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.
Get involved: subscribe, review, rate, share with your friends, send images!
Like the title implies, the songs on this mostly electronic compilation share a similar chilly aesthetic. They also share a tendency to stray into dark territory, making this collection an excellent soundtrack for an eerie winter’s night.
Haunted Sound Laboratory’s "Ghost in the Blood (live)" starts things off appropriately enough with a simple heartbeat and heavy breathing. Various rattles and drones venture forth from the shadows only to recede from whence they came. It’s hard to guess where the sound will come from next, and it’s this unpredictability that makes it an ideal opener on a compilation of left turns. The album builds intensity with a few beat-oriented songs, including Danny Hyde’s intriguing remix of Mink’s "Ride," before heading for starker territory with tracks by the likes of Black Sun Productions, a Mort Douce remix by Tactile, and a pensive collaboration between Sid Redlin and Gregory Rapp. The album veers again, this time brightening somewhat with more beats and a greater emphasis on vocals than previously. Kuxaan-Sum turns in some haunting whispers on "La Mentor De’Morte" before giving way to NOT’s rocking "To Taka Gra." The latter seems a little out of place amid so many electronic acts, yet it’s a decent track and doesn’t derail the mood completely. The album’s most abrasive song comes from Bad Wolf, whose "Die Ostara Satan America" is composed of various rhythmic static, electronic squeals, and industrial groans. The last few songs head in a quieter direction, beginning with 3z13’s bubbly "They Don’t Know" and ending with "Searching for Life in the Ethane Oceans" by The Insektys Isotope, probably the compilation’s coldest, sparsest track and its perfect ending.
While there may be a couple of lulls, there are no outright duds to be found. The sequencing plays to the strengths of the individual songs and changes pace at all the right times to keep the listener engaged as it unfolds along every stage, with enough variation to make this album a rewarding, compelling experience.
samples:
 
Through the album’s vein-like title and the glorious red tissue of this disc’s gatefold, Menche is being quite insistent about the subject matter of Jugularis; the human heart and its physical functions. Pumping through a myriad of veins and arteries, this album is the sound of blood propelled around the body by the steady drive of this vital organ. Except instead of the familiar and secure pulse of its beat, we are invited to hear the mini-rhythms of blood vessels driving and populating these three untitled behemoth sized tracks.
Sounds travel purposefully past the listener on their way to some urgent destination, dipping in and out of coherence before rushing and splitting like waves. Menche avoids the Puréed internal and organic squelch and splatter route, instead moulding sounds into a subtler blending of power electronics (not an oxymoron for Menche) and pulses. An exemplar of rhythm manipulation and processing, Menche’s exploration of sound here consciously avoids the slip into full-throttle abuse. "Jugularis Three" is the heaviest piece with ball bearing raindrops creating noisy little blood vessel stuck grooves. The insect chatter pitter-patter on this, the album’s finale, is the most focused, pummelling a path into the blood-sodden ground. As focused as Jugularis is on its relentless pounding, it manages to also move in a less obviously percussive way.
"Jugularis Two" slurs large sections of drum work into a drenched screed of sound; these passages more closely resemble the passing of treacly covered comets rather than any digital process. While the beats are the main focus of the album, and take up a good 90% of the sounds, there is a restrained use of tones beneath some of the throbbing. From heavier descending moods to more slight overlapping drone, these ingredients also create changing patterns. At the more burdened end they can buzz like swarms of shaking rivets, while at the other end they slow into accordion like waves.
The off-kilter primitive beats of the album are forever settling and shifting in their patterns, overlapping like live players moving into and out of the foreground through Menche’s filtered digital vision. These tiny structured blueprints move through channels inside a larger breathing space, bringing a slight echoic feel to these sections. While the album is undoubtedly about flesh it never moves from its detached examination of sounds into lasciviousness. With Jugularis Menche has become almost impassive in his dealings with the human heart, his touch as black as any noise artist.
samples:
 
The title of this new Tigerbeat 6 sampler doubles as a good pick-up line to use at the next DragonCon. It features 20 tracks drawn from the current stable of TB6 talent; familiar faces like Kid606 and Knifehandchop rubbing shoulders with up-and-comers such as Drop the Lime, Phon.O and Eats Tapes. I'm happy to report that the TB6 bratty punk-tronica aesthetic is in full, frenetic effect.
