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 material on Music for a Spaghetti Westernwas recorded backin 1985-86 but not released until about 10 years later. ThankfullyKlanggalerie are keeping it from the tragedy of being lost to the ages,for now at least. 
In the wake of 2004’s Your Blues, Destroyer’s Rubies seems to bea stark 180 turn from the former's MIDI and synth drenched sound. Thesound on this record is lush and organic, recalling early '70s artrockers like Bowie, T. Rex and Roxy Music. And while Daniel Bejar andhis band provide the songs with a solid musical, he takes a page fromthe post-modernism handbook, imbuing his songs with a grand sense ofpurpose, yet inserting word games and nonsensical imagery as a counterpoint.
On the epic leadoff track “Rubies,” Bejar declares “Oh, it’s just yourprecious American Underground, and it is born of wealth. With not awriter in the lot.” While this may seem to be a cheap potshot on hisneighbors to the south, the line is emblematic for much of therecord. This is a writer’s record, filled with all the obtusewordplay andveiled metaphors one would expect. That Bejar delivers these oftenobtuse lines in a Dylan-esque croon only reinforces this fact. Andwhile I’m loathe to break out the Dylan connection, “Your Blood”bounces along to a honky-tonk piano, bluesy guitar, and seeminglystream of conscious lyrics, sounding an awful lot like a lost song fromBlonde on Blonde.
Just as important as the instrumentation or lyricshere is Bejar’s captivating and charismatic vocals. He allows his voiceto jump along, unrestrained by the structures of his song. While thistendency often becomes boring or, worse still, annoying in othervocalists (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, anyone?), Bejar’s vocals workwonderfully here. “Painter in Your Pocket,” perhaps the strongest songhere, floats along warm organ drones and subdued guitar playing, slowlybuilding into a bouncy sing-along.
For the most part, Destroyer’sRubies is a remarkably sophisticated and assured record. While thereare a few points where Bejar’s lyrics fall flat and the instrumentationbecomes a bit clunky, such as on “A Dangerous Woman Up to a Point,”Destroyer’s Rubies is a record that at once feels ancient andcontemporary.
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Peoplehave grown so accustomed to Kieran Hebden's work as Four Tet that theyhave probably almost completely forgotten what his role as amusician/composer was in Fridge and the directions the trio werebeginning to pursue on their last full-length release, Happiness.The people who are aware and welcoming to more loose sounds will be themore receptive audience for this brand new project, as Hebden hasteamed up with Steve Reid, a seasoned drummer known for his work insoul and jazz circles.While I thoroughly enjoy volume 1 of The Exchange Session, Ican see how some Four Tet fans will clearly miss the point. For years,Kieran Hebden has built an audience through the popularity of hisability to mix samples of jazz records together, grabbing compatibletiny melodies and forming intricate instrumental pop tunes. Sure, hehas been known to inject some more freer approaches, stretching thingsout for singles like "Glasshead"/"Calamine" and "As Serious As YourLife," but when it comes to the masses, most people know him for the3-5 minute long pop tunes.
Hebden and Reid met through mutual acquaintences and the two had amutual appreciation for each other's work. Reid, after years of playingwith seasoned veterans for decades, was most likely afraid of becomingone himself, perhaps growing tired of working in the confines of what'sexpected from mainstays, and looking to play with more people who wereinto experimenting. Hebden, who, like a fairytale princess is alwaysseeking something more, was (and still probably is) searching for theultimate sounds, the ultimate experiences, challenging himself everyday to find it or recreate it.
What they've done on this recording is find a way to harness thepower between each: Reid's pulses and Hebden's sounds marry to make anew type of free jazz duo, where a drummer can exploit rhythmic phrasesand an electronic composer can loop samples and themes. They're notplaying within the confines of a song or melodic theme, however, butReid somewhat remains in the driver's seat, moving the songs throughwith evolving beats. Instead of the screechy wails of a horn section,expect samples of the horns, munged into a digital squelch andreturning to the purer sounds on cue.
