We have finally cleared out the backlog of great music and present some new episodes.
Episode 711 features music from The Jesus and Mary Chain, Zola Jesus, Duster, Sangre Nueva, Dialect, The Bug, Cleared, Mount Eerie, Mulatu Astatke & Hoodna Orchestra, Hayden Pedigo, Bistro Boy, and Ibukun Sunday.
Episode 712 has tunes by Mazza Vision, Waveskania, Black Pus, Sam Gendel, Benny Bock, and Hans Kjorstad, Katharina Grosse, Carina Khorkhordina, Tintin Patrone, Billy Roisz, and Stefan Schneider, His Name Is Alive, artificial memory trace, mclusky, Justin Walter, mastroKristo, Başak Günak, and William Basinski.
Episode 713 brings you sounds from Mouse On Mars, Leavs, Lawrence English, Mo Dotti, Wendy Eisenberg, Envy, Ben Lukas Boysen, Cindytalk, Mercury Rev, White Poppy, Anadol & Marie Klock, and Galaxie 500.
Skolavordustigur Street in Reykjavík photo by Jon (your Podcast DJ).
Get involved: subscribe, review, rate, share with your friends, send images!
Sublime Frequencies presents a CD reissue of a limited edition vinyl by this Tuareg rock group featuring the enigmatic guitar hero Bibi Ahmed. The group brings to its hybrid of roots rock, Afrobeat and plugged-in fuzz rock a political urgency, the music having its origin as a political weapon used to communicate from Libyan refugee camps within the Republic of Niger in the 1980s and '90s.
Even without the background of political and social unrest that informs Tuareg guitar rock, the music here would be fascinating and well worth anyone's time. The sound is both tense and celebratory, a fertile combination of Arabic music, Afrobeat and Western rock tropes, with elements familiar from the Ethiopiques group of artists, but with a distinct rhythmic chug all its own. The lyrics are sung in the language of Tamacheq, spoken by the nomadic desert people known as the Tuareg, a distinct ethnic minority that have traditionally gotten short shrift in colonial disputes, and were forced into refugee camps in Niger and Mali. The unique elements of Tuareg culture could fill a small volume, but suffice to say that their distinct cultural heritage informs their unique blend of influences, creating an ethnic music quite unlike anything I've ever heard before. Urgent, shuffling dance rhythms form a backdrop for funky, rootsy electric guitar runs, with male group vocals occasionally punctuated by the shrill ululations of female singers.
The sound is social, and the recordings here are refreshingly human, capturing the sound of the room in which they were recorded, full of people engaged in musical celebration and communication. Hisham Mayet, a name that is frequently seen on Sublime Frequencies releases, handles the recording here. Mayet acts more as a field recorder than a music engineer, simply hitting record and staying out of the way. Though all of the tracks (except for the first, which is from the Group Inerane archives) are recorded in crisp stereo, there is still a warmth to the proceedings, mostly because the group themselves are loosely mic'd, and the sounds of amplifier distortion are allowed to remain.
Although the liner notes offer nothing in the way of translations of the Tamacheq lyrics, they do offer compelling background information on the Tuareg and the rebellions and political disputes that caused their marginalization. The guitar rock made by Group Inerane has its origins in North Saharan rebel music, with incendiary political lyrics railing against the governments of Niger and Mali. During the 1980s and '90s, this music was recorded onto cassettes and distributed throughout refugee camps as a way of disseminating the message of the Tuareg resistance. Now that a peace accord has been reached between the Tuareg rebels and the governments of Niger and Mali, music that was once banned is now quite popular. After hearing this story, I couldn't help but wish that instead of a recording of a modern group, Sublime Frequencies had instead attempted to reissue some of the old underground rebel cassettes. Whatever fidelity might have been lost would surely have been made up for with authenticity.
But it's best to focus on what is on the album, rather than what isn't. What Group Inerane present is a collection of ten great songs, many of them based on originals by Abdallah Oumbadougou, Bibi Ahmed's mentor. If I had not been told that many of these songs reflect the tragic destiny of a whole generation of Tuareg, I might never have guessed, as most of these tracks are upbeat, energetic and jubilant. The rhythms are similar to what one might expect from Afrobeat, but quite a bit simpler, lacking complex polyrhythms, no doubt because of the presence of only one drummer, rather than a group. The dual fuzz guitar attacks are unique, a kind of extra-geographical style that takes in Western rock n' roll, jazz, funk and Arabic modes and spits out something utterly singular. The quartet of female singers frequently reach a hair-raising chorus of glossolalic ululations that could be taken either as a funereal shriek or an ecstatic outpouring of positivity.
This is another classy release for Sublime Frequencies, highlighting a genre of music that is very likely unfamiliar to all but the most adventurous of world music listeners. The liner notes and press material persist in calling the music here "psychedelic," a term which I object to because I'm sure whatever mind-expanding qualities the music may possess are mostly the result of its exociticism. Were we familiar with the Tuareg cultural heritage, the music might not sound strange or unorthodox at all. For all we know, Group Inerane is the Aerosmith of Tuareg guitar music.
Most attendees at a Suicide concert these days would claim to respect the "work" of the streetwise electronic innovators—provided that said "work" consists of their confrontational eponymous debut and, possibly, their glorious Ric Ocasek helmed sophomore album. I, on the other hand, am a Suicide fan, one who eagerly pounces on the members' infrequent solo albums with the same vigor as I did the reissues of their underrated third and fourth records. Simply receiving a copy of this release in the mail was a perverse joy unto itself.
Last time we heard Martin Rev on record was his last File-13 release, 2003’s lo-fi rocknroller To Live, which superficially appeared to be comprised of hooky tracks that Suicide vocalist Alan Vega rejected for 2002’s American Supreme, rightfully reclaimed by their creator. Far heavier than his prior output and even a tad conventional for the aging auteur, it violently contrasted with the sincere bubblegum pop found on See Me Ridin’ and Strangeworld. Evidently, Rev had no intention of being boxed in by expectations, his youthful zeal and fuck-you attitude stubbornly refusing to wane over time. I admire this, and at the handful of Suicide gigs I’ve managed to attend this century I’ve been all too willing to express this sentiment, perhaps to the dismay of less passionate concertgoers. Let them be perturbed by my unrestrained enthusiasm and uncouth willingness to throw elbows, I say. I have a right to force my way to the front of the stage, hooting and hollering all the while at living legends, at royalty.
That passion—tinged with an otherworldly optimism otherwise lacking from the rest of my daily life—surged upon receipt of Les Nymphes. Opener “Sophie Eagle” excites instantly with springy electronics speckled with the serene plink-plonk of a piano and some breathy vocal echoes. With just a little guidance from someone more familiar with today’s dance music scene, the groovy “Cupid” could do more than affectionately nod backwards towards stabby 90s house classics. Dripping with dubby and near tropical vibes, “Venise” brilliantly resurrects and remixes the dreamy melody from “Misery Train,” a highlight from American Supreme.
However, not everything here is quite as appealing or effective. The puzzling “Triton” palms a dated KMFDM-style guitar riff straight out of Gunter Schulz’s classic playbook, saturates it in murky effects, and slides under this gelatinous gloop a limp-wristed loop unfit for The Crystal Method to wipe their filthy trainers on. “Les Nymphes Et La Mer” nearly recycles that formula, though fortuitously sidesteps the non-blockrocking beats. While sonically adequate, “Valley Of The Butterfly” comes across as almost comical with such wanton oddness, though I suspect that I’m not meant to snicker at the spoken word bellows of Rev’s longtime partner Mari. I wont even go into the awful elevator funk of “Nyx,” which seems hardly fit to grace the stereo at my dentist’s office.
Having had the time to experience these 11 tracks, I find myself marginally satisfied as a fanatic. As a music journalist of the lowest order, however, I’m decidedly not on the fence about Les Nymphes, an unbalanced basket of tasty tangerine dreams and a disproportionate number of discarded orange peels. I’m meant to believe that some Greek mythological theme carries the album, yet the only musical constant I perceive here is Rev’s craven lust for the wet reverbs and delay effects he deliberately drenches these tunes in, no doubt to ferment them into ambrosia. No such luck.
I relish the opportunity to expose our readership to new independent music on a regular basis. For this writer, it is the ultimate high to help lift from obscurity a worthy band that lacks the marketing muscle of a major label machine, and, like a crusty hygiene-deficient junkie, I am instinctively trying to score the next great fix, regularly on the lookout for such opportunities. That dutiful yet addictive sentimentality is precisely how I got conned into trying this band, lured by the unfulfilled promise of moderately morose music akin to those early Factory Records artists that LTM Recordings has such a veiny hard-on for.
As a scruffy, shifty-eyed frequenter of many a record store I am almost ashamed to admit that I have fallen for this bait-and-switch on more than a few occasions. Time and time again I succumbed to tantalizing assurances, to off-the-cuff favorable comparisons of some unknown band to one that I genuinely adore. Released on a minor label incidentally run by the album’s two producers, Surprise Attacks indeed takes its inspirational cues from Joy Division and Section 25, as well as their modern progeny. Ribbons’ key deficiency, however, is an inability to move beyond those weighty influences in any meaningful way, rendering the girl-boy duo unsuited to compete with the bountiful harvest of postpunk revivalists stomping and pouting in rock clubs worldwide.
Construing some half-hearted amalgam of The Dresden Dolls’ Amanda Palmer’s lower register, Justin Warfield’s (She Wants Revenge) forced inflection, and Ian Curtis’ apathetic detachment, multi-instrumentalist Jenny Logan displays such a paralytic aversion to vocal range that, stripped of intent, it practically counts as parody. From song to song, she mutters indistinctly, too cryptic and cool to carry a tune. Drummer Sam Roudman, while competent enough for such milquetoast fare, offers little in the way of competition for Brian Viglione or Stephen Morris. Marred by a stark dearth of inventiveness, Surprise Attacks rotates through a routine of lazy plodding and clumsy floundering for its half-hour duration, its self-destructive sameness blending each drearily dull track into the next. “More,” the closest thing to a highlight here, boasts a catchy angular intro but quickly abandons that premise for a much blander verse, returning to the original refrain far too late to rescue the track. Beyond this, there is little to enjoy. In particular, I can’t help but cringe at awkward out-of-place handclaps that attempt to add spice to “Bastille Day.”
“No Clouds” poorly apes Radiohead’s “My Iron Lung” on the verse, though that mimicry is hardly Ribbons' most egregious act of pilfering. “About Them” disgracefully rips off the untouchable New Order classic “Ceremony” so obviously that the insincere Southern twang injected between the flagrantly stolen bits is cold comfort. This shameful offense alone should disqualify Ribbons from further serious consideration by anyone. Surprise Attacks ought to be retitled Sucker Punches because that’s exactly what it amounts to: cheap shots. I’ve been cheated, bamboozled even. I mean, I actually paid for this insufferable hunk of mediocrity and regurgitation. I’d sooner dump it in the gutter than listen to it ever again, as that would finally afford this malevolent hipster-baiting trash some much-needed class.
Girls Against Boys frontman Scott McCloud's half-whispered, cigarette burnt vocals on this, his telling solo debut, channel the scuzzy street-level vibe of that seminal Touch & Go band, leavened by the sagacious musings of an unblushing, unpretentious gutter poet. For this fan, these wizened, largely acoustic ditties frequently spark thoughts along the lines of "Gee, these sure would make some great GVSB songs."
Freed from the otherwise flawless GVSB template, Paramount Stylesgives McCloud the well-deserved chance to showcase a rather weighty lyrical solemnity sometimes obscured by the chest beating and bluster of his raucous noise rock dealings. Throughout Failure American Style, McCloud comfortably adopts the tone of a bedraggled elder statesmanship akin to fellow New York resident Lou Reed. As such, the specter of urban classics like "Walk On The Wild Side" and "Coney Island Baby" are spiritually evoked and unconsciously emulated more often than not. Like the Rock 'N' Roll Animal, he's roamed these mean streets long enough to call out the fakes and spot the hustlers that still remain in the post-Giuliani period.
Considering the severity of the strangely beautiful material, McCloud is frighteningly believable yet simultaneously captivating. His perceived machismo obviously intact, McCloud shares his gripes and dispenses his wisdom as if from a hastily patched-up barstool in a New York City dive bar that disregards the long-standing smoking ban. With smirking references to a "booty call Valentine", "Drunx, Whores & MZK People" warns of and moans about those leeches that always want a piece of even a minor celebrity who, in turn, feeds off their neediness. Buoyed by the sweet backup pipes of Scottish singer Angela McClusky, McCloud sneers at those who aspire to fame on the virile and occasionally vitriolic "Come To New York," arguably this album’s finest tune. Still, Failure American Style feels phenomenally personal and gutsy in its seething honesty and less than cautious masculine sensitivity. These eleven songs are not the boastful tales of rockstar success and excess, but instead the twilight unburdening of coagulating frustrations driven by heartache, disappointment and loss that eat away at a man bit-by-bit, driving him to vice and compounding bad decisions. Over a thumping 4/4 beat, McCloud tempers his bubbling rage for "Race You Til Tomorrow", vacillating between reassuring words and despondent cynicism over a maddening relationship apparently worth salvaging.
Perhaps even more startling than the soul bearing is the absence of the dissonant wall of noise fans have come to expect from McCloud musically. Most of these songs revolve around his jagged acoustic guitar strums, some of which are downright pleasant. “Hollywood Tales 2” is eerily spartan in its simplicity, while the sonically fuller though still relatively unadorned “AllEyesAreOnYouNowMyPet”—this record’s most single-worthy cut—sort of reminds me of Bob Mould’s recent album. Snarling like a wounded beast, Paramount Styles doesn't necessarily intend to be disagreeable, nor does it care if anyone takes offense. McCloud's hurt may be on display on Failure American Style but rest assured that the album's primary purpose is not to entertain—which it thoroughly does—but rather to lash out.
Out of my latest order of three releases from Faraway Press, the current CD from this infrequent Mirror collaborator and often overlooked co-conspirator of Faraway Press (alongside Andrew Chalk) has been by far the most rewarding. On this, her second solo release, she has consciously let go of the single-piece-per-side mold and created a decidedly not-drone album.
Chalk, Mirror, and Heemann fans are loyal because they're assured of the quality of the releases and in that respect, this is no exception. Like the Faraway Press catalogue, Whispering Pages is calm, reflective, and the packaging is top quality both aesthetically and practically. Unlike the other releases, it consists of nine distinct songs and Jackman's main instrument is the piano, but the variety of pieces makes for an exceptionally well-rounded album.
She opens surprisingly with a song filled with subtle electric pulses and hums underscoring her atmospheric and echoed playing. Tonality is key on "The Snow Queen" as certain notes are chosen to resonate more than others, creating a gorgeous all-encompassing sound bath. "Empty Rooms" sounds exactly like that: Vikki playing solo in a room on a still summer evening accompanied only by the sound of her shifting on the piano bench and what could possibly be some wind chimes hanging in a doorway off to the side, the hiss of the slow moving air adding to the atmospherics. "The Softest Blue," my favorite piece (and one which I featured on last week's Podcast) is a drastic contrast: multilayered with low-end synthetic string swells that any Stars of the Lid fan would immediately latch on to, yet it's accented with backwards echoes and a plucking of high strings on top that sets it far apart enough from the duo. Swelling backwards-like echoes make the tones on "Nightingales" reminiscent of Nurse With Wound's "Funeral Music for Perez Prado," closing what would be side 1 of this disc, had it been a record.
Jackman once again reintroduces electronic pulses and inhuman frequencies on the opener of the second half, "Never a Wave," and maintains the feel through the Chain Reaction school of dub influence on "Two Clear Eyes," as now there are low end bass lines underneath the Hammond organ-esque echoes. The music returns to the serene with "Dreams" and "A Summer Interlude," both with Vikki's piano front and center bathed in the sounds of the outdoors: birds, wind, an occasional train passing by. Whispering Pages concludes with a two distinct (and not cross-faded) pieces sharing a singular track index: "Sleep in the Woods" reprises the sound of "Nightingales" while "Reprise" is reminiscent of "Empty Rooms." I don't consider this a mis-step but I think more attention could have been played to actually closing the song (and thus the album) with a finite cadence.
With Whispering Pages, Vikki Jackman has established her own identity apart from Faraway Press and Andrew Chalk and has done it with an exceptionally good album. While more famous publications will probably not catch on to her for a few more years, I would hope that offerings from other recording companies might boost her profile. Although she may not be seeking that, I personally think more music listeners deserve to hear something this great.
It angers me that Some Bizzare Stevø has treated one of the best releases of the 1980s with such utter negligence, issuing versions like this with embarassing mistakes on tracklisting, indexing errors, chintzy packaging, and dreadful artwork recreation. I encourage nobody to buy this shitty reissue and I hearby challenge Stevø to recall these copies at once and put out a fucking proper release of this classic once and for all.
The music on Force the Hand of Chance is flawless. In a scale of 1-10 it rates a perfect 10. This album was completed a year after the termination of Throbbing Gristle as Genesis P-Orridge and Peter Christopherson joined forces with Alternative TV's Alex Fergusson (who appeared on the Industrial Records 7" release of Dorothy) and recruited Andrew Poppy for string arrangements, Marc Almond for guest vocals, and engineer Ken Thomas (23 Skidoo, Non, Lemon Kittens, Wire, and later on Sigur Rós). Eight songs (and two short interludes) run the gamut from the lush string and acoustic guitar dominated opener "Just Drifting" and its reprise "Caresse;" to the magnum epic Coil-esque precursors "Terminus" and "Guiltless;" the guitar and fx interplay of "No Go Go;" through the concluding "Message from the Temple," almost a blueprint for the Horse Rotorvator piece "The Golden Section." Accompanying the original LP release was a bonus LP, Psychic TV Themes, an awesome entirely instrumental work in eight parts with piano, Tibetan thigh bone, cowbells, and various other noisemakers.
In the years since this original release, Themes was the first to appear on CD, first as Cold Dark Matter, both individually and in the amazing Splinter Test box 1, then eventually on a limited release by Cleopatra. Force the Hand of Chance was issued on CD by some forgettable label called Tempus, re-named Force Thee Hands ov Chants and mastered from an LP with a faulty left channel for side 1. They tacked on bonus tracks from the Just Drifting 12" single and bonus 12" that came with PTV's second full-length album, Dreams Less Sweet, along with a completely random advertisement for Skinny Puppy's album The Process. It was paired with a second CD of live material. Then Cleopatra reissued that version (containing those irrelevant bonus tracks). In the late '90s, Some Bizzare reissued Force, coupled with some video excerpts of "Terminus" and "Message from the Temple" but the CD audio tracking was off: "Terminus" cut early, erroneously shoving its epilogue onto "Stolen Kisses;" the video quality was about as good as video quality was for Quicktime circa 1998 (ie: pretty crappy to today's standards); packaging was cheap; and Themes was absent. The only worthwhile reissue was the Japanese CD from Waner Bros., whose artwork was perfect, lyrics were included, the track indexing precise, and the sound fantastic. The second disc was Themes and to my ears sounded like it was mastered from the original tapes and not an LP (which I can somewhat sense from the Cold Dark Matter issue). With this year's reissue, even titled Force The Hand of Chance with Themes, my hopes were high, but in reality this is a disaster.
Starting with the title itself: disc 2 isn't even Themes! It's those irrelevant bonus tracks from the Tempus CD (which belong more with Dreams Less Sweet) and includes that stupid Skinny Puppy advertisement for their album The Process. On the disc itself, "The Mad Organist" is coupled with "Catalan" on the same track and thus unlisted. The package itself is a shoddy double digipack with a blown up cover, while the artwork on the back is clearly a photocopy of photocopy of a photocopy (as it still contains the painful typo of the 1998 Some Bizzare CD: Alex Gergusson), and there's no lyrics to be found anywhere. It claims to have been remastered in 2007, but sounds no better than the 1998 UK edition and the poor quality videos from the Some Bizzare UK edition are contained again (along with deprecated software).
I call shenanegans on you, Stevø, as you've delivered the same version you did 10 years ago (but with unrelated nonsense). Recall this and I'll be delighted to assist in a proper release of it myself. This album deserves far better than you have delivered.
DFA's Death From Abroad imprint has partnered with Berlin's Supersoul Recordings to release this double-disc compilation collecting vinyl tracks released during the label's first two years of existence. The Supersoul label, while certainly not a lone voice in the wilderness, nonetheless has carved out a unique niche for itself; somewhere between Italo Disco and electro-flavored house music, with very little of the dry, soulless minimalism that has infected European dance music for the past few years.
The umpteenth release by the Pink Dots sees a reformed quartet of Edward Ka-Spel, Silverman, Martijn De Kleer and Niels Van Hoorn in very familiar form. From the personnel, to the cover art, to the suite of cryptic, understated songs, Plutonium Blonde is very much in the same vein as 2006's Your Children Will Placate You From Premature Graves. Depending on your point of view, this is either good news, or a bitter disappointment.
Although his reputation as the “screaming philosopher” precedes him, this vastly insufficient nickname does nothing to convey the power and skill of Tomokawa’s singing and songwriting. While the gasping, almost convulsive delivery of some of his lines does of course lend credence to this moniker, everyone seems to overlook his earthy, troubadour voice that carries most of the songs. Backed by a band who seem comfortable playing in a traditional Spanish style (with an Eastern European twist), this album shows Tomokawa at an ever higher peak than usual.
Tomokawa is no stranger to vastly moving songwriting (even if only partially appreciated through written translations) but Blue Water, Red Water is a whirlwind of stirring music and passionately sung lyrics. The tone is set from the instant the album starts with “Once I Stared Afar;” the dense metaphysical lyrics (thankfully translated by the ubiquitous Alan Cummings) are allowed to soar on delicately compassionate music. Taro Kanai’s returning role as guitarist for Tomokawa is most welcome, his almost flamenco style reinforcing Tomokawa’s image as the troubadour of the east.
Ayumi Matsui’s sweet violin and Cinorama’s Hiromichi Sakamoto’s delicate cello add an even more melancholic edge to Tomokawa’s already moody compositions. The strings on “Kara Bran” swing back and forth across a lilting piano and tuba motif and Tomokawa’s vocals are at their most ragged. The song climaxes with an exquisite flourish of violin and cello that pull the listener in like a whirlpool. This song is worth the purchase of Blue Water, Red Water alone (but thankfully the rest of the album compares favourably to it).
Few and far between are songwriters who, in their fourth decade of writing and performing, are as resonant now as they have ever been and it is needless to say that Tomokawa is one such artist. Unfortunately, few and far between are affordable Tomokawa releases on these shores so to find this available at a normal price is most welcome. Add to the fact that this is one of the strongest albums of his I have encountered (and indeed a possible contender for album of the year in my book) and I am a very happy bunny.
artist: Benoit Pioulard title: Temper catalog#: krank123 formats available: 2LP / CD release date: october 14, 2008
content: Temper is the second album under his Benoit Pioulard nom de guerre. Composed throughout a year that involved graduation from university and a cross-continental relocation, its 16 tracks arose in specific periods of intense creative energy. Assembling various analog sources on basic software at home, Pioulard has honed his craft into a form that suggests something far grander. With soft-edged vocals and a broad palette of instruments that lately includes harmonium and cello, he constructs diverse arrangements that skirt the borders of pop with beautiful, detailed atmospheres. The scope and sonic narratives of songs like “A Woolgathering Exodus” and “Golden Grin” exhibit new degrees of musicality, while the weightlessness of “Brown Bess” or “Sweep Generator” reflects the unrestrained context in which the record was produced. It is no coincidence that the word ‘temper’ has more than 20 definitions related to basic existential aspects like emotion, behavior, and music; it offers many dimensions but also reveals how scrawny language can be in its attempt to name the abstract. On Temper, Pioulard endeavors to make sense of things in a tumultuous time, inspired by everything from medieval astrology to the poems of T.S. Eliot and the films of the Italian neo-realists. Fully aware of the mission’s vanity, he is nevertheless consumed by its path.
context: Benoit Pioulard's first album was the widely acclaimed Precis which was listed on literally dozens of 2006 year end best of lists.
The double LP vinyl version of this release also includes the Precis album, issued on vinyl for the first time.
track listing: 1. Ragged Tint 2. Ahn 3. Sweep Generator 4. Golden Grin 5. The Loom Pedal 6. Ardoise 7. Physic 8. Modèle d'Éclat 9. Idyll 10. Brown Bess 11. Cycle Disparaissant 12. A Woolgathering Exodus 13. Détruisons Tout 14. Loupe 15. Tapyre 16. Hesperus
press quotes for Periphery: "Précis is a spectacular, fully realized debut. …a breathtaking sonic landscape… It sounds like nothing else you’ll hear this year. Rating: A" Stylus
"A debut of this caliber is rare... Not to be missed. 9/10" Lost at Sea
"Pioulard has a masterful hold on pop music with a subversive intent to darken and beautify its borders. 9/10" Filter
"Gorgeous... Précis is a masterful necropolis, intimidating to enter and beautifully crusted with age." Cokemachineglow Read More
Charlie Looker has issued every rock band in existence a very serious challenge: write music as inventive and natural as the stuff on Secular Works or get the hell off the stage. I'm certain that this album spells the end for nearly every math-rock band in existence.
Secular Works has so much going for it that picking a place to begin talking about it is pretty difficult. The vocalist and lead-man, Charlie Looker, often enjoys singing in a style that's inspired by plainchant and the band is accomplished enough to oscillate between concussive, heavy metal assaults and delicate, nearly meditative clouds of psychedelia. These contrasts are often forced together on the record, which might at first sound like a disconcerting thing. Plenty of bands enjoy contrasting styles; they bang dissimilar objects together and play in the ensuing explosion with a kind of childish, perhaps immature glee. Destruction is fun and tearing genres apart might be intellectually stimulating, but real talent requires an architect capable of putting all the pieces back together in a pleasing way. Extra Life does just that; with all their various influences and technical abilities the band uses unusual and difficult music to make something that rides the line between the alien and the familiar.
Take for an example the opening song, "Blackmail Blues;" it begins with a strange, almost arhythmic strumming of the electric guitar, which is accented and made perhaps more unstable by an absolutely thunderous assault of percussion. The play of rhythms and melodies in the first two minutes of the song are intense, layered, and complex all by themselves. But, then Looker begins to sing, enunciating the same syllables over multiple notes, utilizing his strangely monolithic voice to rise above the music, and refusing to sing anything that sounds like what a modern rock band or metal band might employ. There's no screaming, no whining, and absolutely no mumbling. I imagine countless bands wish they had the dynamic range exhibited on this song alone, but what keeps the song interesting over its nearly nine-minute duration isn't all the unique, little parts or the way they contrast against each other. No, the real pull of "Blackmail Blues" is how well all these various parts come together and form an intriguing whole. The rhythmic abnormalities and incredibly difficult shifts in tempo and time signature all work for the good of the song, not for themselves. At the end there's an amazing section where the drummer seems to read Looker's mind and he manages to imitate Looker's percussive style of singing note for note over a nearly unpredictable spattering of sixteenth notes from hell. If I were the drummer in that band I'd probably have smacked Looker for even suggesting such a ridiculous and difficult task, but Extra Life pulls it out of their hat with such fluidity and class that it manages to lend an explosive end to an already fiery song.
From there things become more intense, despite becoming generally quieter. "I Don't Feel That Way" is another musical and technical accomplishment that'll make anyone interested in rhythmic tension twitch with frustration. Go ahead, try counting out the bass-heavy convulsions and snare snaps that seem to spill out of nowhere at a moment's notice: I'm convinced some form of arcane magic is responsible for keeping this band in time because no natural explanation is satisfactory. Two, ten-minute epics dominate the record, however, and their stark beauty is their best feature. Both "I'll Burn" and "This Time" radiate with an uncomfortable aura that shines as much as it blackens and confuses. The latter is aglow with barely-there violins, wooden blocks, gently snapped strings, and uneasy lyrics that speak of some long-planned and slow-boiling violence. The noir-ish qualities of these two songs provide much-needed relief from the vigorous and sometimes noisy elements that are featured on the rest of the record.
Secular Life is the kind of record that will catch a lot of people off guard; it has to seep into the skin over the long run, but the impressive punches and immediate gratification is also supplies should be enough to draw most people into its gravity. Technically, it's the most accomplished record I've heard this year. On the whole, it's one of the most impressively adventurous and satisfying records in my collection; one of those rare blends of experimentation and quality song-writing that succeeds on every conceivable level.