Quintron and Miss Pussycat bounce back from the double bitch-slap of Katrina and Rita with "Swamp Buggy Badass," all snarling rockabilly swagger and deep-fried Southern decadence filtered through sleazy techno throb. Play this track side-to-side with Alan Vega's "Jukebox Baby" and tell me which one you like better. It might be too close to call. Suddenly and unceremoniously, the mix travels from the bayou to the teeming metropolis of Berlin, soundtracked by Phon.O's throwaway bit of bottom-heavy crunk-tech "Dumpsta Railin'," fun but unsubstantive. Of course, if you came here looking for substance, you were barking up the wrong tree in any case. The same goes for Kid606's "Let It Rock" from last year's Pretty Girls Make Raves, a study in glittering superficialities, a kaleidescope of club-friendly big-ups and shoutouts rolled into one big, hyperactive beat-propelled mess. G.D. Luxxe injects some robot funk into the mix with "Gift," a hard-edged technopop tune that rocks, like, pretty hard.
A few acts on this comp attempt to problematize the usual association of TB6 with bedroom electronica and trashy techno, bands like Clipd Beaks, Genders and Boy From Brazil who bring the rock, complete with real instruments and everything. Clipd Beaks seem really promising with "Nuclear Arab," an acid-damaged wall of urgent noise-rock that locates audible signifiers of protest and political resistance in the same ballpark as This Heat and early Section 25. I saw Genders open for Adult. last year, and was underwhelmed, but their track here ("Apes") is actually pretty neato, atmospheric psych-pop hidden behind layers of murky reverb and obscured by willfully perverse mixing strategies. Boy From Brazil's "Pocket Rocket Queen" steals a page from Quintron's book, a snotty, sexually confrontational electro-rock paean to the vibrator, delivered with a heavy dose of rockabilly attitude, as well as the liberal use of that late-50s Gene Vincent vocal echo. Kid606's other contribution to the comp, credited to "Kid606 and Friends," is a full-on rock song as well, with what sounds like live drums and guitars. "We Need to Make a Change" is both a political rallying cry and a party anthem, with an infectious bassline and a singalong chorus. Who are these "friends" exactly?
As is expected, this sampler also contains a full complement of instantly disposable chunks of ironic nonsense. I'm thinking here of Hawnay Troof's "Man On My Back," which is an angry call-and-response rap delivered a cappella over weird chugging sounds, followed by 25 seconds of silence (a mastering error?). It's pointless, but maybe that's the point. "Claws Theme (Edit)" by C.L.A.W.S. is dumb and damned proud of it, and that's got to count for something. Original Hamster manages to combine the agitating repetition of Reggaeton with early-90s diva-house, tying it all together with chopped up vocal samples and squishy acid squiggles, and it somehow works. Knifehandchop chimes in with an exaggerated wet dream of deconstructed, chopped and screwed robotripped hiphop that reimagines the scene in extrapolated dystopian form. It's crunk as hell, but also fucking terrifying.
Eats Tapes samples the "Uh -huh" from Soft Pink Truth's dionysian cover of Nervous Gender's "Confession" (also known as "Jesus was a cocksucking Jew from Galilee") to create a bouyant party jam that gradually snowballs into an dizzying cut-up techno piece that made me queasy with its frenetic invention. Indian Jewelry's "Emptyhanded" persists on the noisier end of mannered garage rock, and for no reason that is immediately apparent to me, is one of my favorite tracks on the comp. Drop the Lime's "Butterscotch" sounds like a less repellant version of Gold Chains: fat synth lines, bassy throbs and testosterone-amped vocal refrains. It's far too short, but it's lovely while it's there. Filler tracks by dDamage, Warbler and Puzzleweasel hardly warrant mention; it just wouldn't be a Tigerbeat sampler without a few head-scratching moments of sarcastically shitty, spastic, post-IDM Nintendo-esque trash.
Rest assured that Tigerbeat 6 is keeping it real: real electic, weird and fun.
samples:
Normally live albums fail to capture the magic of being at the show, instead they end up as souvenirs for those who were there or extra materials for completists to collect like archaeological specimens. However, this CD documenting a meeting of two legends of minimalism is a beautiful recording that seems to capture much of the magic that went on that night. Maybe those who were there would contest this statement but An Aural Symbiotic Mystery is still a stunning composition.
Sub Rosa
Performed the day Luc Ferrari was cremated, this improvised set by two of the best composers of the 20th century is both a fitting epitaph to the music from the last century and prayer to further adventures and explorations of sound over the next 100 years. Palestine wanted the performance to celebrate those who were alive; his words apply both to Conrad and himself as well as the next generation of composers and artists. The resulting piece is a joyous celebration of musical creativity that encapsulates the utter skill and proficiency of both men.
