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The California of the 1960s was a breeding ground for eccentric characters: psychedelic prophets, cult leaders, crank scientists, charlatans, fringe artists, bizarre self-taught musicians and psychotic burnouts. Some individuals, it seems, were able embody all of these archetypes at once; and of these, at least one managed to record and release an album. Bobby Brown's 1972 LP The Enlightening Beam of Axonda is a holy grail for collectors of rare psych, and one of the most idiosyncratic works to emerge from the West Coast petri-dish of psychedelics and self-motivated outsiders.Akarma
The LP was originally issued in a small run on Destiny Records, and today trades hands for absurdly inflated prices, which makes this deluxe digipack CD reissue on Italy's Akarma label a particularly welcome release. Bobby Brown has the misfortune to share a namesake with the notorious R&B artist and Whitney Houston/crack abuser, making Google searches problematic to all but the most persistent. This Bobby Brown was a blonde, blue-eyed flower-child surfer from Sacramento who traveled up and down the West Coast throughout the 60s, 70s and 80s, performing live at acid-drenched beach parties and hawking his records from the back of a van. Brown played more than 18 self-built instruments — harps, bells, zithers, woodwinds, sitar and percussion — all arranged into an ingeniously constructed series of cross-triggered racks that surrounded him during live performances, making it possible for him to play several instruments and sing simultaneously. His voice stretches across six unusually expressive octaves, vacillating lysergically one moment and perfectly mimicking the sounds of a theremin the next. It's tempting to try to fit this "Universal One Man Orchestra" into a framework including other outsiders such as Harry Partch and Moondog, but the Axonda album resists such easy categorization. It's a concept album, relating the journey of a spiritual adept named "Johnny" from his pastoral Hawaiian home, across the globe and eventually into the cosmos. Johnny makes contact with the God-machine Axonda and its clear beam of consciousness light, which reveals to him the future of mankind — the reconciliation of all world religions and a merging into pure, perfected Godhead. It's undeniably hokey and quite often banal, but Bobby Brown's sincerity sells it, hypnotizing with trippy, beatific melodies and an unorthodox marriage of exotica, island music, Indian raga and African rhythms. Brown's speaker-vibrating bass and oceanic tenor coos perfectly express his impossibly utopian philosophies, coasting along with multi-tracked instrumentals and overdubbed vocals, pausing between songs for spoken-word narrative transitions. Brown's painstakingly scribed liner notes are reproduced in this edition, full of hilarious boasts about his explication of the fictional scientific concept of "the Bray" — "an original contribution to the field of Religion & Science...not yet discovered by other humanoids" that will one day "lead to the most significant change in the history of humanity (plus total religious unity)." Perhaps Bobby's ambitions were ultimately unrealistic, but The Enlightening Beam of Axonda is an original and uncompromising work of art, and a valuable contribution to the field of outsider art. 
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After months of waiting, the final album from legendary rock bandGuided By Voices is now released, no doubt provoking water coolerdiscussions about the band's career in the offices of entertainmentmagazines everywhere. Fans have been divided for some time, too —though many buy the records on principal despite misgivings —particularly about Pollard's higher fidelity obsession since 1997's Mag Earwhig!.The record, then, has the unfortunate position of having to provide acloser for over 20 years of music in just fourteen songs, and for themost part it accomplishes this goal. There are plenty of tracks thatfeature the classic Pollard lyrical strangeness ("You're gonna fuck upmy make-up/you're gonna make up my fuck-up"), and a full complement ofmixing styles, so there's a summary of the band's style and functions.Sadly, it just doesn't have the magical realization that everyone hopesfor in a final album, but these sort of things rarely do. To expect aband to be able to sum it all up in those songs — the highs, lows,strife, stress, exhilaration, and passion — is a bit much, but thereshould be some hint of why this is the end. And there isn't here, thatI can find. What there is to be found is another quirky and catchygroup of songs, right out of the gate with "Everybody Thinks I'm aRaincloud (When I'm Not Looking)." Chiming guitar, Pollard'sdouble-tracked vocals, and solid backing make the song a rollickinggood time, and there is an overwhelming feeling of being let down andlonely by choices one has made. Perfect opener. Then the murderingdarkness of "Sleep Over Jack" takes over, and it's even more deliciousthan the opener, an almost modern day Sweeney Todd. It's thiswarring personality that consumes most of the record; a strugglebetween the light and dark sides of emotion, with no clear winner. Notthat there has to be: to choose between "Gonna Never Have to Die" or"The Closets of Henry" and "Tour Guide at the Winston ChurchillMemorial" or "Sing For Your Meat" would be impossible, anyway. That'sthe mark of a truly great album, where every song carries the wholealbum's weight and doesn't buckle. In that regard, this is the bestlegacy Pollard and Co. can hope for, including returning member TobinSprout, who recorded parts for the record, as well. This is what theywere adept at providing for their fans: whole albums of great songs.Once again, they succeed, and though it's not the last we'll hear ofthe band's members, it is this band that will be missed. Farewell, GBV,and thanks for the memories.Read More