Volume 1 begins with the more subtle "Morning Prayer," a song that immediately triggered a nostalgia for the opening of Fridge's Happiness,as it's a very warm-up kind of affair where each contributor stronglyestablishes their roles and doesn't get into an out-muscle-each othercontest. The following "Soul Oscillations" is a 14+ minute long jamwhere the focuses shift back and forth between Hebden and Reid, asthey're each showing off their finest chops from cacophonous to calm and collected. The final song,"Electricity and Drum Will Change Your Mind" is actually where therhythms get more sturdy and solid, things build up and chill out, heat up again, and by the timethey're cooling down, I'm anxious to see whatturn comes next and suddenly the tape stops!
So I look forward to Volume 2, due later this year, picking upexactly where this session dropped us all off, but it will be probablymore interesting to see how studio recordings may develop after themulti-continental touring that Hebden and Reid will embark on this year.
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The fourth, and final, in this spaced-out series is the perfect bookend to Cope’s explorations in the dichotomous world cosmological and Earth Mother minded rock. Consisting of the rediscovered first effort and the last ever track recorded for his Rite sequence, Cope shows little sign of doing anything less than 23 minutes when it comes to playing for purely meditational purposes.
The first of the two tracks "So Tough," the newer of the two recordings, is a big band funk furrow. It keeps the basic rhythm loop for most of the piece with different instrumentation taking the spotlight, but the guitar always wins out. The guitar work continues to wring out pyrotechnical high end fretwork that keeps up almost for the full track. As horns drop in and out, the beat deepens and keyboards get down, dirty and medieval. There’s a full-blown ending to contend with after this barrage too: the fug of hidden vocals, flutes and power tools herald rain storms and a choir backed under a mini-monolith as the storm wades into the distance.
Paranoia runs rampant all over this disc, a sense of voyeurism and danger with it, slowly escalating with every cautious movement. The technology we've built up all around us is slowly evaporating, wearing away with rain and wind. Nobody is sure what's beneath everything, what's grown since we buried ourselves beneath steel towers and miles of wire, but Echran is observing and recording the entire event.
Ebria/Small Voices
There's a scene in Darren Aronofsky's Requiem for a Dream where Clint Mansell's grating soundtrack chronicles the end for just about everyone. It's the longest damn denouement in film history and Mansell's strings and electronic hissing go a long way in making the pain on screen seem very real. Davide del Col and Fabio Volpi must've watched that scene about three hundred times more than is healthy for a normally functioning human. Their music executes that same tense energy that Mansell's soundtrack did. It is dark, cloudy, and organic... and composed of nothing but computers. Echran is a strange project, a blend of many human thoughts and ideas synthesized from cold machines, colder atmospheres, and a sense that the end is very near for everyone.
Paranoia is in this disc's blood and so is apathy. With every dismal wash of machine sound and buzzing meters there is a sense that whatever world Echran is occupying, it is beyond the reach of hope and happiness. Every track moves sensuously, but only through the interaction of steam, pistons, and electricity. Everything has been reduced to a mathematically exact operation, efficient and smooth. But instead of relishing the mechanical perfection on the surface, Echran leave behind little hints of sounds and voices that make the whole operation seem murderous, like something is trapped in all those pipes and still alive.
There are a few other bands that have played up the mechanical or computer age and painted a picture of man as being taken over by machine entirely, too cold and comfortable in logic and reasoning to see beyond the prison of skin. It's a very pessimistic view, but one that this duo does not take. Echran do have that Cyclotimian element in their compositions, but more importantly they've left behind some human flesh and blood to be gnawed on with all the grim, dystopian imagery. So, instead of writing a mechanical album, they've written a distinctly human piece of music to the extent that their mechanical style will allow them. There are rhythms, melodies, hints of warmth in the bass tones and, simultaneously, there are clattering pops, the sound of electricity flowing through wires, the hiss and squeal of old steel shaking rust lose. Together they sound unique and breed a palpable suspense.