The piece itself is, as expected, just over 18 minutes of sublime minimalism; Palestine restricts himself mainly to a delicate set of variations of a short piano refrain which sounds like trickling water. Conrad extends violin drones from the beginning of time to the end of time, giving a real sense of eternal music. As the performance runs its course, there is a shift in feelings and sounds, at times Conrad cuts through the mix like a chainsaw. Palestine keeps right up with him proving the title especially apt; the two artists (despite not being in contact for over 30 years) connect in a way that is almost unnatural. The music is not just a static drone with repeated piano phrases by any stretch of the imagination; changes in instruments, addition of vocals and variations in both intensity and delivery make the piece a joy to listen to. There is so much going on here that it is easy to miss out on many elements of the sound even after quite a few repeated listenings.
An Aural Symbiotic Mystery shows two masters in full flight. Before I spun the disc I knew exactly what it would sound like but the sheer level of brilliance came as a shock. It is not just the musical content of the performance but the energy that is moving back and forth between Palestine and Conrad. It is hard to convey just how well the pair click together and luckily the power of their performance is captured on the disc. I am not a spiritual person but this kind of power and passion can move me to a place that is almost religious. An Aural Symbiotic Mystery came just a little too late for me to include it in my best of 2006 list but it deserves to be there.
samples:
The music is relentless from the beginning, immersing me in an acoustic world born of various detritus scavenged from sewers, dimly lit alleyways, or heaps of litter. It seems that anything found in these locales is fair game for making rhythm, from trashcans to generators and barely functional machine parts. Conventional drums appear in some places, yet their role is to punctuate the chaos more than to provide a steady beat around which the other noises rally. Occasionally, one of the denizens disturbed by this din rises from its lair to lament the pillaging or to frighten the intruders away. The epic closer "Compound My Eyes" is itself a test in endurance at over 40 minutes in length, and separates the dilettantes from the devotional. Because each song uses such similar compositional elements, after a while the album begins to sound like variations of a theme, but oh, what an intriguing and addictive theme it is.
The album is packaged in a gorgeous sleeve made of white embossed card with a beautiful sepia-toned photo of Rose's musician ancestors (the whole thing smells of bubblegum, not intentional I am sure but pleasant nonetheless). The old time vibe from the photo sets the mood for the album as Rose fingerpicks and slides his way all over his guitar. His playing is infused heavily with bluegrass and blues techniques and styles.
A description like that would normally turn me off as if there is one thing that has been done to death over the last 80 years is the blues but Rose’s playing make these tired old scales sound fresher than usual.The pieces on this self-titled album all are brimming with warmth and brightness; they sound like they should be accompanied by a video-montage of Appalachian countryside and people lazing on verandas with battered old guitars and farm equipment surrounding them (or maybe I am losing the run of myself here). Rose’s playing is as clean as driven snow and full of expression. Occasionally a touch of reverb is added, such as on “St. Louis Blues,” to add a little color to his already polychromatic playing.
Most of the tracks are around the 3-4 minute mark, which make for perfect little bursts of music. I found it nigh on impossible not to tap my toe to most of them. “Gage Blues” in particular gets my dancing bug all riled up. This is followed by the epic "Spirits in the House," which sees Rose slowing down and slowly building up a heady and lovely mood. This evokes a much more southern feeling compared to the other pieces, a romantic and mythical vision of Louisiana complete with thick heat and humidity. This wonderful piece makes it well worth tracking down this album, the other pieces are good but I found they have a shorter shelf life than this one which I could listen to all day. The way it simmers and bubbles for 13 glorious minutes is sublime.
This album may not be of much interest to someone who cannot stand bluegrass, blues or other roots styles. Although in saying that, I thought myself jaded with all things slide guitar related but I found it to be captivating. Such exemplary guitar playing both makes me jealous that I cannot do similar things with my guitar and reminds me that the vast majority of guitarists do not play the guitar but simply pose with power chords.
samples:
It's winter, and while it's been a rather warm one, it's still been rainy and of course, dark. As I look around the piles of recent and forthcoming releases and loads of mopey bedroom-made electronica demos in boxes I'll never open, it's painfully hard to find solace from dreariness. Thankfully I've got some time to catch up on Aberdeen.
Aberdeen's one of the most unsuspecting groups to get a collection like this as they only ever had one album in the span of about 10 years of existence. Although they were born in the shoegaze/dreampop world nobody could ever accuse Aberdeen of being dreary. Even if the songs are about bitches stealing boyfriends, fear, or hatred, the music was always bright and uplifting, but then this twee thing happened.
History won't regard Beth Arzy as one of her generation's voices nor will they regard John Girgus as a guitar god, but from their demo-sounding first few songs with the drum machine backing through the recordings from their only album, 2002's Homesick and Happy to Be Here, there is always something charming and inviting. The collection isn't without its weak spots, however.