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Providing less variation than this election year's candidates are, apiano/organ player and a drummer play music that, with few exceptions,relies on a formula of presentation and peculiarity to succeed. Thefirst thing that caught my eye is the rather distinct and beautifulpainting that adorns the cover of this album. It is painted by theClayton Brothers of L.A. and has a carnival appeal to it. The hands andfaces of figures are distorted and bring to mind visions of a morefocused Ren & Stimpy or maybe just a slightly less disturbing MarkRyden. The music is reminiscent of the ways carnivals have always beenportrayed in the movies. For the most part an organ dominates themelodic progression of the album and steady, almost military-like drumsundercut this dry movement of cheap thrills and train-wreck amusements.When the opening track began I was fairly thrilled; the obvious musicalreference to freak-show attractions promised quite a lot, but Luther& Toby deliver very little. Slowly the over-simple combination ofmusical elements becomes lackluster. There are moments when nothinghappens despite the fact that I know an organ is emitting a series ofnotes. Towards the end of the record, on songs like "Aluminum Lady" and"144,000," Luther & Toby manage to strike just the right mood bymoving away from their love of the strange and absurd. Gorgeousmelodies and shifting rhythms sweep together in a dramatic fashion andconjure up a need for repeat listens. But two or three songs aren'tenough to save an album that tried too hard to present a particularimage. No matter how engaging an initial idea can be, it's hard to makea record based on that idea alone or at least it's very difficult to doso without the music becoming samey in very quick fashion. While thephotographs in the booklet and the promise of "Lucrezia Borgia Waltz"made it seem as though Luther & Toby were going to ride down along, untrampled road, the majority of the album simply meditates on asuperficial and ultimately uninteresting image. If there are circusoddities and strange twists of genetic code to be found in the worldthis album only hints at them. At the last moment, on the closing "OhSore Sore Song," there is a vast emptiness opened up and a group ofvoices sing a tune that could've only been heard in local taverns andfor just a moment there is something truly engaging about the albumthat suggests a past or a history of someplace unique. The song is,unfortunately, only a minute and six seconds long. I don't want to sayLuther & Toby are a one-trick pony, but there's no differencebetween dressing an album like this in rich pictures and looselydeveloped concepts and dressing up a bunch of rich boys, giving thembad haircuts, and calling them "rock n' roll."-Read More
I can't shake the feeling that Shirts and Pistolsis Hardman's version of "Shits and Giggles," as this album plays like acollection of oddball in-jokes and quirky jams thrown together for fun.Toying with pop song melodies and structures, Hardman wrangle upconvincing electro-pop tunes that owe less to the punk ethos ofelectroclash than to psychadelia and surrealist non-sequiturs. Songsabout superheroes share the disc with tracks that juxtapose the variousmeanings of "Hardman" using porn and preacher samples with equal gusto.When they want to, as on "100 Years," the duo can craft hypnotic,organic electro-trip pieces that hum with strings and reverb andrepeating vocal phrases that drift out of consciousness. On the otherhand, tracks like "18's Fabric" touch on a kind of groovy,digitally-enhanced folk that's full of free verse poetry, acousticguitars and vibes. Whether they are playing with bluesy tones, straightup electronic pop, or something a little more leftfield, the songs arealways tight and short, leaving the album with a bit of a compiled,schizophrenic feel. In fact, a few of the tracks just kind of stopdead, as if the experiment that spawned them was suddenly brough to ahalt. This is, if ever there was one, a studio album where accomplishedproducers and musicians have afforded themselves the time and means tojot down whatever ideas might strike them. With that approach, thereare inevitably a few tracks that could be trimmed without losing much,but nothing is so long as to overstay its welcome. It sounds a bitself-indulgent at times, and borders on being too intentionally weird,but somehow Shirts and Pistols manages to stay endearing and interesting for 17 tracks.
