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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The creak of organ has an organic rot to it, the switches in frequency sometime a little heavy/clunky. There are swirls like falling ash, the dry croak of a flickering flame in the wind sending mini-drones through passages of closedown. There could not be any better compliment than to say this could have easily been an American tapes style release, a cleaner take on John Olson's Full Scales project. If it is possible to get a ghost in the machine, then this is the sound of the body’s internal organs closing down before the ghost is born.
It may have taken a few years longer than hoped, but that other Cornish madman has at last perfected the formula he has relentlessly toiled over with this batch of infectiously quirky acid-blasted instant classics. The chronic unevenness that hindered many of his releases this century is noticeably absent from this gooey mix of "grown folks" electronica.
2007 is shaping up to be quite productive for Vibert. Chicago, Detroit, Redruth, his second long player for Planet Mu, was preceded by The Ace Of Clubs' Benefist album and Rubber Chunks EP on Firstcask. Furthermore, he unleashed a whole slew of digital reissues exclusively via Warp Records' Bleep.Com download service, including several out-of-print Wagon Christ releases and the coveted Plug album Drum 'n' Bass For Papa. As for the remaining months, Lo Recordings is just about to drop his anticipated full length Moog Acid collaboration with the legendary Jean Jacques Perrey, and, according to the Rephlex website, a follow-up to 1993's Vibert/Simmonds album appears due out this year. Still, without having heard these latter two releases, Chicago, Detroit, Redruth is positioned to be his finest this decade.
Though remarkably cohesive as a whole, the album engages in a fair bit of genre hopping throughout, from the dangling boom-bap and fidgety squiggles of "Clikilik" to the astonishingly straightforward Plus8-referencing techno of "Argument Fly." Spectacular opener "ComfyCozy" brilliantly slaps a drum n' bass rhythm against a piano-driven jazz performance gilded with electronic touches, recalling for this fan the very first time he heard the aforementioned Plug. As expected, Vibert doles out invigorating acid like "Brain Rave" and the joyously retrospective title track. However, there are some real surprises here, such as "Swet," an eight-minute freaky groove that tactfully samples the instantly recognizable doorbell sequence from The Jetsons. Here, an unanticipated maturity surfaces from a producer oft noted for having his tongue permanently stationed in his cheek.
Of course, the sacred Roland TB-303 box returns as a pivotal weapon in the Vibertian arsenal, delivering those signature squelchy sequences that simply cannot be beat. However, the artist has finally mastered just how to best use that invaluable box in the context of his irreverent yet enticing productions, far more so than on less satisfying affairs like YosepH and Lover's Acid. But any music geek worth his salt knows that acid was—and is—more than a box. The essence of those good old days dominates on "Breakbeat Metal Music," which only sparingly utilizes the 303, and the heavenly "Radio Savalas."
With nary a drippy track in the bunch, Chicago, Detroit, Redruth redeems the unsettlingly hit-or-miss nature of his 21st century work, be it Kerrier District's daft disco, Wagon Christ's kitsch-funk, or any number of styles wielded by his elusive collection of monikers. Though last year's high-energy-meets-deep-bass Amen Andrews vs Spac Hand Luke deviated delightfully from that trend, this new set for Planet Mu represents a creative triumph from a producer who now appears unstoppable.
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David P. Madson continues his explorations in musical collage with this dense mix of chance sounds, "real" instruments such as Dee Kesler's guitar, samples, and the voices of such guests as Jessica Bailiff and TV on the Radio's Tunde Adebimpe.
Anticon
Along with plenty of dub thump and melodic blast, Level Live Wires has some pleasing swells and crackling electronics reminiscent of Tim Hecker. The disc is packed with disparate elements, sudden lurches, swerves, complete stops, slowdowns and glides, yet Madson's skill is such that the overall flow stimulates and engages.
For a long time it was a struggle to get into this record. It didn't make sense to me on headphones, and when played through speakers several people demanded that it be taken off. One morning though, I grabbed it as I headed to work and finally its perfect setting emerged: it sounds great on a busy drive when in danger of being late for an appointment. It is all mirrored in this record—the anxiousness, the feeling of speeding along highways, glancing in the rearview mirror, slowing to a crawl, being stuck at lights that appear to be broken, zooming past slouches, picking your nose, braking sharply, keeping one eye out for a traffic cop, pulling away from the lights like shit off a shovel, watching the clock and the speedometer, getting trapped in the purgatory of being behind parallel drivers across all lanes at the same speed, relaxing when some time has been made up, a peripheral glance at a smart young woman in a newer, bigger vehicle, and so on,... Level Live Wires sounded right when I was in motion.