The best stuff is almost always the simplest and where they shine are on songs where they keep easy melodies and put the effects way up, like the rhythmic echoing of "Fireworks" from 1995 or the bouncy "Snapdragon" from the same year (but different singles). "The Boy Has Gone Away" was a single from Homesick and is featured here with its two non-LP tracks and while I love both Girus and Arzy's vocals together on "Miss You While You're Gone," I'm kind of bugged by the seemingly vocal posturing of the Girgus-dominated "Emma's House" and "Florida."
Their entire career of recorded material can be obtained with this disc and Homesick. While I'm not rushing out to get that nor pursue more Trembling Blue Stars (of whom Arzy now sings for) Aberdeen songs do come in handy on mixes or on radio shows when there's that need for an extra bit of brightness.
samples:
Although the song is half an hour long, it has three movements distinct enough to be separate tracks. The first, “Invisible Fire,” is a quiet exploration grounded by the guitar while the other instruments dart forth on their own. It heads into abstract territory for several minutes, striking bargains with interstellar entities, until brought back by the monologue of a disembodied voice. The next section, “The Rebis,” finds the group turning up the amplifiers, returning the drums to a steady beat, and adding a searing violin to complement this psychedelic jam. “Latona” is the most sedate part of the album, with its acoustic guitars, tabla, and flute providing an upbeat ending to this mutating piece and at last returning the group’s feet to the ground. While this album isn’t terribly different from other recordings by the band, its flowing sections contain plenty enough within to keep me entranced.
While it starts off intriguingly enough with quiet, ominous drones, every time the band seems to up the ante, nothing much develops. Some snippets of delayed feedback or ringing bells appear every now and then, but they don’t signify any real changes to the music. When other changes do occur, they’re fairly harmless and usually disappear before long, leaving the drone that provides much of the track’s foundation. The song achieves its greatest drama after about 24 minutes, but then spends the rest of the time with a rumbling that fades for so long and gets so quiet that it’s easy to forget that the disc is still playing. Nothing about this recording is bad, per se, but at times it feels like the band’s phoning it in, that this is merely experimentation by the numbers. It’s less structured than their other albums, but not different enough from other experimental work to recommend it. In the end, it’s almost negligible if only because it’s so ordinary.
Describing Dada is a paradox, like a proverbial wet fish in the palm of your hand certain only to be lost in an attempted securing grasp. As Greil Marcus details in Lipstick Traces, subsequent efforts in art and music contain echoes from Zürich, Berlin and elsewhere; not least the urge (first and foremost) to destroy, or as Orange Juice sang: to rip it up and start again.
This collection features early sound poetry by (Hans) Jean Arp, recorded in 1961, the mind-bending "Anna Blume" and "Ursonate;" the only merzpoems Kurt Schwitters recorded (from 1932); and several stunning efforts by Raoul Hausmann, recorded by Henri Chopin in 1956-59. Dada rejected a nonsensical war and a seemingly complicit society, so sadly these sound poems make topical sense. They can't sever the head of the faulty puppet President of the United States or obliterate the pervading moronic bastard culture which he so ably represents, but they articulate the impetus.
When listening to non-English words in song, I often feel happily ignorant, lest they be a thinly disguised travel commercial, some government-approved triteness or an ode to domestic submission. Stories of Arp spark an urge to learn German. While the law insisted he be called Jean in 1915 France, Hans Arp's response to being drafted into the German army is a work of art in itself. He wrote the date in all spaces on the forms before adding them like a sum. Then, naked, he handed in his paperwork and was sent home. A friend of Tristran Tzara, Arp was a founding member of Dada in Zürich, and in 1920 he set up the Cologne Dada group. His work was featured in the first exhibition of the Surrealist group in Paris before he founded the Abstraction-Création movement and the periodical, Transition, and created reliefs and murals in the US and sculpture in Italy. Musically, his flat voice sometimes fails to ignite the text, and so the mischievous spirit of bemusement is absent. After a disappointing opener, his second effort, "Die Wolkenpumpe" is a measured rant; like a demented husband listing imagined slights to his wife in an unsettling monotone ("and on Thursday 23rd you did bring me herring in cream rather than in the white wine sauce as per my written request.") Next, "Dada Sprüche" seems to be some list of what Dada is or isn't: a blank prescription eaten then regurgitated as a map with instructions not to follow. Arp's moments of gnawing intensity may please in short exposure rather than when heard all in one sitting. Eventually my interest resembled someone stuck in a lecture comparing the reliability of traffic density forecasts to those of pension plans, a scantily-clad darling reclining in a room tantalizingly close by with fresh fruit, favorite vinyl, bread and wine.