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I can't shake the feeling that Shirts and Pistolsis Hardman's version of "Shits and Giggles," as this album plays like acollection of oddball in-jokes and quirky jams thrown together for fun.Toying with pop song melodies and structures, Hardman wrangle upconvincing electro-pop tunes that owe less to the punk ethos ofelectroclash than to psychadelia and surrealist non-sequiturs. Songsabout superheroes share the disc with tracks that juxtapose the variousmeanings of "Hardman" using porn and preacher samples with equal gusto.When they want to, as on "100 Years," the duo can craft hypnotic,organic electro-trip pieces that hum with strings and reverb andrepeating vocal phrases that drift out of consciousness. On the otherhand, tracks like "18's Fabric" touch on a kind of groovy,digitally-enhanced folk that's full of free verse poetry, acousticguitars and vibes. Whether they are playing with bluesy tones, straightup electronic pop, or something a little more leftfield, the songs arealways tight and short, leaving the album with a bit of a compiled,schizophrenic feel. In fact, a few of the tracks just kind of stopdead, as if the experiment that spawned them was suddenly brough to ahalt. This is, if ever there was one, a studio album where accomplishedproducers and musicians have afforded themselves the time and means tojot down whatever ideas might strike them. With that approach, thereare inevitably a few tracks that could be trimmed without losing much,but nothing is so long as to overstay its welcome. It sounds a bitself-indulgent at times, and borders on being too intentionally weird,but somehow Shirts and Pistols manages to stay endearing and interesting for 17 tracks. Read More
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Staubgold
I first became aware of Minit through a 7" on Tonschacht, a label whoseuniform white-on-black sleeves have since become trusted markers ofshort-form, lo-fidelity electroacoustic works from a new vanguard ofinternational artists. "Bootleg" was the label's first release, and itcaptured my eye mainly because of the note: "inspired by and conceivedfor Chicks on Speed." Based on the starkness of the sleeve design andartist name, I had expected a darker, more cynical version of Chicks'jaunty, metro-centric electro. I wanted to hear a song like their"Night of the Pedestrian" stripped of its role-play humor and takeninto the streets for real; I wantedMinit to take electroclash from hot pink heels back to Suicide country,back to rhythms cold and gritty, stuck against the city's pulse. Thisdid not happen exactly. Minit sound nothing like Chicks on Speed.Instead, they play densely textured, drone-based music structuredgenerally around trad Minimalist ideas of simple and understatedmelody. Latticed field captures, robust organic loops, and stackedsynthetic vibrations combine to create immersive environments ofcertain constancy, but within which textural breakthroughs do occur.Like most works with a tendency towards explicit Minimalism, apart-for-the-whole aesthetic is available here, and any section ofthese four lengthy songs has potential to reveal a small, shimmeringworld of harmonic variations and sliding, evaporating tones. Tocontradictory effect, the music (especially the title track) also seemsto move towards specific melodic ascensions, approaching, at severalplaces, throbbing arabesques fit for a full orchestra. These betrayalsof subtlety, these breaks in the level planes created by so muchtextural detailing, create the unique paradox that helps Minit standout in a glut of like-minded musicians and becomes the only plausibleparallel to Chicks on Speed, a group whose success certainly relies onparadox and odd juxtaposition. For all its stasis and flat expanses, Now Right Heredoes not shy away from easily emotive forms, often leading songs intothe kind of swelling, post-rock flirtations associated with people likeGodspeed You Black Emperor!. Bits of Now Right Here remind me of the overpowering-yet-concise melancholy of William Basinski's Disintegration Loops.However, rather than keeping these moments of catharsis containedbehind the ever-widening sense of loss and distance that is unavoidablein the Basinski pieces, Minit works through a kind of reverse processin which the grandiose sections are slowly pieced together almost likeby-products of the music's droning surface play. The peaks or"destinations" in Minit's music are always anticipated though neverquite required, a special quality that keeps their records fresh forrevisiting and more than makes up for the relative familiarity of thegroup's sound. (It's worth mentioning also that two of this disc's fourtracks appeared on two recent Australian-scene compilations, Variable Resistance and Motion, though this one is probably worth checking out for its 20-minute title cut alone).Read More
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The most popular electronic French duo since Air have finally had their internationally acclaimed album issued in North America through Mute. Unfortunately, hearing this after the extended period of hype, I was expecting something more. Rather than hearing the masterpiece as so many have exploded about, my ears tell me this could easily be the most overrated album I can recall in a long, long time.