For some bands this might lead to some resolution, to the false belief that there is a synthesis of good compromise at the end of the tunnel. But Echran are smarter than that and their music simply leads to the end of the album where the listener is held aloft and expected to make his or her way down alone. Once they've built their music to unbelievably high levels and made everyone wonder what'll happen next, they simply leave it there and look on it in wonder. What happens when everyone wakes up, disconnects, realizes they're trapped, being watched, studied, observed beneath the glass of dollar signs and new and better products is not revealed. Echran make it obvious, however, that this is the state of the world. Their music can be reminiscent of nothing else: it is disturbing to hear and also breath-taking.
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Texan Rick Reed is a true multi-instrumentalist ofexperimental traditions. His primarycompositions, for sine wave, short-wave and Moog, represent mastery of thetexturally-intense, sculptural minimalism nowadays crunched down from the Powerbooktable.
Reed’s droning, crackling, lulling, screeching patchworksbecome as aurally-demanding as a Hecker or a Pita, while projecting also anout-of-the-box bigness and a vaguely psychedelic warmth, or a frayed (as opposedto diced or pixilated) edge that is, to my ears, very unique . The music here is not straight drone, or asuni-directional as that word might imply; it does not creep long, plunge deep,or run up towards abandon. Pure tones,static loops, and granulated washes collect and regress to form a looming massof nearly symphonic austere sound bites, conjuring the spirit of writhing,head-cleaning “noise” music but projecting a cleaner vision, a high-lonesome,spectral conglomerate of disembodied machines.
The sound is spacious and arch-ful, though never fully quiet, as ifthere is continual off-site energy blowing through so that all lost isreplaced, reflected, or refracted through a brilliant sensitivity to textureand pitch. Field recordings, violin, andthe familiar guitar of Keith Rowe avoid becoming focus and instead evolvewithin the mix, rounding out the organism of Reed’s compositions, thehyper-real connectedness of suchshrill and singularly uninviting tones and waves. DarkSkies At Noon is hands-down the best release of any Reed involvement thatI’ve heard, and, in a limited pressing of 328, it is something to be treasured.
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This exceptional single track of bliss on lone droner Hardwick’s debut 3" CD-R runs into nearly eighteen minutes of steadily yearning cloud nine emissions. Wrapped in a garish Celebrate Psi Phenomenon label style wallpaper sample, the music is thankfully made with much better taste.
I've been worried about music without discernable melodies or intriguing concepts lately because I'm finding more and more that they fail me. A host of "difficult" bands have released album after album of strange sounds and subconscious cut and paste tactics, but more often than not there's something musical, fun, or catchy playing side by side with all the insanity. Greg Davis and Steven Hess both reach for that extra something on this disc, but come away with an important piece of the musical puzzle missing.
Longbox Recordings
I used to be fascinated with how bands made records. First some band would process a guitar through eight billion filters and then play it backwards and in the end they'd apply some trick of engineering whimsy and boy wasn't that great. Here's an album made out of nothing but paper being shredded and here's a record that employs African stringed instruments I've never heard of, much less heard. I would listen to these albums for weeks and months at a time, completely ignoring the fact that there wasn't one catchy song or even a recognizable hook anywhere in the music. I was happy with that, music isn't restricted to conventional melody or structure and many of my favorite musicians reflect that belief.
Greg Davis has exemplified that ideal over his last several releases, concentrating on tonal qualities and minimalist structures, using strange instruments in strange ways and immediately grabbing my attention for it. But for all the fancy production techniques and neat sounds there have always been beautiful melodies, a sense of playfulness, and the presence of shining beauty to counteract and interact with Davis' more abstract tendencies.