Oddly, only later did I notice that the back cover art shows a car on fire, and the track "Burner" features Madson's recording of an abandoned vehicle exploding in front of his apartment, horn blaring. The overwhelming feeling of the disc is of being alert and anxious. Luckily, I'm usually late and Level Live Wires will be staying in the car.
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This recording of a partial Wolf Eyes reunion line-up, ex member Aaron Dilloway joining Nate Young and Steve Kenney's Demonic duo, shows that chemistry doesn't ever dissipate. Using synths more as manglers of notes rather than creators or melodies, this 2007 show sees a swollen Demons absorb Dilloway into their mass like they were The Blob back in 1958.
Taking out penance on the audience, the big industrial rhythmic opening is like jackbooted monks marching to some chilly crypt. The melting solder notes course like tunnel excavations or the passing of some great sky ship's daylight blackout. The very un-silent running of black panelled freighters smearing everything in LED pocked audio oil slicks. Like insect legs Dilloway's spindly tape work jangles and bonds with the conserve mass of Young and Kenney's work.
The second piece converts a grand old modulated melody into swirls of a sprawling chthonian counter notes. Dilloway's click-and-brutal-chop bursts wire and sockets into a full-on electricity moulting, synths and boxes tuned to putrefy mode. As it stirs, the piece becomes something akin to snail's pace wintery doom metal…sort of.
With a big black low slung bass sound, legs spread in rock mode Demons are continuing to swell their sound.
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This is the least modern sounding new release of the year. Rick Tomlinson's Voice of the Seven Woods creates druggy, foreign sounding psychedelica that sounds like it was performed 30 years ago in some unknown, possibly mythical, land. The ten pieces exemplify all that is good about the guitar and all that is holy about music.
What impresses me most about Voice of the Seven Woods is the reverence for the guitar as a musical instrument. There is little messing about with feedback, unnatural effects or even amplification; instead the guitar is played masterfully. Tomlinson's fingers must be under an unreal amount of control, the licks and melodies he pulls from his instruments are incredibly detailed but sound completely effortless. While Voice of the Seven Woods would have been almost run of the mill in the late '60s and early '70s, today there are so few guitarists who push the melodic capabilities of their instrument in any meaningful way that an album like this sounds almost alien.
Only "Second Transition" lets the album down in any way; its over reliance on guitar effects sometimes smothers Tomlinson's playing and this number is of a slightly lower quality compared to that of the other pieces. However, this is just one small fly in an exquisite ointment. Every other second of music on this self-titled disc sounds sublime, mixing the kind of exotica that the Sun City Girls would murder for with a western sheen, most excitingly realised with the funk/folk trip of "The Fire in My Head." Later on with "Return From Byzantium," Tomlinson summons up the ghosts of Can's most blissed out moments to produce one of the album's most exhilarating segments.
Previous experiences of Voice of the Seven Woods in both recorded and live capacities have been patchy at best but with this release I am well and truly converted. My jaw hit the floor from the get go and only when the drool was forming an unsightly pool could I manage to close my mouth again. Granted that there is absolutely nothing here that is new or forward-thinking but thinking like that misses the point of this music entirely, it is a refinement both musically and emotionally of a fine art.
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Robert Pollard's Circus Devils are back with their fifth album and I cannot say it does much for me. There is some solid rock on this disc but ham-fisted lyrics and a few too many guitar clichés make the album tough to listen to more than a couple of times. For every good piece of music there is a set of accompanying lyrics that completely alienate the listener. I have a strong sense that more thought was put into making incomprehensible lyrics than making fully-formed songs in any shape or form.
On "Summer is Set" Pollard sings of an "avalanche of mumbo-jumbo" and this just about sums up the album. The lyrics remind me a lot of Buzz Osbourne's of the Melvins and Les Claypool's of Primus: weird in a very American way; an unhealthy obsession with B-Movie sci fi and odd phrases seemingly included in order to rhyme with other odd phrases. Unlike the Melvins (or to a lesser extent Primus), Circus Devils never manage to blend the surreal with the tangible. The music is too easy going; there is no bridge between the oddities of Pollard's vocals and the mundane garage band rock. There is no indication whether Pollard intends his lyrics to be humorous or serious. Even if they are meant to be funny, the joke is lost on me. As a result, the vocals sound silly and detract from the listening experience.