It's like very bad New Age, except that it's packaged for the hip kids rather than the boring yuppies. For 12 tracks, this band pushes all the right emotional buttons: making grand climactic wooshes—like the most masturbatory Alan Parsons or Emerson, Lake and Palmer moments—but the six minute long crescendos never go anywhere. Each song is a buildup and buildup with absolutely no payoff. By the halfway mark, I feel as if I've heard six intros in a row and no songs.
Just like Air, I find M83 completely onanistic and dull. Maybe we can blame this one on classical French playwriting, expressed in something like Waiting for Godot, where there was no climax, and the whole time was spent anticipating something that never comes. However, the writing on Dead Cities is amateurish, as the songs are incomplete, with directionless meandering. By the end of the album, my time has been robbed and I've got even less respect for the critics and fans who have inexplicably gushed over this sad excuse for music.
For existing M83 fans, it's worth noting that this US edition comes with a bonus disc of five audio tracks and two music videos.
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Despite his efforts to write a melodic album distanced from thebeat-driven erraticism and pop culture plunderphonics that have definedmuch of his work to date, Aaron Funk's eleventh album as VenetianSnares sounds like something Richard D. James saved to diskette andthrew in a corner. In all honesty if I had received this CD without anyartwork or indication of artist name, I would have written it off asanother Aphex Twin/Autechre/Mu-Ziq wannabe and thrown it in the pile tobe forgotten. The greatest fault of Huge Chrome Cylinder Box Unfolding lies in its lack of the mix of eccentric charms and sinister overtones found on previous releases like Horse and Goat, Find Candace, and the now-classic Doll Doll Doll.The sameness of the material makes the majority of the songspractically indistinguishable from eachother, making it difficult tolatch on to any one in particular. Gurgling MOS6581 sound chip melodiesand spastic percussion litter tracks like "Bonivital," "Coke Ajax," and"Nineteen1319" with little variation to speak of. "Keek" employs SpeakN Math equation gibberish to accent its tinny atmospheres while "Vida"fuses together Commodore 64 tones and glitchy hip hop with spottyresults. OK, Aaron, we get it. You like oldschool video game sounds.Thanks for clarifying. From reading my descriptions here, some readersmight be confused as to why I have such a negative view of thisrelease. To them I would say that good intentions and seemingly cleverideas are often far less enjoyable when implemented musically, as isthe case here. To be clear, Huge Chrome Cylinder Box Unfoldingis not an unlistenable affair, and without a doubt stands as Funk'smost accessible release to date. Still, after making a name for himselfwith music that is equally challenging and entertaining, thisderivative release ranks as an unmemorable entry in his relativelystrong catalog.Read More
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M.V. Carbon and J. Gräf make noise that is slow, consumptive, andjello-thick and their method of ear-shattering is unique enough to makethem stand out among a sea of amateur feedback wankers. Keyboardsstretch and rattle like whale blubber waving in the wind and sonicwhines break the sound barrier in an attempt to reach light and breakit, too, but through all the chaos and unchecked sludge is that hint ofintention and arrangement that helps everything make sense. Metaluxmight have one foot in the out-of-control world of schizophrenic soundconstruction, but the other is firmly planted in the calm and coolrealm of careful preparation. After turning up their aggression theyconsider the variety they've presented, look it over like some hellishFrankenstein made from the bones of destroyed drum kits and nuclearguitars, and they craft it into rolling lines of synthetic bubbles andpurring sex kittens. Carbon and Gräf open up noise and reveal under itthe comedy of failing sounds; there are bloody llamas and pliantanimals to be found on this record. There's always a strange kind ofbeauty here that reminds me of why noise can be so great. Take theoverdriven guitar of "Splinter and Shimmer" for example: distortion,super-indulgence, and complete disregard for listener health has neversounded so lovely. The witch-like moan and screech of the vocals onthis track slip around the pure fucking animalistic drive of the guitarand the painful screech of electronics so perfectly, it's a surprisethat more individuals haven't tried this approach (it seems ripe fortheft and overuse). Metalux let it carry on for just long enough anddon't bother using it again—it's an addictive piece of songwriting thatonly increases with each listen. In other places the record is almostdanceable as drum machines pound away steady rhythms, alternatingbetween bass hits and persistent snare crunching. The noise that movesover it and the sometimes fascist ramblings of the vocalist create thekind of fear that only an epileptic thrust suddenly into a disco bashcould feel. "Airplane" and "Flexi-Armadillo" fit this bill well, butthere aren't just a few styles on this album. Nearly every song isunique and still Waiting for Armadillosticks together more cohesively than rock opera. "Rode West" soundslike it belongs in some world filled with secretly perverted clowns and"Mexico" might as well be put in every raver's CD player as a means ofterminally destroying their ability to dance and think. Both ofthem sound as though they were crafted from the same twisted brain andboth serve the greater purpose of lifting Waiting for Armadillo far above the usual onslaught of pummeling sound and into another dimension occupied only by itself. Read More
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The true test of the heavily layered, over-produced combo pop song is usually whether it can be played out in a solo performance, say at the ubiquitous open stage café or around the campfire, and still be strongly maintained. The singer/songwriter performance augmented with one or two other instrumentalists, preferably none of whom are playing the same instrument, usually has a raw and unique group charm, especially when performance is more the focus than production.