Kurt Schwitters transcended medium and genre: Dada, Constructivism, Surrealism, poetry, sound, painting, collage, sculpture, and typography. It can be argued that he invented what would later be termed installations. One legacy is his Merz works—art pieces built up of found objects; the largest of which are constructions called Merzbau. According to Schwitters, merz is derived from the name of the Commerzbank; though the word is also notably similar to the French word merde. In 1937 Schwitters fled to Norway, and in the same year, his Merz pictures were included in the Nazi exhibition of degenerate art. He created Merzbau in Oslo, on the Norwegian island of Hjertoya, and after his internment on the Isle of Man, he moved to the Lake District of England, where, in 1947, he began work on the last Merzbau, the Merzbarn. One wall of this final structure is now in the Hatton Gallery and the shell of the barn remains in Elterwater. Since forgeries of his collages turn up regularly on Ebay, bidders might seek advice from the Kurt Schwitters Archive at the Sprengel Museum in Hanover. The inclusion of his two recordings on this disc is a treat for the imagination. Schwitters' speech patterns exude a playfulness and awareness of actual sound less evident in Arp's tracks. One man's cannibalism is another's homage: Brian Eno sampled Ursonate for his track "Kurt's Rejoinder;" Japanese musician Merzbow took his name from Schwitters; Colin Morton has written poetry and drama inspired by Schwitters; and Michael Nyman's opera Man and Boy: Dada fictionalized Schwitters' time in London. The German hip-hop band Freundeskreis quoted from his poem in their hit single "ANNA."
Raoul Hausmann, an Austrian sculptor and writer, was the cofounder of the Berlin Dada movement in 1917, and the creator of photomontage: though other sources cite The English photographer Henry Peach Robinson. Hausmann painted "Tatlin at Home" in 1920 then gave up painting in 1923 and became more interested in various experimental photographic procedures.
His wild contributions to this disc are very enjoyable. "BBB" sounds equal parts curse and the calling in of the cat for his tea. His stuttered busted machine gun intonations foretell frustrated pop-rebellion ("why don't you all f-f-f-f-ade away..."), his eerie shrieks, unhinged mumbling and gurgling, never sound merely nonsensical even when resembling the water spiraling down a flushed toilet. I have no real idea what is going on, whether it was spontaneous, scripted or rehearsed and his spirited efforts make such a question unimportant. Hausmann seems to be reading backwards on "K Perioum," to be involved in a study of his own breath during "Offeah" and elsewhere lurches from trilling insanity, call-and-response guttural phrasing, vaguely Arabic intonations, warm melodic twitters, metallic hiss, stunned yodels, heartbroken wailing, quacking, and—on "Cauchemar"—the shocking contrast of mere singing. Hausmann makes translation redundant yet invests real power in the oddest of deliciously nihilistic (un)exhortations. His are words spat in the face of stagnation.
While there are ample websites devoted to the images, polemic, locations, history and influence of Dada; my favorite may be the beautiful: www.mital-u.ch/Dada from where I get the idea that Dada was less an art movement than an anti-everything, less an anti-everything than an answer to the ever topical question: What shall we do tonight?
samples:
Captivating from start to finish, this latest Low Point CDR is perfect coming-out-of-winter listen. Like an especially slow thaw this disc seems to make everything crawl along t its own pace. The faded net curtain photograph cover art helping to coat the green trees in the distance in a chilly wrap of opaque fog. This one man and guitar effect pedals three tracker carves a pleasant little niche out of the currently massive drone renaissance thats sweeping the world.
Aurora is one of those albums that is easy to both sink into and to delve inside. It would probably be tempting to call it Enoesque if it wasn’t such a tremendously overused cliché already. This (nearly) 17 minute long track is split into three parts which slowly fall into each other from great heights of guitar generated hum. The gaps are impossible to spot, and these programmed breaks (although invisible) don’t really seem to have any real point as this piece of music is definitely best enjoyed as a single piece anyway. Hardwick's warbling guitar lines sound more like synth sines than axe work, flooding the speakers and double coating them in glistening signal tremors.
The warm strands here move more delicately than just a simple layering or lining up exercise, the louder the volume the deeper the record gets. Occasionally the momentum melts into a unifying single swaddle of tone, "Part 2" even manages to interconnect touches of strummed string melody to the tones in a post-rock style. This CDR may not be pulling the genre into hitherto undiscovered shapes, but Aurora is a beautiful listen nonetheless.
samples:
