Hydra Head
If they are to be believed, Thad Calabrese and Justin Foley met at acamp for wayward young men that was meant to treat feelings ofhomosexuality and to eliminate them. Rather than use this as the basisfor so much melodrama and angst to crash their prom a la Saved!,the two went on to forge anthems of fury and naked aggression, set tothe punishing sounds of a full volume drum machine that seems to borrowall its sounds from old Slayer and Heathen records. The two have analmost easy connection, playing bass and guitar over the snare smacksand cymbal crashes in a kind of symbiotic synchronization. Then, Foleysings, or tries to sing, and his voice cracks trying to sustainit all, singing about unfulfilled prophecies, disease, and otherunrelated and thrown together nonsense. It surely is not meant to be asfunny as it is, and there is a genuine passion to the inflections overthe fairly standard guitar buzz and bass-through-weak-amp tomfoolery.Unfortunately, the band lacks direction, letting their epics sprawl outpast a nine-minute mark that they should never see, and more phrasesthat don't connect. The songs use the exact same drum, guitar, and basssounds, like they were never moved or experimented with during therecording of this EP, and share the exact same tempo. Foley, for allthe passion he exudes, merely comes off like Blaise Bailey Finneganwith less taste in plagarizing. There's spaces where there shouldn'tbe, and long passages of the same notes played for far too long, likethe duo are searching for an idea while they play. They find a few, butnone of them are really noteworthy or even all that good. Maybe it'sthe age of the recordings and they've advanced a lot, but I doubt it.They kind of know their limitations, or so the lyrics seem to suggest,as Foley howls "I knew this ride would never last" and other fatalistremarks. They're probably right if they continue on like this, asthere's very little in these songs to latch on to for more than a fewseconds.
If they are to be believed, Thad Calabrese and Justin Foley met at acamp for wayward young men that was meant to treat feelings ofhomosexuality and to eliminate them. Rather than use this as the basisfor so much melodrama and angst to crash their prom a la Saved!,the two went on to forge anthems of fury and naked aggression, set tothe punishing sounds of a full volume drum machine that seems to borrowall its sounds from old Slayer and Heathen records. The two have analmost easy connection, playing bass and guitar over the snare smacksand cymbal crashes in a kind of symbiotic synchronization. Then, Foleysings, or tries to sing, and his voice cracks trying to sustainit all, singing about unfulfilled prophecies, disease, and otherunrelated and thrown together nonsense. It surely is not meant to be asfunny as it is, and there is a genuine passion to the inflections overthe fairly standard guitar buzz and bass-through-weak-amp tomfoolery.Unfortunately, the band lacks direction, letting their epics sprawl outpast a nine-minute mark that they should never see, and more phrasesthat don't connect. The songs use the exact same drum, guitar, and basssounds, like they were never moved or experimented with during therecording of this EP, and share the exact same tempo. Foley, for allthe passion he exudes, merely comes off like Blaise Bailey Finneganwith less taste in plagarizing. There's spaces where there shouldn'tbe, and long passages of the same notes played for far too long, likethe duo are searching for an idea while they play. They find a few, butnone of them are really noteworthy or even all that good. Maybe it'sthe age of the recordings and they've advanced a lot, but I doubt it.They kind of know their limitations, or so the lyrics seem to suggest,as Foley howls "I knew this ride would never last" and other fatalistremarks. They're probably right if they continue on like this, asthere's very little in these songs to latch on to for more than a fewseconds.samples:
Paul Dickow is submerged in the hazy underworld of drugs, secrets, andfailing memory. His music is a borderline between narcotic dreams andreality; there is no certainty in the melodies and beats that flowsteadily through these seven songs, but rhythms do emerge and gasprecognizably without fail. Strategy's newest release is march towardscontradiction. There are dub rhythms bobbing back and forth throughoutthe watery synthesizers and echoed noises, but they never seem to headanywhere. All the while, without giving notice, they morph and changewith the highlighted melodies and uneasy motions of the music. Dickowhas played with Fontanelle, Nudge, and Emergency, as well as remixedmaterial for Stars As Eyes, and this material sounds at as uniquecompared to the rest of his work. Despite the title of the CD, there'snothing Max Roach or Bill Bruford about these songs; they're all asteady flow of not quite intelligible words, sounds, and heartbeats. Attimes, like on "Drumsolo's Delight," the drums play a more noticablerole than on the rest of the record, but they always seem like they'rebeing choked underneath a mass of effects and late nighthallucinations. Nothing moves quickly enough to escape my ears, butnone of the sounds rest on a firm ground; this gives Drumsolo's Delightan uneasy delivery. At times the slow motion eruptions and naturaldevelopments are appealing and at other times they are painfully slowand do nothing for me. Sleeping music this might be, something to beplayed in the background, but it rarely moves or evolves in a way thatmakes active listening a joy. There are exceptions to this rule,however, as other parts of the record are compelling in their aquaticsway. "The Jazzy Drumsolo" is an excellent merging or steady rhythms,repetitive melodies, and noise-driven tangents. As various sounds seepout of the background, the rhythms and melodies shift and becomesomething entirely different. When some element of the track wears itswelcome away, another piece of the picture slides into view andcontinues to carry the music away in a floating drift. I'm not usuallya fan of something this direct. All the sounds are quite obviouslylaptop or keyboard-oriented and there's little to no variation in thedirection of any of the songs (they all sound like perpetual chillmotors made for slowing the heart down), but Drumsolo's Delightkept me strangely interested. I never moved to change the songshalf-way through their duration and I never once stopped and thought tomyself, "I hope this ends soon." I could deal with a bit more diversityor at least some surprising changes because the nature of this recordlends itself towards the obvious and simple. The whole album soundslike the color blue and that color never really changes from track totrack. Everything marches steadily on into infinity, until Dickowdecides to shut everything down. This record has its good moments, butthere's nothing fantastic about it that makes me want to listen to itagain and again. -
This gap-filler disc from Murcof is Leaf's way to buy time and keep thename fresh before the release of the next proper Murcof album, but it'sno less inspired, all the same. Beginning with a 10 minute epic of filmscore orchestration and minimal techno thump, Utopiaestablishes early on that Murcof is dealing with a larger scope and amore developed tone than many of his contemporaries. Jan Jelenik'sclicky, jazz-spliced remix of "Maiz" is the perfect groovy counterpointto the album's creeping, moody opener. Sutekh gives "Memoria" a tweakedtechno workout with plenty of glitches and squiggles that pop out overthe monotone bassline and piano chord. "Utano" blends dark cello andbrass timbres with twinkling electronic percussion for a while, thendrops out the techno trappings for a more experimental approach to thecinematic loops and swells that other artists tend to leave in thebackground. It's refreshing for someone working with beats not to makethe beats the primary focus for a change, and Murcof is able to bendand arrange sounds with a composer's rather than dj's ear. Theremaining remixes are mostly placid and unremarkable; not an affront tothe source material but certainly not as clever as they'd like to be oras necessary. "Una," the second to last of the un-remixed tracks takessymphonic and operatic fragments and glues them to a stutteringdsp-laden beat that is just short of club-friendly, but not sooverblown as to draw unneccessary attention to itself. The "ColleenMix" of "Muim" could easily figure in a Chris Nolen film as its allbackwards pianos and heavy string passages that conjure up the grimynoir of "Memento" and the slick isolation of "Insomnia" equally. Theremixes are all solid, sometimes taking an ambient detour that'swelcome amidst the electrobeats, but Murcof's originals clearly standout as the best tracks here. If nothing else, Utopia performs its role by making a case for watching for the forthcoming album and possibly for picking up the back catalog. 
Having listened to and zoned out on this release at least half a dozentimes, it should be obvious what it is that is so compelling about[sic]'s compositions of dusty long drones, deep ambient spaces andbump-in-the-night tension, but it's not. On the one hand, this isdifficult listening: all uneasy sounds and dischordant timbres rubbingup against one another to create an ambiguous feeling of dread. On theother hand, for those familiar with the work of like-minded artistslike those featured on the quasi-legendary "Isolationism" compilation,[sic] fits perfectly into a already-defined niche of dark, broodingambient characterized more by its claustrophobia than by its usereflection of space as an expanse. I could tell you that Gorilla Masking Tapeis a beautiful, haunting record, or that it's alpha-wave inducing atthe right volume, or that it's a perfectly quiet record for people wholead unquiet lives, but none of that really captures the force thatthese tracks embody. Perhaps the record's most defining characteristicis that it is indeed so malleable that it can be both loud and quiet,both serene and disturbed, both beautiful and terrifying and that itdoes all of this effortlessly. I often wonder what more can be saidabout music like this that is both barely there and a force of natureall at once, depending on your volume knob. I always think that it willbe impossible for someone to release yet another essential darkambient disc in a world where artists who do this sort of thing tend tohave voluminous discographies of equally affecting work already. Ithink that, and then I hear a record like Gorilla Masking Tapeand it suddenly all sounds fresh and important and essential again andI'm left wanting more. It doesn't get much better than that.
A is a definite article, a method of distinguishing an individual froma group, singling out the one particular subject that deserves all theattention. I don't know the true origins of that particular A, theabove definition would certainly make Carl Newman's self-amendeddesignation quite the aptonym. The Slow Wonderis an A, a defining article that raises Carl Newman from the crowdedhouse he built for the New Pornographers to his very own center stage.Newman is out this time with a collection of even newer rock and rollpornographers who are every bit as dig-deep tenacious and blissfullysonorous. The Slow Wonder is a further refinement of the ideas swirled across Mass Romantic and honed on The Electric Version.Newman has emerged from behind the curtain with a slab of popperfection, matching the heights of those previous records whileshowcasing a more personal stake in the music, as opposed to thecommunal conceptualism of the Pornographer records. "The Miracle Drug"is an assuring opener, almost alarmingly familiar with vocalist SarahWheeler backing up to fill in the Neko Case role (with such quality asto arouse curiosity as to what she might sound like out in front). Thesonic similarities only serve to demonstrate Newman's persisting talentin knowing what makes a great song and the ability to do so freshly, atwill. The melodious "On The Table" politely drips across the pianokeyboard with a dignified reserve before soaring into a kaleidoscopicrush of unbridled enthusiasm in the chorus. Amidst the crowd pleasersis "Come Crash," a gorgeous ballad that slowly probes the innerworkings of an obscure relationship. While never revealing too much indirect statements, the song instead pieces the story together throughthe shadows cast by the firework bursting bridge and shards ofconversation that slowly flicker and fade. It is a wonderfulcenterpiece to the album, and a more introspective side of Newman thanmost of us have been treated to. "The Town Halo" rockets the album skyhigh once again, thickly rooted in a repeating loop of strings, surgingforward in a thrust of accusatory questioning and boundary marking.Along with the closer, "35 In The Shade," the song surrounds Newmanwith a throng of background singers, lending their collective voices tothe music he has crafted. This aspect of the album seems perfectlynatural, as it is hard to resist joining in. Newman is a songwriter ofthe highest caliber, one who is capable of implanting a song deepwithin the psyche and coaxing it back out once again through the voicesof listeners. The Slow Wonder outputs nothing but unabashed joy through song and demands nothing less back.
Though Steven Stapleton could not be bothered to play at the recent Toronto shows, he did come to the city to lurk about the concert hall, bringing along 500 copies of this 7" red vinyl single. As limited Nurse With Wound items go, this one is fairly inessential to all but the most rabid collectors.
This limited edition, blue 7" vinyl single comprises two songs recordedlive at the October Gallery in London on October 5, 2003. Both of thesongs are done in the intimate "voice and piano" style familiar fromCurrent 93 releases such as Soft Black Stars and Hypnagogue,with Maja Elliott providing the musical accompaniment. Side A has DavidTibet tackling the singularly epic "Time of the Last Persecution," thetitle track from underappreciated singer-songwriter Bill Fay's materful1971 concept album. Fay's original version had all the dramaticorchestral swells of a sixties Scott Walker production, augmented bymind-blowing fuzz guitar and a truly monumental climax. For all theoverblown majesty of the original, however, the song holds up amazinglywell with the minimal arrangement by Tibet and Elliott. Tibet's voiceis a perfect instrument to portray the resigned dread of Bill Fay'sArmageddon scenario: "It is the time of the last persecution/And Caesarshall be raised/He will ask for his feet to be kissed by yoursister/And your children will fear at his name." It's as if Tibet andFay are spiritual songwriting partners, as both share the same affinityfor hallucinatory visions of Gnostic Revelation. Side B is a fine butunremarkable rendition of "Black Flowers, Please," a track off Swastikas for Noddyand a perennial live favorite. For the version of "Time of the LastPersecution" alone, however, this single is worth tracking down. - 
Another of Durtro's limited edition goodies available at the recentToronto shows, this is a CDEP of David Tibet singing two of hisfavorite tracks from Simon Finn's Pass the Distance album, with Finnhimself on guitar and Joolie Wood on flute. While Tibet obviously hasaffection for this material, and he is careful not to trod upon itsmemory, he is perhaps a little too respectful with these coverversions. Rather than try to match or exceed Finn's soul-shatteringvocal climax on "Jerusalem," Tibet instead covers the song in hisfamiliar "speak-sing" style, barely cracking his voice for thepenultimate chorus. Also, for some reason known only to him, Tibet hasdecided to cut "The Courtyard" in half, singing only the first part ofthe song. The pretty acoustic backing and flourishes of flute are niceenough, but I don't think they work nearly as well for this material asthe kitchen-sink production of Finn's classic album. The only advantageof hearing Tibet tackle this material is the fact that it renders thelyrics much clearer and easier to decipher, as they are not coveredover by layers of reverb and detuned guitar acrobatics. Still, this EPhas the stink of a vanity project all over it, and while it's fun tolisten to the first few times, I'm not sure it's of any particular useto Current 93 fans or Simon Finn fans.
