Being thankful for an earful.
Brand new music by Marie Davidson, Niecy Blues (feat. Joy Guidry), CEL, Marisa Anderson and Luke Schneider, Stina Stjern, Carmen Villain, Murcof, A Lily, and Far Golden Pavilions, with music from the vaults by Tomaga, Ozzobia, Jan Jelinek.
Sushi photo by Lindsay.
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Despite having numerous releases on nearly every format imaginable, this is the first 7" from this Ohio threesome. I was afraid that two sides of a 7" would not give them enough time to generate the intoxicating music that I expect from Emeralds but they have conjured up two beautiful miniatures that encapsulate their long-form compositions without sacrificing any quality.
Side A features a glassy guitar and synth shimmer over a dreamy analogue synth rhythm. As with many of Emeralds’ works, the piece changes ever so slightly over its course (which is definitely on the short side when it comes to this group). Melodies never seem to repeat and even the tempo appears to mutate towards the end. The trio are pushing the sound they explored on last year’s What Happened and they are pushing in the right direction.
Side B is more similar to soundscapes they employed on Solar Bridge and on their many tape releases. Slowly evolving and revolving drones create a deep backdrop for Mark McGuire’s guitar to shine like starlight on a clear night. Unfortunately, the constraints of the format mean that it is all over too soon (even with it being a 33 RPM 7”). However, Fresh Air is yet another exceptional release from Emeralds so even a few minutes of audio bliss is worth the money.
Another chapter in LTM's Boutique Label reissue campaign of obscure Manchester post-punk label Object Music, this collection presents more than 100 minutes of experiments, improvisations, skewed pop, drone-laden blues, minimal electronic synthpop and weird, dislocated Nurse With Wound-style audio surrealism. A reissue of a double-album originally issued in 1980—a collaborative release by labelmates Steve Solamar (Spherical Objects) and Steve Miro—Sheep From Goats was certainly the most adventurous release by Object Music during its brief existence.
Elsewhere in these pages (here and here), I have addressed the bundle of contradictions embodied by Object Music founder and Spherical Objects frontman Steve Solamar, who ceased label operations in 1981 to undergo his own radical operation, resolving his inner contradictions by becoming a woman. At the time of the sessions which eventually became Sheep From Goats, Solamar's contradictions were in full flower. From the name of the project down to the absurdist, eclectic content of the album, paradox seems to have been the key artistic strategy at work here. Steve Miro chose the name The Noise Brothers, but Solamar made a point of changing the spelling of "noise" to "no/yes," in order to carry through the concept of inner contradiction. The album's recording process was somewhat unique as well, with the two Steves meeting for recording sessions over a period of months, a collaboration which produced sides one and four of the double LP. Then, the two each recorded six songs separately, which were distributed over sides two and three. This process results in an album of largely electronic, often improvised music which uses dissonance, incongruity and divergency to its advantage.
The music made by the Steves doesn't much resemble the solo work of Miro or the work of Solamar's Spherical Objects. Although there are a few moments in which he channels the same cryptic blues that he later revisited on the final SO album No Man's Land, most of Solamar's contributions are utterly dislocated and strange, wobbly synthesizer excursions that launch the gray, industrial atmospherics of Thatcherite Manchester into the outer reaches of space. By contrast, Miro recruits his wife Jill/Jae Boyer to sing on three of his tracks, delivering a suite of melancholic, psychedelic pop songs that must have sounded terribly unfashionable at the time of the album's release. Both Brothers' solo contributions are notable in their own way but without question the centerpiece of the album is the sidelong "It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time," which in some parallel universe is considered a seminal milestone of electronic music. In our universe, it is rarely considered at all, a 25-minute dirge through a burning brain, all chugging primitive drum machines and art-damaged synth drone, keyboard noodling and mostly wordless vocal improvisations by Solamar. If Steven Stapleton had decided to form a coldwave synthpop band instead of Nurse With Wound, this would have been Side A of the debut album. The closest analog I can think of for this utterly bizarre moment in post-punk history would be John Bender's incredibly obscure Pop Surgery LP, though even this comparison fails to capture the idiosyncrasies at work in The Noyes Brothers.
Boutique's reissue juggles the original tracklisting somewhat, which has the effect of making the album seem even more disorienting, as "It Seemed Like A Good Idea" comes halfway through the listening experience, rather than at the end. This decision was probably made out of pragmatics more than anything else but I appreciate the way in which it augments the album's eclecticism. Listening to Sheep From Goats multiple times, what begins to stand out are not isolated moments or individual tracks, but rather the combined effect of the album's dynamic and scattershot approach. Had the album contained only Solamar's improvised electronic excursions and "Good Idea," it might be easily pidgeonholed as another example (albeit a good one) of early 1980s proto-industrial coldwave, alongside acts like Portion Control, Fad Gadget or Absolute Body Control. However, any album which contains ingenious psych-pop nuggets like Miro's "It Must Be Vibration" alongside Solamar's mind-zapping guitar effects phantasmagoria on "Decision Time" demands to be liberated from the usual genrification schemes applied to musical movements of the past.
Although I do have a certain affection for Miro and Solamar's individual takes on bluesy post-punk, I think Sheep From Goats is at its best when the Steves stop adhering to any kind of song structure. Standout tracks include Solamar's "Pneumonia Bridge," an aquatic sound collage that transforms whalesong into the screams of seagulls, envisaging jaw harp twangs through the disorienting vision doubling of intoxication. One of the best collaborative tracks, "Bo Scat Um I.D." uses the basic building blocks of the new wave—melodic, minor-key basslines, drums, chiming guitars, oppressive synths—but disassembles them, putting them back in an order that no longer makes sense, adding Solamar's incongruous blues harp and throaty, asexual vocal yelps and moans. "Byte To Beat" is a dislocated, claustrophobic samba from another dimension, marrying the UFOs-on-heroin aesthetics of the Liquid Sky soundtrack to the logic of punk in the wake of Throbbing Gristle and Industrial Records.
Boutique's reissue tacks the lengthy collaboration "Good Question" to the end of disc two, a track originally included on the Object Music compilation Do the Maru. It represents the very last recording session by Solamar and Miro, who convene here for a piece which bears some resemblance to "Good Idea," but locates a dark urgency and Krautrock-style propulsion that the shambolic sidelong track on Sheep From Goats never finds. Soon after this collaboration, Solamar quit the music business altogether, and Miro only ever recorded one further album. Boutique's reissue of The Noyes Brothers is an incredible document, an intriguing collection of false starts and loose ends, musical question marks without an answer, experiments which succeed because of their myriad failures. It is complex and evocative soundtrack to the Ballardian, posthuman landscape of early-1980s Manchester, and the mental landscape of artistic methods, creative tensions and gender identities captured in a state of flux.
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As part of a campaign to reissue the neglected discography of Manchester post-punk label Object Music, LTM's Boutique Label presents this collection of the entire recorded output of Grow Up, the project of Spherical Objects guitarist and Manchester Musicians Collective member John Bisset-Smith. A six-piece featuring brass and woodwinds, Grow Up combines stripped-down, youthful pop-punk with sophisticated chamber pop and hints of Beefheartian skronk.
Perhaps all too aware of their obscurity, the liner notes by LTM's James Nice go out of their way to connect John Bisset-Smith and Grow Up to the lively Manchester scene in the late 1970s, playing up the MMC connection as a way to drop some famous names: Joy Division, The Passage, Crispy Ambulance, etc. Perhaps this kind of name-dropping is inevitable, but it seems unfortunate in the case of Grow Up, who possess an idiosyncratic sound that seems to have been conceived largely in a state of obvliousness about their contemporaries, both temporally and geographically. I can't think of anything else that sounds quite like Grow Up. Though all of the elements in isolation aren't unique, taken together they add up to a strange hybrid that is intriguing, eminently listenable, and hints at greater things to come (which unfortunately never materialized).
Although both of the band's full-length albums received positive reviews from the British press at the time of their release—Paul Morley of NME enthusing that the band's "ingenious, sax-propelled chamber pop" was "brilliant" and "extremely commercial"—the albums did not sell terribly well, and the band remained obscure. This was partly due to the vagaries of independent music at their particular time and place, and partly due to the sudden closure of the Object Music label, which left the band responsible for all promotion and distribution of their sophomore album. However, I don't quite hear an unjustly obscure lost treasure when I listen to the music collected on this two-disc set. What I hear is a band with an overdose of ambition; a series of false starts and isolated moments of greatness, shot through with a youthful ambition that carries it off even when the songs themselves are callow.
