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 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. 
Conceived as a response to the worldwide media coverage of the first Gulf War in 1991, Switch On Warwas Charles Hayward's attempt to create a harsh, anti-musical statementthat would serve as an antidote to the barrage of media distortion anddisturbingly hypocrisies being promulgated by the government andmilitary. Binaurally recorded live in a deserted London morgue, Haywardnever expected the album to last longer than a year, as it was intendedto reflect the anger and sadness over those then-current events.Paradoxically, some 13 years on, this music seems more topical thanever, with George W. Bush's bloodier sequel to the Gulf War stillraging on and the media ever more complacent and contradictory. Switch On War is subtitled Music for the Ongoing Theatre of War,a name that seems like it could have been lifted directly from thepolitically charged, anti-government lyrical screeds of This Heat, theseminal post-punk experimental group that Charles Hayward co-founded in1978. Hayward uses pretty much the same arsenal here as he did withThis Heat (and Gong, Quiet Sun, Camberwell Now and Coil); live andsynthetic percussion, augmented by layers of distortion and harsh tapeloops. The sound is immediately reminiscent of the industrialagitations of Throbbing Gristle, SPK and Einstürzende Neubauten,guaranteeing that it will be an extremely trying listen for most.Sheets of unpleasant distortion and ear-canal vibrating drones shiftsubtly along with Hayward's mechanical rhythms, scrupulously avoidingmelody in favor of abstract dot-matrix patterns that emerge overextended periods of time. At the start of "Crying Shame," Haywardshrieks a series of razor-sharp provocations: "Drive a sadmaninsane/Need a badman to blame/Oceans of flame/Reign of terror/Bone-dryterrain." His harshly synthetic soundworld evokes the arid dessert asseen through ultramodern infrared night-vision cameras, the landscapereduced to muddled electron midnight-greens and blues. Sudden swoops ofreverberating mechanical rhythms and ear-ringing treble tones signalthe dropping of bombs from aircraft, with fiber-optic cameras on theend of missiles tracing their descent down through the night sky andinto aspirin factories and impoverished public housing buildings.Hayward frequently utilizes the electronic bleeptones and repetitive,simplistic melodies reminiscent of video arcade games, drawing aparallel between spotty teenagers playing out shoot-'em-up fantasieswith their joysticks, and post-pubescent soldiers destroying the worldwith their high-tech gadgets and weaponry. Switch On War is a powerful aesthetic statement of brutally urgent relevance. 
Radian's third full-length album is an unexpected (and excellent) surprise, appearing only months after the releases of Ballroom by Trapist (Martin Brandlmayr with Martin Siewert and Joe Williamson) and Die Instabilität der Symmetrie (the collaboration of Brandlmayr and Siewert with Werner Dafeldecker and Stefan Németh) and mere months before Jealousy and Diamond, the Kranky debut of the band Autistic Daughters (Brandlmayr and Dafeldecker with Dean Roberts). Juxtapositionis a seemingly appropriate name for the album as the recordings werecompleted in a process which is nearly backwards to what would seemmost logical: beginning with the synths and electronics (in Vienna) andcompleted with the recording of live drums and bass guitar (by JohnMcEntire in Chicago). Unsurprisingly with two drummers (Brandlmayer andMcEntire) having so much influence on the album, it's a veryrhythmically charged record. "Shift" opens the album with an aggressivetune of driving percussion over chopped up electronics. Even here onthe first track, the brushes of cymbals and thud of the real bassguitar combined with the forward melodic motion are sounds I've wantedto hear come out of this scene for years. These are the elements thatmake the perfect use of the last ten years of laptopery. Sure, thoseMego and Raster-Noton acts had good sound patches but the picture wasalways incomplete without good composition and variety. Juxtapositionis more of a pop record than the other releases in this blossomingscene, as it's comprised of nine approximately five-minute songsinstead of four-five 10-20 minute long pieces like some of theaforementioned records. The instrumentation remains a consistentwell-balanced interplay between the three musical elements (drums, bassguitar, and electronics) while the variants from song to song are oftempo and structure. While the sounds themselves aren't completelynatural, it's not an alien pop concept to have an upbeat tune (like"Transistor") followed by the downbeat song ("Helix") and a subsequentdroning bit ("Ontario") before launching into another upbeat jam("Tester"). I'm now even more eager to hear the upcoming AutisticDaughters release and am increasingly anxious to see some of thesepeople live but whether or not this blossoming scene has caught on wellenough to bring them over is yet to be seen. 