Credit where it is due, Sgt. Disco is not always a chore to listen to. Some of the music does break out from its generic guitar band aesthetic and develops a little bit of edge. Even the lyrics of "In Madonna's Gazebo" cannot take away from the savage guitar playing that cuts all the way through the song. One of the few songs that manages to be good both musically and lyrically is "The Constable's Headscape," which comes closest to sounding like the militaristic disco of the album's title. Aside from this and a handful of other good songs, Sgt. Disco is unfortunately bereft of much excitement.
I found it very hard to listen to this album more than a few times to review. There are so many songs (32!) on this album that I feel like it should be winding down when it is only a third of the way through. I have a feeling that this fatigue is another factor in Sgt. Disco's complete failure to engage me. If the album was chopped down to a more sensible number of tracks then I feel it might work better but as it is, it is much too long to waste time trying to appreciate.
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Alongside D'arcangelo's recent Eksel, this eagerly awaited new album from the well-regarded producer has rekindled my appreciation and even my passion for chin-scratching, toe-tapping IDM.
Darrell Fitton's music has always exuded an affective, pastoral beauty betwixt his skittery rhythms, somewhat akin to the work of the comparatively over-hyped Boards of Canada. It might seem somewhat vexing to operate in the exquisite shadow of an act that has achieved such an uneven level of attention despite the fact that their breakthrough records both appeared within the same year. Yet throughout the past decade, Fitton has persevered with roughly twice the output of his pseudo-cabalistic Scottish peers, maintaining as well as growing a passionate fan base that relishes said output. His continued partnership with Skam has arguably kept that label from fading into the shadows like so many others that peaked in the mid-to-late 90s. Kroungrine, his latest full-length for the imprint, shows the artist undeterred in executing his creative vision and disinterested in callous trend hopping.
"Zoft Broiled Ed" kicks off this album of mutant hip-hop with subcutaneous bleeps and caustic percussive hits. The kick-snare combo of "Noop" slams deep into the guts of the genre with an intensity that is markedly strengthened by its soothing pads and digesting bass groans. The instant classic "Waknuts" slowly builds a plodding old-school rhythm around a misleadingly simple tonal melody, building on and subtracting from the mix at all the right moments. Fitton lets his sense of humor seep into his material, as on the cheekily named "Halylooya," containing video game loops, celestial lacquer, and an enigmatic vocal sample that conspicuously straddles a not-so-fine line between the divine and the impious. His minor blasphemy is easily forgivable when followed up by the warbling sonics of "Urenforpuren" and the razor-sharp rhythms of "Phulcra." The pensive and penultimate "Rainslaight" marries a timeless tenderness with its gurgling contrivances, while the protracted closer "Diamortem" consumes itself in an ambience that attempts a balance between darkness and light, admittedly leaning towards the former, as it morphs elegantly and cinematically through its fifteen minute duration.
Euphemistically speaking, Kroungrine is like ear candy for urban somnambulists, a mesmerizing confection of enchantingly hazy atmospheres and deep brooding beats. This estimable album has so much to explore that repeat listens yield previously unacknowledged textures and layers that lie veiled in a subtlety worth unraveling. For those seeking relief from the noise in their everyday lives, but don't wish to be bored in the process, Bola's latest effort may prove to alleviate, entertain, and, perhaps, comfortably discomfort.
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A cross-generational collaboration between these two giants of the world of esoteric sound manifests itself exactly as would be imagined, and for the listener who is willing to give it the close attention it requires, there are great rewards.
The murky artwork of this disc is a perfect metaphor for the contents, it is a hazy miasma of lo-fi electronic distortion, random sounds, hidden organic instrumentation, and bleak noisescapes.
Consisting only of two tracks that clock in together at about 30 minutes, it's a slow, bleat descent for the listener. The duo of GMS and Pete Swanson recorded this disc live, but the attention to detail would fool anyone into thinking that it was a more premeditated set of multitracked recordings, but no, they're live improvisations.
The opening electronic buzz, clicking loops and distant strings of "Descent 1" are the audio manifestation of the cover art: dark black and muted shades of gray with no light seeping in. The feeling of depressed restraint continues as a hint of feedback comes in here and there, and a few actual recognizable guitar notes as well. Then noise bursts start showing up, which eventually grow to dominate the mix that, even with the audible guitar playing, becomes a slab of pure noise and feedback for the remainder of the track.