I am a sucker for a particularly well-conceived short song. There is something about the restraint and cleverness required to write a memorable song that clocks in at under three minutes that impresses me. Grow Up have several of these tiny gems scattered across the two albums, seven-inch singles, compilation and demo tracks that comprise this collection. The title track of the band's debut The Best Thing comes early and is perhaps the best single song the band recorded, a miniature masterpiece of vibrant, slapdash, hyperactive post-punk. Bisset-Smith fills each line with verbiage, often running well past the end of a measure. The effect is reminiscent of high school poetry, cramming too many words into each line, a glut of emotions spilling out. The horns, reeds and guitars swarm around each phrase with a glorious lack of precision, as if each song were rehearsed only once before pressing record. Other winners include the narrative "Dear Isobel," an odd rockabilly-esque song addressed to the titular punk girl, the plea of a young rebel and ne'er-do-well to an out-of-reach girl who meets an untimely and tragic end. Steven Westwood's trombone is particularly successul at carrying the song's melody, which continues seamlessly into the next song "Do You Want To Dance," suggesting that Bisset-Smith conceived the album as a coherent whole, rather than a series of songs.
Without Wings is a worthy follow-up, evidencing a maturing in the band's sound, but also less of the messy impulsiveness of the debut. Bisset-Smith's vocals are often effected with superfluous reverb that unecessarily adds a distance to the intimate lyrics. Also, the band's accuracy has improved, complex arrangements turning on a dime. Even though some of the loose charm is gone, there are still many highlights on the album. More terse pop gems in the bratty "Becoming" and the funky "Flying Fish." "The Boy" is a standout track, a sad and quirky story-song that moves through several different movements with ease, making poignant use of call-and-response vocals. Songs like this one could easily fit in on the Cherry Red label; bands like The Monochrome Set and Everything But the Girl; they are witty, musically complex but also breezy and lightweight. The sophomore album also demonstrates more of the band's affection for 1950s rockabilly and the burgeoning neo-swing jazz sound, influences which haven't aged particularly well, but Bisset-Smith and co. make the most of it on tracks such as "The Hypnotist" and "The Double Act." The instrumental track "GGGDADGADADAD," drawn from a seven-inch released in 1980, shows the band at its most prankish, the literalism of the title provoking an amazing stop/start, stuttering Beefheart-ian jam.
The collection ends with a pair of unreleased studio demo recordings—the last made by the group before they disbanded—which offer tantalizing hints at future iterations which were never to materialize. "Do Choose" lacks the horns which characterize the rest of Grow Up's output, though it still contains a seemingly effortless pop hook. "Black Cat Is Back" is psychedelic, alliterative beat poetry recited against dislocated guitar and flute with a field recording of a child talking the background. How this material might have slotted into a third album is anyone's guess, and a question that will never be answered. Although the LTM demographic is generally the intrepid listener of post-punk rarities, Grow Up seems to evade ghettoization, making music that has appeal well outside this obsessive coterie.
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Words like armageddon and visionary get tossed about around David Tibet (for good reason) but with this latest album, these words seem too small and meek. As hinted on Black Ships Ate the Sky and the split EP with Om, David Tibet has embraced a blistering rock aesthetic for his apocalyptic visions. Sounding as psychedelic as Of Ruine Or Some Blazing Starre or The Inmost Light trilogy, there is also a heaviness here not heard since the noisy tape loops of Current 93's embryonic period. Tibet sings of Aleph (an Adam-like character), murder, and destruction as a huge cast of musicians and vocalists create a backdrop worthy of his vision.
Tibet’s mythology grows more and more esoteric with each album, a blend of his own internal imagery and biblical terror (stemming from his ongoing obsession with scripture and study of Coptic in order to get closer to the source). “Almost in the beginning was the murderer” states the child’s voice at the beginning of the album. From here on in, everything explodes as one of the best line ups yet for Current 93 let rip. Alex Neilson’s drumming sounds like thunderclaps at the end of the universe as layers and layers of guitars, feedback and distorted vocals tear through reality. During “On Docetic Mountain,” fragments of the familiar folk strains haunt the works of Current 93 swim through the surging pulse, creating a thick and disorientating experience which brings to mind Thee Silver Mt. Zion at their most raucous. Bill Breeze’s viola and John Contreras’ cello sound almost regal amidst the grinding fuzz that the rest of the group are pouring out. Later on, the rock swamps everything; guitar solos that can only be described as shambolic, face melting blasts of white heat cut through a doom-laden riff on “Not Because the Fox Barks.” There is a first time for everything in life and playing air guitar along to Current 93 is one of them.
With no particular focus beyond a general feeling and Tibet’s vision(s), Aleph at Hallucinatory Mountain sticks out like a monolith in Current 93’s canon. Fears that this album would be a disparate work breaking under the weight of Tibet’s many collaborators were completely unfounded. Andrew W.K. and Sasha Grey may be famous for things quite different to Current 93 (as every single article or Internet discussion related to this album seems to dwell on) but they sound as home here as any Current 93 regular. Grey’s detached vocals on “As Real As Rainbows” are a world away from her usual performances (researching for reviews can be a very tough job) and she provides a sober and melancholy ending for such a vivid and energetic album.
Aside from some of the electronics and effects dotted throughout Aleph at Hallucinatory Mountain and the knowledge that it is just out this week, it would be difficult to place this album in time. It could easily be one of those obscure gems that was on the Nurse With Wound list; in fact it sounds almost like the perfect lost treasure from rock’s past. “26 April 2007” has a desert rock vibe but instead of the The Eagles and images of the great plains of America, the music instead conjures up visions of dusty vistas in northern Africa with wanderers trying to find their way back to Eden.
James Joyce once said: "It took me ten years to write Ulysses, and it should take you ten years to read it." While I am not going so far to say (yet) that this album is of the same magnitude as Ulysses the principle holds true here as Tibet and his colleagues have put two years of hard work into making this album the monument it is. Steven Stapleton and Andrew Liles have worked their wizardry in post-production to create the layers of sound that form the base of Aleph at Hallucinatory Mountain, the level of detail buried in the mix is astounding. With each listen there are further revelations, a warped David Tibet as backing vocalist here and a loop of noise there. I imagine that it will be some time before I have exhausted all of the album's secrets.
With an album as epic as this, it is virtually impossible to sum it up succinctly. It is awesome in that from the opening moments to the dying seconds, I am taken aback by the intensity and conviction. As a listener, Aleph at Hallucinatory Mountain drains and exhausts; that Tibet can pull so much emotion from his soul and still function is nothing short of astonishing.
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On their second album, Jordan McKenzie and Emi Honda have created a mesmerising experience somewhere between revolution and fairytale. It is difficult to place it accurately in any standard musical taxonomy but with elements of folk, world music and a fierce rock and roll spirit, Elfin Saddle have created some of the most stirring songs to enter my ears recently. From my glib description, they sound on paper to be yet another freak folk act with their own novelty but they are much more than that.
Ringing for the Begin Again begins like any other Constellation album, delicate and mournful strings on “The Bringer” by the label’s resident violinist Jessica Moss and gently hammered xylophone combine to make a beautiful and moving introduction to the album. McKenzie’s vocals sound like a lived-in version of Xiu Xiu’s Jamie Stewart, lilting in the rhythm of Moss’s bowing. His lyrics on this piece and elsewhere on Ringing for the Begin Again have a poetic quality that fits like a glove with the dreamy music. “The Living Light” is easily one of the best songs of the year; the driving rhythm combined with McKenzie’s almost religious singing makes a huge impression with each play through the album.
An entire album like this would be epic but Elfin Saddle have other, equally wonderful things to offer. Honda is the second vocalist in the group and sings exclusively in Japanese. Her songs have a very different tone to them compared to those sung by McKenzie, the music taking on a different beat to match the delivery of her carefully placed syllables. “Sakura” and “The Procession” have a delicate music box quality (although the presence of tuba on the latter track certainly beefs it up), Honda’s voice haunting the melodies. Honda’s crowning achievement however comes with “The Ocean” which complements the tone of “The Bringer” and bookends the album nicely.
It is hard to get these songs out of my head after listening to Ringing for the Begin Again, even the songs in Japanese stick in my brain for hours. Elfin Saddle combine incredibly infectious songwriting with a real passion that sets them apart from other quirky indie acts. Being based in Canada and with the huge list of instruments used on the album (guitar, ukulele, saw, drums, accordion, banjo, xylophone, tuba, violin, etc.) they could easily mistaken as a Broken Social Scene “everything including the kitchen sink” kind of band but they have a simplicity and humanity to them that the likes of Broken Social Scene lack.
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Taking a similar approach to the classic likes of Aube, Bionulor is billed as being focused exclusively on "sound recycling," or using only a single sample or sound as the basis for an entire piece. As a self-imposed limitation this sometimes does keep the compositions to a Spartan minimum, yet just as often become a chaotic mess of layered sounds and effects.