His work with Steven Hess ignores all of those important elements; the bits and pieces of a recording that make it stand out as being more than just random assembly of noises. Decisions is composed of processed and live percussion. The majority of the songs are mostly quiet, humming bits of time that don't sound unlike an organ slowed down to unreal speeds. When the album is quiet and unremarkable it simply pulsates in the background, requiring little to no attention. The quiet bits of each song require little more than a quiet space to play them in. When the album tries to draw my attention it does so through volume and increased rhythmic intensity, becoming a busy mass of odd pops, hums, and other space station sounds. The gongs, bells, and cymbals used to make some of these songs sound beautiful by themselves, why bother processing them? The best part of this album comes on the fourth track when Davis basically leaves Hess' somber percussive playing alone. The whole track rumbles and hisses perfectly, Davis' edits audible in the form of background ambience.
It isn't until the end that the record acquires any sort of aesthetic beauty as a whole and by then it is too late; nothing can save this album from the scrap heap of compiled weird sounds. The album does, at times, convey a sense of loneliness that might compound itself after multiple, multiple, multiple listens. However, the time it would take to get there would probably be better spent on other albums, namely ones that Davis has composed. There's absolutely nothing that could bring me back to this album. Davis has nothing but series after series of momentarily interesting edits and warping sounds peppered over nearly every track, but when the sounds are just wild fits of noise and some percussive clattering there's little to become enamored with. If, however, background music that will do little to create distractions sounds enjoyable, Decisions offers it in spades.
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I'd champion this as the emo-heavy electronic album of 2006 if it weren't deserving of just slightly more praise than that. Shaw-Han Lien composes ultra-busy synthetic pop songs using the same old four-on-the-floor rhythm tracks and toppling sound banks made popular by disco and techno performers, but he adds his own extra-processed spice to the music, making it almost enjoyable. It is simultaneously bright, sunny, and altogether sickening.
Darla
The album art and song titles should've been enough to alert me that something was wrong. I should've figured that I was meant to cry or run in a field of sunflowers to really appreciate this record because that's exactly the mood it exudes in gallons upon gallons of far to happy, way too optimistic synthetic joy. Keyboards, drum machines, various programs, and all manner of heavily edited melodic lines jerk and twitch with an energy that might be appropriate for someone on ecstasy, but for me they radiate a corniness that suggests Shaw-Han isn't paying enough attention. When the songs aren't too happy, they're catchy numbers that last just long enough to make sitting through the next smiling ray of sunshine nearly worth it.
What Shaw-Han does have going for him is an immediately evident familiarity with the instruments and programs he uses. The vibrancy that pours out of his hands are the result of careful study and preparation, a desire to fuse every instrument together into one great instrument capable of taking any influence and running with it. At times, when Shaw-Han lays off the altogether too imposing sense of emotional gushing, his arrangements stand out as being great examples of how technology can really bring together a variety of ideas, places, influences, and thoughts without sacrificing any of the particular qualities inherent in each.
For example, Shaw-Han's music sounds as though it is without geography; it is not distinctly European, nor does it bare any of the familiar qualities of English electronic music popularized by Aphex Twin or Autechre, and it isn't quite crazy enough to bare the seal of the Japanese electronic underground. This is a huge plus, sometimes enough to make sure I only skip a few tracks on the disc. On the songs I enjoy the most I get the feeling that Shaw-Han not only listens to a lot of music, but knows where each bit of music fits in with another. "Save Your Neck, Save Your Brother" features a soft flute part that weaves in and out of horns, strings, and electronic warmth and sounds simultaneously like Eastern spiritual music and gentle, pastoral idleness as envisioned by Four Tet. Its effortless grace gives it a sparkling quality and is among the two or three outstanding songs on the album.
Every time I listen to the entire album, however, I feel less like this album is something I can connect with: its skipping, merry compositions are sometimes far too close to video game music. Much of this could be thrown onto a children's television show and used while the end credits roll; nobody would notice because it is that innocuous. As soon as I feel that disconnect and lose touch with the album, it doesn't matter how talented Shaw-Han is, he's lost me for good. A final complaint comes in the almost monotone delivery of many of these songs. After a little while many of them sound the same because they are all very busy, very rhythmic, very structured tracks that don't ever stretch, breathe, or really live at all. In all the detail Shaw-Han lost sight of the big picture and thus lost me somewhere in all the rubbery bass parts and sparkling chimes.
I suspect I'll be hearing much more of Shaw-Han's work, I only hope that the next time I hear him, I won't immediately thing of large purple dinosaurs, cuddly animals, or cartoons marching side by side with the world's sickest grin on their faces. The Electricity in You House Wants to Sing is currently available through Darla mail-order, but will be more widely available on the 20th of March.
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This is a spring/summer guitar record that’s been designed to fall somewhere between the earthy simplicity of folk players and the flash of '70s heavy rock. There are understated flamboyant twists to the playing and sound of Ezra Feinberg (ex Piano Magic) and Tim Green (The Fucking Champs and The Nation of Ulysses). The band’s name (and the LP title) maybe be pronounced like Stevie Wonder did on "Living for the City," but this album is anything but straight urban rock.
Recorded in San Francisco, the album takes the city’s multiculturalism, open-mindedness and relaxed air and applies it to a set of songs steeped in a sound world instantly reminiscent of a moment in time but as fresh as any modern rock record. The production is perfect, replicating sounds not heard without the aid of hookahs for over thirty years. For all the flutes, bongos, ‘California’ lyrics and Mexican border vibes Citay never descends into a $10 hippy bus ride of musical tourism. It may use the palette but with here the teller has reinvented the old tales into a stretched out and relaxed mini epics.
There may be a slight edging towards the noodlier end of the world of guitar solo stars (his name begins with ‘V’ but the fear/loathing of his work prevents me from naming him) on "Vinter" but even this is playing is expertly unassuming. The slow spiralling solos and chasing harmonies of dual leads on songs like "People Person" and "Nice Cuffs" have a beautiful languid articulate feel. There are flamenco flourishes among the searching piano melody of "5" underscored by tumbling acoustic strums and west coast vocal harmonies fill up the vocal tracks.
It’s not all about the guitars though, with "Mere Woods" they score in some relaxed dusk strings and organs murmur smoothly under many of the workouts. Without the foundation of the songs, this could’ve easily been an experiment in techniques but this whole release is on the verge of perfection. It’s an absolute killer combination of sound, style and song that makes a triumphant stand in reclaiming the word ‘cool.’
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I had never listened to Maximum Joy, I knew they were connected withThe Pop Group, who I had a passing interest in, but I can now understand whyMaximum Joy have descended into such obscurity. The songs on thiscompilation have not withstood the test of time: the music here soundsextremely dated and (worse again) it isn’t very good; this might be oneonly for the nostalgia crowd and/or Pop Group collectors.
Crippled Dick Hot Wax
The first track made me think this was going to be a good release;“White & Green Place” has a nice beat and the funky bass line pullsthe song along by the collar. Even the saxophone sounds good.Rainforth’s vocals are interesting, the lyrics are pretentious but shepulls it off. After this track the rest of the album is a chore tolisten to. I never thought that The Pop Group aged well but I can atleast hear some of the fire in their music. Maximum Joy sounded dullfrom the start. The disco vibe of “In the Air” wears thin very quickly.“Building Bridges” is lyrically good but is let down by hackneyed andstale music; “Oh wow, let’s fuse a jazzy sound with a Latin beat andadd some horrible trumpets.” No, let’s not.
Maximum Joy lack a soul. The songs, for all the frenetic bassplaying and shouty vocals, sound mechanical and like they came off aconveyer belt. At no point during Unlimited could I find anentry point for me to get into the groove and enjoy it. It’s a shamebecause there are some parts that could have been great if they hadshown some restraint. For example “Where’s Deke?” might have been adecent piece but the band go overboard with trying to fit as manyelements of their sound in one short track and over egg the cake. Thisalbum is a collection of wilting world music-inspired post-punknoodling which I’ve little to no time for.
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