Current 93's recent concerts in Toronto saw the release of a smalltreasure trove of limited EPs and 7" singles. One of most unexpected ofthese was a five-track CDEP of new material from Simon Finn. If anyhave heard about Finn's activities in the years since he recorded thelegendary Pass the Distance,it's been through rumor and innuendo, and generally falls along thelines of: "Recorded one album then disappeared. Now a[psychotic/drug-addled/lobotomized] hermit, living in [a one-roomshack/his mother's basement/a sanitarium]." Well, the truth might bestranger than the cliché in Finn's case, who moved to Canada, gotmarried and became a soybean farmer, apparently. After David Tibetbecame obsessed with Pass the Distance a year or so ago, hetracked down Simon Finn at his Canada home, and arranged not only forthe reissue of of that seminal LP, but also this EP of new material anda few live gigs opening up for Current 93 for three nights in Toronto.If anyone had asked me to rate the chances of the elusive Simon Finnresurfacing in 2004 to play a series of live shows, I'd have rated thema low zero. I would have further doubted the sanity of someone whosuggested that Finn would ever record new material. Though it couldpotentially be a big embarrassment, Silent City Creep isactually quite good. It's somewhat surreal to hear Finn's voiceunmitigated by the murky echo and bizarre instrumentation to which I'dbecome accustomed. Instead, Finn's voice and gentle acoustic guitarcome through clearly, in five songs that reminded me of Tom Rapp (ofPearls Before Swine), with their Dylanesque melodies and apocalypticlyrics fraught with symbolism and mythological references. On "WalkieTalkie," Finn bemoans the isolation caused by the mediation oftechnology into human communication: "And we all go walkie talkie/Thenwe all go run and hide/Between the cracks of our illusion/From ourdepredated lives/And we hold on to our cocks/And we hold on to ourcunts/To assert we're still alive/And to tell our backs from fronts."Strangely, Silent City Creep does not feel more "mature" than Pass the Distance.In fact, it feels as if Finn hasn't missed a beat, picking up rightwhere he left off over 30 years ago. It makes me wonder if all of thosestories about Syd Barrett might be exaggerated. 
As the current indie scene now falls into lock-step formation rallyingunder the banner of "new folk," I find it interesting to reflect on thefirst folk renaissance, the one that took place five years ago. Youprobably never heard about it because it took place largely in my head.After years spent obsessively listening to and collecting records byCurrent 93, Death in June and Sol Invictus, there weren't many placesfor this jaded listener to go other than the strange, misunderstoodworld of sixties British psych-folk — a loose outcropping ofpsychedelia that incorporated medievalism, folk and free jazz withesoteric lyrical influences and ethnic instrumentation. This music isthe clearest antecedent to the "apocalyptic folk" that resurfaced inthe eighties English underground. Most have at least heard of theIncredible String Band or John Renbourn, but for every famous,influential artist from this period, there were scores of ignoredobscurities like Comus, The Trees and Jan Dukes de Grey. With the helpof an evil book called The Tapestry of Delights, the adventurous (read:compulsive) collector could choose his next Holy Grail and crusadeforth to seek it for his collection. For me, the best of these elusiverecords will always be Pass the Distanceby Simon Finn, an obscure 1970 one-off from London's Mushroom label. Itwas a unique album, not just for its unorthodox musical content, butalso for its extreme rarity, legal action having forced its withdrawalfrom the market not long after is release. Simon Finn's album puzzledme during my original folk renaissance, and five years later — withthis new remastering and rerelease on Durtro/Jnana — it still evadeseasy categorization. Finn's songwriting and vocal style belong to alate-60s tradition of melancholy, doom-laden propheteering, but ontracks like "Jerusalem" and "Big White Car," he displays an unmatchedvocal fury, passionately belting out his words with throat-strippingferocity, building to a pair of frighteningly shattering crescendos.Adding to the album's unique sound are the contributions of the youngmulti-instrumentalist David Toop, who since the recording of Pass the Distance has distinguished himself as a preeminent musical critic, a frequent contributor to The Wireand the author of several books. Toop and percussionist Paul Burwellwere apparently given free reign by producer Vic Keary to use Finn'sstandard folk material as a blank slate for experimentation andimprovisation. This results in a series of loose, chaotic settings forSimon Finn's songs, Toop often climbing up and down the scale of amandolin or a harmonium with utter disregard for melodic sense.Producer and engineer Keary adds another level of mystification, usingheavy echo, stereo panning and excessive phasing to create a sense ofdislocation, muddying the waters of Finn's apocalyptic stream ofconsciousness. This rerelease, overseen by David Tibet and Simon Finn(emerging from more than 30 years of total silence), improves the soundsubstantially from the Japanese bootleg CDs, and adds four bonustracks, which don't share the same mysterious qualities as the materialon the original LP, but are welcome nonetheless. Also included areinformative liner notes from Finn, Toop, Keary and Tibet. This shouldbe a fine replacement for my well-worn vinyl copy. 