Some of the pieces are intentional details of singular sonic elements: both the opening "nchr.01" and "nchr.03" focus exclusively on singular stringed instrument sounds, left to repeat for lengthy periods with only the most minute changes in dynamics and layering. The changes and variations are there, but are extremely subtle, with more electronically effected sounds serving more as accompaniment to the organic sounds rather than being the dominant focus.
This is a pretty stark contrast to tracks like "pvn.," which opens with subtle ambient tones and cricket-like loops, while plucked string notes are there and clearly defined, the focus becomes much more on the processed sonic elements, via spacey pitch bent tones and more low frequency percussive thuds. The final minutes of the track pile on the effects and noises to a level of pure chaos. This dynamic carries over into “l. fll.” which, though opening with a large pastiche of silence, eventually becomes dominated by digital clicks and cuts over plucked string notes. Piano sounds are allowed to appear in their natural state for most of the piece, but the digital elements are much more the focus.
Unfortunately, these tracks are almost too chaotic for their own good, and the shift from subtle repetition to erratic texture shifts is a jarring one. Tracks like the symphonic "nchr.04" are among the most satisfying, balancing the natural with the digital well.
This is a good debut release, and the concept of limiting ones self to a single sound to create an entire piece is a good one, and definitely goes beyond the limitations of a Boss DD-5 delay pedal that Akifumi Nakajima was too reliant on, but the actual structure and composition needs more attention. A greater focus on development and sequencing as opposed to just a quick transition between moods and textures would be a definite asset to future releases.
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A reissue of an extremely LP from 2007, with an extra 28 minute bonus track, Chain Shot is an accurate title for this extremely lo-fi disc of junky metal, violent raw frequencies, and the complete exploitation of analog technology. Rather than being simply a blast of noise, it is instead a study of textures, as rough as they may be.
The LP side-long title track is an aptly titled excursion into metallic violence. It opens with dirty loops and junk metal rattling that are all pushed up on the low end of the frequency spectrum. The loops remain the focus, giving an awkward yet discernable rhythm with flanged stabs at irregular intervals. At full steam, the best comparison would be being within a large metal drum, filled with rocks and scrap metal, as its tumbling down a steep hill. After a lengthy study of tape hiss, the second half of the track focuses less on the physical sounds and more on tones and feedback. This also is given an ungodly bass boost that pushes it into the traditional overdriven grind of harsh noise, with an extremely subtle bit of metal percussion remaining.
The opening horn blast of "Execution Dock" is definitely jarring, a quick burst of multi-tracked trumpet abuse that quickly drops out into a ragged decaying loop of awkward brass. Personally, I’d have liked a bit more of the mutant-core jazz elements to stick around, but it does drop quickly into a stuttering analog loop. As the loop goes on, more horns enter, though much more quiet and restrained, groaning like a sick sheep. Though the horn loop decays away to allow some maxed out tape hiss and bassy percussive thuds, it never fully goes away, remaining up through the harsh noise mid section and into the final fragments of sound.
The third track, "Medusa," is exclusive to the CD and clocks in almost as long as the prior two tracks combined. At 28 minutes, it is given a lot more room to develop as a piece, starting from a barely audible hiss that slowly gets louder and louder, eventually being met with a bassier undercurrent. Static kicks in and is passed through a variety of filters and overdrives, and the old standby of water sloshing sounds appear as well. The track ends with squeaky squelches of noise and what resembles a leaf blower off in the distance. It isn’t a bad track, but it definitely does feel like a "bonus track" compared to the original Chain Shot material, which is much more varied and dynamic in its nature.
One thing that is definitely noteworthy on this album is simply the rawness and the grimy nature of the sound: everything sounds like it’s being played off cassettes that have been neglected in storage for decades. The original material is definitely what shines here, and it is definitely worthy of receiving this wider release, and while the bonus track is somewhat lacking in comparison, it is sill a bonus, and functions just fine in that capacity.
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This tape only release from Bong's Mike Vest sees him create some thick, stoner atmospheres with his guitar but unfortunately the riffs he unleashes with his main band are nowhere in sight. Instead he explores an ambient guitar style that does not quite pay off. Granted there are moments of psychedelic brilliance but the for the most part, the aimless guitar noodling gets in the way of something truly awesome.