For a good chunk of his latest disc, A Guess at The Riddle, the literary and very musical David Grubbs pulls off a lot of very catchy, jangling guitar-driven pop songs in which the only other instrumentalist is drummer Adam Pierce (Mice Parade/The Dylan Group). Although Grubbs does some bass guitar overdubbing, on tracks such as "Knight Errant," "A Cold Apple," and "One Way Out of the Maze," it's so low in the mix and masked by his guitar; the positive outcome, perhaps intended, is that it then feels like listening to a very tight and dynamic duo riffing off of each other. Greek cellist Nikos Veliotis (featured in Grubbs' recent live performances) adds his swooping harmonics, which, along with the electronic augmentation of Matmos, turns "Hurricane Season" into a brewing and ominous piece worthy of its title. The snappy and extremely catchy "Pangolin" tears along to powerful yet unamplified electric guitar and broken bass lines which pack a lot of intensity into a brevity of under two minutes; no fancy guitar solos required. Although no recording equals that of live performance, there are a lot of moments on A Guess at The Riddle where it feels like I'm in a small club, listening intently at the edge of the stage.
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The electrified gong that radiates through the beginning moments of "Makruna" and continues through its 38 minute duration marks a phantom presence that galvanizes the whole of these recordings. The track "Minya" was originally recorded as a solo live performance in 1999, but it used elements of sound that had been previously recorded by both Colin Potter and Andrew Chalk. Only 111 copies of this performance were made, but now a reworked version—along with two new tracks—has been released in an edition of 500 copies.
Makruna Minya is a quiet and carefully paced record. "Makruna" reverberates with the humming and quiet pulse of gong, but also bubbles over with the sound of a small creek, the voices of individuals on the street or on the television, stone plates scratching over each other in circular patterns, and the uneasy sound of steam passing complacently through small pipes. The palette of sounds is very natural and, as a whole, the track progresses uniformly with changes taking place on a subconscious level. As the slate rubbing together becomes louder, children laugh and yell very low in the mix, and marbles jumble together in a bag. As soon as the commotion dies away, the sound of the gong has become clearer, the distinct shuffle-and-crack of walking on grass or leaves becomes audible and bird calls shift and stutter in the mix. All of this sounds relaxing on paper, but Jonathan Coleclough has a way with sounds that make them feel positively unsettling. The gong strikes illuminate the surrounding environment and fill the sky up with a dark oil that blocks out the sun and gives the world a blue tint. The children no longer laugh, but sound as if they're crying and the television reports sound frightened, almost paranoid in their delivery. Whatever it is that is happening feels consumingly hopeless. "Makruna" fades away into the orchestral "Minya," a piece composed of synthetic tones, oceans crashing onto the shore, and the strange distortion of radio signals. The tones on "Minya" are all descending and are, at times, reminiscent of human wails or sorrowful moans. The sounds continuously wash out with each other, each sound following the movement of another until a chorus of whispers and pseudo-screams crash down and reset the pattern. "Minya" is a more physical composition than "Makruna" and it circulates with a heaviness that is almost tangible. "Minya" moves so ferociously that it shakes itself towards its own destruction and by song's end it is reduced to a deep and growling bass tone that has been stripped naked of its previously chaotic glory. One final screech gets away before "Makruna Coda" hushes the album towards its end. The final sounds are from "Makruna" but are not washed away in a sea of processing. What I thought was a gong is now just a bell and the mysterious voices now sound as though they are being yelled down a tunnel flowing with water. The sounds fade away and leave a deep impression of the last sixty tumultuous minutes that does not dissolve. After the music has stopped churning, Coleclough's compositions will thrive and remain in the mind like a residue that grows and grows. 
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