics, and the title begins to hint at the layers of this album. At first glance, "Mainsail" starts out like a guilty pleasure, a familiar sunny tune from the '70s, reminiscent of a warm sail on clear waters—but Christopher Cross’ "Sailing" never started out with "Can’t you recognize my face in a crowded room? Living in the Empire State, I’m lost sometimes."
The album is nearly impeccable, growing on me with each listen. The first time hearing "Livin’" was a warm welcome, but I wasn’t quite sure to make of what I initially deemed a "pop ditty." On further listens, the song seemed darker than I remembered it. More layers were uncovered after I read the lyrics: "Honestly, I can't keep my head up high / Honestly, I can't get a hold on life."
The album’s title is indicative of the album as a whole. The music is crafted to sound like pure sunshine, a window into paradise, warm and relaxing, but with enough layers to make things interesting, getting lost in deceptively simple melodies. "Shelter Cove" is my favorite track, offering warm solace, a comforting melody and hopeful lyrics: "The silence / We'll find it / In our hideaway / The fog lifts / Beyond us / Open out Pacific bay." Enjoy it for what it is; it is fine to stay right here, cuddly and warm. Freud once said that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, but there is more than simply meets the eye to Brothertiger.
A truly multinational project, Staraya Derevnya is a collaboration of artists, poets and musicians across Israel, London and New York, released on independent record label Raash Records out of Jerusalem. The lyrics are sung, screamed, and chanted in a combination of Russian merged with a made-up language, with only the track titles — derived from a line of each song — translated to English. Knowing Russian is not required to be transported into a journey of epic aural proportions.
With a background in art, my attention was drawn to the cover, an inspiration from Russian interactive multimedia artist (and sometimes group member) Danil Gertman. There has been a lot of discussion around my house as to what the image conveys, with dripping lines of paint like blood, the presence of a floating (or falling) figure, perhaps not quite human. As with all art, the image is open to interpretation, and both the artwork as well as Staraya Derevnya focus on feeling over message.
The collective utilizes a collection of seemingly disparate instruments in their sound creations: toys, radio interference, kazoo, electric cello, theremin, synths, melodica, dulcimer, bass clarinet, flute, piano, and drums, as well as many others. Heck, there’s even a rocking chair in here somewhere. Yet, it all works supremely well, the collective working in a guided experimental spirit. The feel of Inwards opened the floor. is initiated by the sound of disarray, a track held together through repeated piano notes and a modulated vocal refrain, vocals, washing over layers of increasingly chaotic drone, irregular drumming, and ambient sounds. From there, "'Chirik' is heard from the treetops'' offers an industrial dance rhythm with underlying ominous bass notes. A kazoo and pulsating theremin chime in, while the vocalist yelps and howls as if possessed by Blixa Bargeld. Everything works seamlessly, until finally abruptly sputtering out for jarring effect.
Double bass and cello form a chilling backdrop on "Flicked the ash in kefir'' before a clatter of chains crates a distraught rhythm, accompanied by the impassioned, near screams of the vocalist, building in chaotic saxophone for added tension before pulling back into beautiful ambient drones. Probably my favorite track, the song is billed as a kind of "Christmas song" which translates:
"Powder Snow. Someone's trail. Grayish Day Winter realm. Faint Light You flaked out. As if Flicked the ash in kefir
Many Years. Wait for candy. Smell Pine Inhale. New Year Magic hour. As if Childhood once more upon us"
There is no "theme" here as a whole: this is primal music, focusing on intonation and feel, a journey of aural movements. And in that, it succeeds. While listening to "Flicked the ash in kefir" prior to seeing the translation, I was transported to a place of darkness. Reading the lyrics, I am reminded of the earliest Christmases I enjoyed in innocence and happiness, before they were impacted by traumatic life events like divorces, distance, and deaths. The song then took on a new, more personal meaning: the muddying of purity, like flicking ashes into kefir, and the yearning to return to a more innocent time.
"Burning bush and apple saucer" is a conversation of sorts, initially between male and female, that moves into urgency by the male, as if the conversation has broken down. The song invokes waves of pain, an urgency to comfort and be comforted. While I may not know much of what’s being said, that’s the beauty of this album — I don’t need to know the language. Good music is transcendental, separate from any language, and a distinct language like no other. Staraya Derevnya nails it.