The wavering recording gives the music an ancient, cavernous sound; the low fidelity giving the impression that this recording has been discovered under a pile of musty detritus in a derelict building. The sound is so mushy that most of the time it is hard to identify what instrument is being played. Due to this lack of definition and the limited range of tones being used, the music ends up blurring into itself and after a while my attention levels cannot help but drop; there is only so much wobbly guitar textures that one person can take.
Had Vest made this a shorter release or had been more adventurous with his sonic palette then The Correct Ritual would have been a far stronger release. The situation is not helped by the bizarre (and intentional) formatting of the cassette; the bulk of the album takes up one side of the tape but the strongest piece, the Throbbing Gristle-esque "Queened King," is split across both sides despite there being loads of room on side B to fit all of the music comfortably with a bit of shuffling. As it stands, The Correct Ritual is a sometimes alluring but ultimately confounding release.
Perhaps one of the most remarkable things about Derek Bailey is that, despite having left this world over three years ago, he is still releasing albums of such high quality. Out of all his posthumous releases, there are few that feel like they are cashing in on his name now that he is not here to object. This latest album sees Bailey perform as part of a frankly spectacular ensemble; the music lives up to the album’s title as it swings from a gentle abstraction to an uncompromising and visceral pummelling.
With more than one musician battling it out in a free improvisation setting, there is a tendency towards complete chaos and oversaturation of the sonic space. It is a testament to the patience and experience of these four players that Good Cop, Bad Cop is such a spacious and controlled listening experience. Control is not something that is usually praised in such music but all great improvisation is as much about restraint as it is about letting go. Across the five tracks that make up this album (each named after British police shows or phrases related to TV detectives), the moments where all four musicians are playing simultaneously are rare (only on the last and some of the first piece do they play as a foursome). Instead, they tend to pair up and spar with each other before swapping with another player.
On “The Bill,” Paul Hession’s drumming takes the centre stage as Otomo Yoshihide’s electric guitar squall flows like waves against his delicate clattering. It sounds dangerous, the hum of guitar feedback threatening to unleash all manner of violence against the listener like the proverbial bad cop standing silent in the corner of the interview room. It is this mix of almost friendly improv versus the menace of barely contained power makes this album work so well. The title track sees Bailey take on Tony Bevan’s saxophone and while it is a relatively timid performance by Bailey, Bevan is superb here. He sounds like he is blowing his entire life through the instrument’s reeds while Bailey is doing his best to keep things bolted down.
Taken together, the five pieces on Good Cop, Bad Cop add up to a tremendous album. The chopping and changing of the line up throughout makes for an hour of unexpected textures and clashes of styles; overall it is a fun approach taken by the four players and it is a surprisingly easy listen compared to how difficult free music can be. Not that it is usually a problem for me but this is one of those few improv albums you could sneak on during a party and would not get turned off after 30 seconds. I will be trying just that at a series of barbeques this year.
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James Blackshaw has released a number of introspective and genre-defying records since his debut on Digitalis Recordings. He has, however, saved his best work for his debut on Young God. With a couple of familiar Current 93 faces behind it, The Glass Bead Game exhibits Blackshaw's experimental preferences, but also showcases his strength as an emotive and able songwriter.
Why Blackshaw named his album after a Herman Hesse novel is anyone's guess. Strong religious and romantic allusions aside, Blackshaw's music is simply and strikingly hypnotic. Its mantra-like quality is perhaps the only qualification required to share a name with Hesse's meditation on the intellectual and mystical. But, this hypnotic color is something every Blackshaw record has featured; his love for the likes of Terry Riley and Erik Satie is not hard to discern and his guitar-playing style lends itself to adjectives like "rolling" and "kaleidoscopic." He has flirted with American folk music and toed the line between classical and modern guitar performances. At a young age he has explored more musical territory than many bands do over the course of an entire career. What differentiates this album from his previous efforts is the quality of the voices added to the arrangements. Accompanying him throughout are Joolie Wood, John Contreras, and Lavinia Blackwall. Flutes, clarinets, violins, pianos, and a stellar vocal performance all support and deepen Blackshaw's already sophisticated and intense approach to composition and performance. It's as if this is the band he has always wanted with him. Together with their talents, Blackshaw sounds more spectral and colorful than ever.
"Cross," the opening song, immediately communicates that Blackshaw and company are out to impress. With all pistons firing, Blackshaw paints a dramatic, but meditative melodic picture with his guitar. His strings are seemingly caught in a never-ending upward movement, each note intent on elevating the song to a higher and more introspective level. In the background, violins and cellos radiate a steady current of calm hums and ghostly utterances. Then, with just a brief pause, the band begins to weave their disparate melodic and harmonic patterns together, further enrichening the song's lively character. Each member bends their instrument, wringing from it more emotion than was present the moment before. This pattern continues until Lavinia Blackwall adds her voice to the mix. Wordlessly, she accentuates the song's beauty with eruptions of melody and effortless soul. Her voice seems to steam off of the music, occuring as a natural result of all the activity already churning beneath it. It's a stunning way to start a record and, after hearing it for the first time, I was uncertain that anything could live up to it. Smartly, Blackshaw goes into deep meditation with both "Bled" and "Fix." His nimble fingers create a ton of sound in both cases, but both songs are less showy than "Cross" and both find Blackshaw focusing on simple and direct arrangements. The latter is a brief and lovely piano-based song fleshed out by understated and cinematic string accompaniments. "Key" bridges the gap between all the previous songs and the concluding "Arc," which is as epic as anything Blackshaw has attempted before. It's moderate pace and gentle dynamics pave the way for the epic conclusion that follows.
"Arc" begins as though it were meant to be played at a funeral. Although the tones pulled from the piano are largely major and bright, they eminate an evocative quietude that only remembrance and yearning can accompany. After a short time Blackshaw's piano erupts into glissandi, as though an epiphany hit him in mid-song. As the piano fluctuates between high and low notes, the song and all of its parts develop a crystalline texture. Each of the instruments begin to blend into one another. "Arc" eventually becomes a mass of glowing sound with different elements peaking their heads above the cascade of music that's been created. The song completely destroys all sense of time and place. Instruments bleed into one another and become disassociated from their source. Whenever a particular sound rises above the others, whether its being made by a voice, an instrument, or a combination thereof can be difficult to determine. Played at loud volumes, it's an absolutely transfixing and ecstatic piece of music capable of procuring an emotional response from the listener. After I heard it for the first time, I found myself with my jaw agape and my breath left short. Something very magical happened when these musicians came together. I can only hope it won't be the last time we see Blackshaw collaborating in such a fashion. It's hard not to talk in a superlative manner about this record; it is majestic and deserving of more accolades and praise than I can possibly write.
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As part of the spilt series by the Baltimore label Wildfire Wildfire, this single gives two exciting examples of fluid electronic songcraft. By different means, both groups evoke feelings of retro-futuristic goodwill by combining digital composition with analogue musicianship.
 
For a band, nothing can be more fruitful, or more dangerous, than attempting reinvention with every release. While constant change can be a sign that a group lacks basic aesthetic principals, there are a few that can maintain a distinct personality through every genre they work in. From the drum-less punk of their debut Freckle Wars to the shimmering guitar-scapes of last year's Way, Ecstatic Sunshine has become one of those groups. Now playing solo under that moniker, group founder Matthew Papich has used the recent shakedown to concentrate on guitar and electronics in equal measure. Even when his instrument is heavily processed, Papich's guitar tone has a bright, crystalline clarity. On "Easy is Right" he plays a simple, echoing riff that serves as base for obtuse, seemingly random synth tones. The bright, taffy like globs of sound push themselves into the foreground, threatening to but never burying the underlying guitar. The song drifts pleasantly along, undulating in pitch until the each sound element is gradually unraveled.
On the flip-side, "Take Turns" by Lucky Dragons is much more muted and organic. The song begins with a simple melody plucked out on a thumb piano. After a few measures, the notes quickly pile on top of each other, snowballing into pentatonic, gamelan like arrangements. Shakers, mouth trumpet, and muted voices join in the chatter. The song feels like some animistic rain-chant, but it never becomes raucous or loose. Each instrument stays firmly rooted in its pre-programmed position. What’s exceptional is that were it not for the artificial precision of the playing, you would never know the song was constructed electronically.
What unites the two songs is creative use of electronic instrumentation. Rather than letting their working methods determine the aesthetics of their music, the two artists use their tools in unexpected ways. Solo guitar music can be overly sober and technical, but Ecstatic Sunshine makes it bright and relaxed. Lucky Dragons so successfully blend native instruments that the whole process sounds natural. Though this single is a brief entry in each band’s catalogue, it neatly condenses what is appealing in both.