"Descent 2" has the same feel, ominous electronic buzzing textures cast a dark shadow over the entire 17 minute span of the piece, but end up in contention throughout with a harsh noise side with no clear winner, though the track feels restrained throughout, like something seething at the bottom just waiting to spring forward, but never quite does. The enduring buzzsaw drone is the constant throughout though, and once again a bit of obvious, untreated guitar, rears its head.
As a whole, this album has a depressed, muted feel. There are hints of surly, angry electronics that occasionally pop up in the traditional harsh noise sense, but as a whole things stay restrained throughout, a fog of lo-fi noise textures an occasional bits of obvious instrumentation. It's not a noise disc to head bang or faux mosh to…I get a distinct feeling that it would go great with a dose of recreational painkillers, though I can't encourage the listeners to test that theory.
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A full year after the release of Melody Mountain, a holistically flawed but nonetheless bewitching covers record, this entrancing chanteuse apprehensively steps a little closer to the spotlight's glare with this consummate work of understated, rare beauty.
I was completely caught off guard when, after impulsively purchasing it on the basis of a glowing description displayed in a local record store, I first heard List of Lights and Buoys, the debut album from Susanna and the Magical Orchestra. Coming from a childhood full of positive exposure to powerful yet innately fragile female songwriters like Joan Baez and Joni Mitchell, I found myself mesmerized by the captivating voice of Susanna Karolina Wallumrød. Whether pleading over the dulcimer melody on an impassioned version of Dolly Parton's "Jolene" or elegantly dazzling on the breathtaking "Turn The Pages," I felt disoriented and enamored all at once, like experiencing love for the first time all over again. Last year's follow-up to that untouchable masterpiece, unfortunately, didn't tug at the old heartstrings in the same way, largely a complication arising from its experimental karaoke-like approach. Listening to Susanna siren her way through well worn Depeche Mode and Joy Division singles, I longed for a return to the sheer honesty of the project's original material. Melody Mountain seemed almost like a diversion, a parochially cruel one at that, which makes the empyreal Sonata Mix Dwarf Cosmos all the more amazing.
For this album, her first solo showcase, Susanna doesn't veer very far from the restrained expressions of melancholia prevalent in her work with Morten Qvenild in the Magical Orchestra. While still lean on instrumentation, the production, however, percolates potent warmth in contrast with Qvenvild's otherwise alien tendencies and frequencies. Though we are left to wonder what this alluring Nordic goddess would sound like with a fuller band behind her, her collaborators do an excellent job of adding their touches to her mesmeric compositions, to which she also contributes piano and guitar. Devoted Rune Grammofon and Norwegian music aficionados will recognize many of these guests, which include album producer Helge Sten of Deathprod and Supersilent acclaim, Ola Fløttum of The White Birch, and Scorch Trio bassist Ingebrigt Håker Flaten, as well as Susanna's own jazz pianist brother, Christian. Qvenild also lends his hand to two of the tracks here, but as with most singer-songwriter albums, the session musicians deferentially and by default take a figuratively diminished role, with the vocalist serving as proverbial focal point gloriously exposed to the judging and often jaded ears of hopeful listeners and curious critics alike.
Susanna has nothing to worry about from that latter category, as only the coldest of cold hearts could resist her pensive and, at times, plaintive songs of love and distance. Though a reasonable criticism of an overshadowing uniformity could be made, such analysis seems pedagogically crass in the face of such wistful soul-baring cuts as "Intruder" and the penetrating "Hangout." Perhaps dangerously close to the edge, Susanna never allows her voice to tremble on the precious "Lily," a moving tribute that extends the high end of her already admirable vocal range. "Better Days" adds a bit of country twang to the mix, courtesy of Bigbang's Øystein Greni, while the agonizing and emotional piano tune "For You" could just as easily been shouted instead of sung. "People Living," the closest thing to a proper single found here, features deep, plucked guitar in its chorus of sparse chords and her constant questioning.
With the three albums under her belt, any derisive or complimentary comparisons to that eccentric Scandinavian Bjork should have all but evaporated, as Susanna has categorically transcended such lazy posturing and blossomed into a full-fledged artist in her own right, unmatched by the current crop of radio-ready sensitive gals. Sonata Mix Dwarf Cosmos surely puts that nonsense to rest with each consecutive intoxicating nuance of these soft lullabies for the disquiet soul.
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