While it's hard to speculate about the influence that this reissue willhave on even the smallest of fringe interest groups, without soundinglike a geeky sound-art fetishist or conspiracy nut myself, I will admitat least that after three years delay, The Conet Project repress has me more excited than any record to receive reissue treatment in 2004. This is notto say that I have really enjoyed listening to most of theserecordings, at least not for any extended period, the reason being thatthe four-disc set is absolutely the most intense piece of media I'veencountered since its initial release in 1998. "Numbers stations," forthose who ignored this colossus the first time around, are short-waveradio broadcasts appearing (still) around the clock, transmitting avariety of encoded messages, next to impossible to source, decode, ortrace to a recipient. The messages come via human voices readingnumbers and phonetic letters, series of Morse-coded letters andnumbers, or longer "noise" transmissions, producing different strainsof noise and occasionally snippets of music. This collection (the firstever) is not intense within conventional or, in these days, fashionable"noise" definitions. Rather, the effect must be traced deeper, beyondany surface appeal and into the unrelenting atmosphere these recordingsproduce. Better yet, in a contradictory reading that would support theparanoid "sourceless-ness" that is certainly a theme here, theintensity in the mood of The Conet Project might also be linked to the sounds' unique existence at the surface only,as purely utilitarian noises of unknown, or at least inconceivablecontext. Recently, numbers stations entered the popular mind via asample (from disc 1) that became the haunting invocation"Yankee...Hotel...Foxtrot" in a song from the Wilco album of the samename. The fact that the band selected such a bizarre find for bothprominent placement within one their most powerful songs, and for thetitle of an album epic in its look at emotional isolationism, should beevidence of the captivating power latent in many of these recordings,regardless of their association with the government intelligence groupsand espionage agents that are their most likely sources. While it canbe thrilling to sit and imagine the global impact of one particularseries of stuttered, Slavic letters or static-laden Sousa loop, thesediscs become most effective when the frequencies are allowed to slowlypopulate the airspace, to become, in this archival format, like theghostly remnants of human activity twice removed, a census of blackshadows against the sky's gray analog. The warped, muddied sound of thebroadcasts grants each a discomforting distance, less paranoia-inducingthan simply numbing. To listen is to confront a vast field of inhumanbabble, coated in the noisy resonances of antique equipment,long-distance signaling, and extra-mechanical production. These aremarginally human transmissions, meant to appear timeless, to miss yourears, transmissions largely forgotten, or remembered only in thelog-books of an anonymous conglomerate. This is the true cyber-punksound, "music" which predicts a future of annihilation, replacement,and empty language. It is especially apt that The Conet Projectis being marketed to the experimental electronic crowd, as the moodhere seems a virtual compendium of the accomplishments of labels likeRaster-Noton, 12k, Fällt et al. These labels' pursuit of a reduction ora microscoping of musical forms through delineated digital languageoften threatens the same blank stare that I receive from Conet,intended or not. Here is proof that our music has evolved and left usbehind, in futile struggle to decode it, to connect its makers withourselves, to reach inside it and come up with something other thanevidence of our own growing insignificance. 
The first full length album of all new Mouse On Mars music in threeyears is easily one of the most fun records of the year. Andi and Janare once again joined in the studio by vocalist Dodo Nkishi and, alongwith female vocalist Niobe, for the first time, the entire Mouse OnMars record is covered with vocals. The strong points are very strong:the undeniably most bombastic jam of the year is "Blood Comes," which,along with tracks like the opener "Mine Is Yours," and "Wipe ThatSound," are excellent homages to bottom-heavy retro-funk put through adigital mindwarp that Mouse On Mars excel at. "Blood Comes" plays in myhead to images of urban roller skaters in San Francisco, speeding downthe hills backwards with a ghetto blaster on one shoulder. It's aperfect balance of punchy beats, hot riffs, and noise. "Mine Is Yours"is a brilliant opener with guitars adding more human colors andtextures to the music, which is historically quite alien. However, I'mnot quite sure if I'm ready for the vocals from Niobe, as the songs"The End," "Send Me Shivers," and "Evoke an Object" are somewhat tepidattempts at a kind of generic easily digestible coffee house techno.While they do work as good resting points between the relentless energyof the other songs, they're rather underdeveloped and lacking inexcellent hooks. It almost doesn't matter, though, as the memories ofthe high points are good enough to leave the important lastingimpressions and warrant repeated listens.
This compilation neatly fills in some gaps for collectors of the longand varied career of Mayo Thomspon and his mercurial,on-again/off-again rock outfit The Red Krayola. Comprising 21 tracksdrawn from twelve 7", 12" and CD singles released from 1970 to 2002,most songs are credited to the various lineups of The Red Krayola, witha couple bearing the name of Mayo Thompson solo, the short-lived sidegroup Saddlesore, and a few sharing credit with conceptual art groupArt & Language. Anyone versed in the career of The Red Krayolaunderstands that the primary watchword is eclecticism. From theirbeginnings in Texas garage psychedelia, Thompson has taken his projectthrough avant-garde Residents-style insanity, country-rock, punk-disco,No Wave and post-rock. Along the way, Thompson has remained the onlyanchor of the band, which at various times has included hundreds ofothers, including members of Pere Ubu, X-Ray Spex, Essential Logic,Raincoats and Swell Maps, as well as contemporary indie mainstays JimO'Rourke, David Grubbs and John McEntire. If one thing has stayed thesame throughout the 36 years of the band's existence, it is theadventurousness and intelligence with which Thompson and companyapproach these myriad styles, and their continuing, nervous dialoguewith pop music and other commercially viable forms. Though the singleis, by its nature, the most commercial face of music, The Red Krayolahave used this carrier as a way to keep in touch with the pop world,even as they held it at an arm's length, with their deconstructions andcommentaries on rock. It's hard to detect this stance in the album'sfirst three tracks, dating from 1970, which utilize country-influencedpsych-rock to capable but ultimately head-scratching effect. Fromthere, a 1976 single "Wives in Orbit/Yik Yak" demonstrated Thompson'sgrowing interest in the stripped-down aesthetic of punk rock, with apair of cleverly rendered art-punk songs that rival the best of theoriginal punk singles era. Tracks 6-13 represent my favorite period ofRed Krayola's manifestation: his flirtations with No Wave, working witha band that included members of the aforementioned post-punk groups."Micro-chips and Fish" is an idiosyncratic reggae-punk song featuringthe saxophone blasts of Lora "Oh Bondage, Up Yours" Logic. Successivetracks tackle the atonal skronk of No Wave, with Thompson's lyricsdealing with abstruse linguistic philosophy, or narratives about Muslimswordfighters operating as allegories for the destructive power ofreligion. The "Rattenmensch" single, released on an obscure Germanlabel in 1981, features a musical take on Freud's famous "rat man" casestudy, using German lyrics taken from Freud's writings, incorporatedinto an angular New Wave framework. The rest of the singles collectedon the disc document Thompson's 1993-2002 work released on Drag City,his most experimental period, characterized by highly idiosyncraticcompositions combining unorthodox rhythms with jagged guitarimprovisations, unexpected samples, synthesizers and surrealisticlyrical routines. "Come on Down" is a good example of the artsierKrayola, originally a bonus single included with the first pressing ofthe FingerpaintingLP, is an oddly dislocated ballad that bounces along with a galaxy ofstunted electronics and sudden tangents into free-form noise. Takentogether, these 21 songs construct a stunning collage-portrait of anartist in constant flux, never failing through four decades to find newmethods of expression and the transmission of new ideas.samples:
It's utterly unfortunate when I can listen to a band and tell either their influences or what band they're trying to sound like on almost every track. Especially when said band shows musicianship and skill that could very well spawn a truly unique and powerful sound. Sadly, this album is not the record that reveals this untapped talent for The Plastic Constellations.2024
A band almost tailor-made to pander to college crowds, the Constellations rely on a humorous outlook and an seemingly endless supply of energy to pound out their mostly derivative rock. The songs never reach past some desire to show off how clever or great the band is, and it falls firmly on its face. Opening track "We Came to Play" is an anthem and a call to arms at the same time, as the band gets "laced up" to face more crowds after facing some level of adversity. The rhymes are tired and weak, and all the song ends up as is self-aggrandizing wordplay. Most of the lyrics, in fact, are written from the band's perspective on a myriad of subjects, some specific and some vague. Sticking by friends, how hard it is to grow up and move on, being away from home, and the urbane desire to show off some gangsta vibe are all discussed, and, truth be told, it's almost no surprise that the band is made up of 22-year-old males. It's typical subject matter for the college crowd, all bravado and little substance, and it comes off like a bad English paper written by someone from Rhode Island who wants to talk about "keeping it real" and being "from the streets." Even the song titles suggest this: "Beats Like You Stole Something," "Evil Groove," and "Keep it Live" are a few examples. Truth be told, the band does have some solid playing, and there are sections of songs that show what potential exists in this group. But it remains aloof, and these songs pose and preen but don't become anything other than vain caricatures. With time, perhaps they'll mature into a solid rock outfit. Until then I'll keep it live elsewhere.
Writinggood music is an incredibly difficult thing to do. Knowing this andconsidering how easy it has become to make music in a home basement, Ishouldn't be surprised that seriously bad songwriting is rearing itsugly head more frequently. Cobra Killer's punkish attitude and totaldisregard for anything truly igneous creates the kind of sterileenvironment that could kill any erection and hurl any optimistic,music-loving, passionate human being into the kind of depression thatusually ends up stinking of alcohol and all-night country music binges.76/77 opens up with "Let's Have a Problem," a rhythm-centeredexercise in monotone vocals, monotonous loops, and melodies that PaulOakenfold might've had something to do with. Fortunately this is not anindication of all of what is to come. "Mund Auf - Augen Zu (SteckerRaus, Ich Dreh' Durch)" contains one part catchiness, two partshalf-awake vocals, and just a hint of personal satisfaction. It is asimple track that succeeds by sticking to what works... over and overagain. It's not the greatest song in the world, but it sticks out likea zit on the face of a Hollywood actress. "Chemie Des Alltags" returnsthe album to the state of mediocrity that "Let's Have a Problem" madeso painfully obvious and, with one exception, the album never reallystrays away from that blandness. How in the hell "High is the Pine"made it onto this record might as well be one of the nation's greatestmysteries. For just 3 minutes and 14 seconds, Cobra Killer puts awaytheir super-trendy, wanna-be punk 'tude and sings an amazingly gorgeoussong with a popping guitar line and swooping strings backed in grandeurby the (gasp!) vocals that actually hint at a melody that doesn't relyon just three tones. The problem with something like this has to bethat its all glam and no substance. Regardless of how under MTV's radarit might be, that doesn't change the fact that it's a painful blend ofbland writing and fake fucking personality. I'm sick of the posing, I'msick of the flashy sound effects and "groundbreaking" song structures:these songs (with one exception) have no soul! And, in addition,there's nothing new or surprising here. It's not as though Cobra Killerwas trying something new and just failed, 76/77 doesn't do anything that can't be done by any band who has material available at the local mall. 
Some bands seem like they have it all figured out ahead of time, likesome grand plan or marketing package that can get them into the rightclubs or buyer segments. At first glance, Sluts of Trust had that feelto me: raunchy name for just enough controversy; odd publicity photoswith bygone era stylings; all the right indie rock credentials, likecoming from the right city with the right backing and having very fewmembers like the current band the kids are crazy for. As soon as themusic is heard, though, these appearance melt right away in therealization that Sluts of Trust are the real deal, a rock act withfire, talent, and a lot of moxy. The album opens with ferocity, a tightsound, and both laidback Scottish delivery and whooping with occasionalwails. The vocals tend to be faded in the mix a bit, like they weredelivered with a megaphone across the room from the microphone in thestudio, but they can still be understood. Then, inexplicably, at thebeginning of the second track, an explosive hair metal guitar lickgives way to an almost funk feel on "Piece of You." The song soarshigher and higher as the action builds, only to relax into the samegroove. John McFarlane's delivery is almost strained, like he's barelyholding it all in, and the instruments sound taxed by the forces thatdrive them. Sure, there's some comedy afoot ("Tighter Than the Night"is a great example), and the accent is almost purely indecipherable attimes or just thickly lathered on for effect. But even when McFarlanescreams "Might is right" or "I don't want pain, I want pleasure/We alltake the pain if it makes the pleasure better" it sounds sincereenough. "Dominoes" is a definite highlight, with plaintive vocals andgentle guitar breaking into a nice roll that approaches beauty althoughit never quite gets there. This is a band to watch with anticipation,for sure, and the niche they have found will easily provide them fodderfor years to come. 
Had the promise of the first track on this record carried through, I'd be ranting and raving about an extraordinary work of sound manipulation and minimal composition right now. Unfortunately the first track does feel like a standout on this Shimmer and puts the remaining seven songs to shame. Jasch has a great ear that allows him to do more than just slap sounds together in a creative way; he gets into sounds and recognizes their beginning and end and chooses, from the perspective, how to organize a piece of music. The result is a broad spectrum of stuttering sounds, whining strings, deep bass growls, and static rushes that never quite leave the world of organization and dive into the realm of the subconscious world.Doc
Despite this aptitude towards organization, Jasch's pieces are sometimes a bit too simple or they sound too busy. The sounds all fit together well, but no matter how harmonious they are, too much of a good thing can be ruinous. "Morphogeneis" is that opening piece that had me thinking this record was going to be absolutely stunning. It's a twelve minute extravaganza of boiling noise, winding chainsaws, and ominous moans blurring the line between the forest and the trees. Strange machines float overhead with their anonymous engines and some kind of hospital machine beeps slowly in a hidden place nearby. The precision of the composition (the way it ebbs and flows, the way the tension builds and receeds) crafts a kind of noble stability out of broken and shattered parts. It's a twelve minute stasis full of haunted ideas and unsure footing. "Shimmer" follows in a similar fashion but somehow feels repetitive, as though it were a remix of the first track with a small group of new sounds added for good measure. The album slowly fades away as the structure of Jasch's songs reach a kind of predictability. There's always a "solo instrument" wandering about in front of the noises that compose the background. There's always some hint of a musical instrument at work and it usually pulses or flows with a distinct rhythm or timing. If I were less picky, these facts would be minor distractions, but I dislike knowing where sound collage is going to go and I really wanted this record to move someplace it just wasn't moving. There's a ton of potential in Jasch's work and I'd love to see something a little less predictable come my way. If he's going to insist on that heavy, pulsing, repetitive sound, then he needs to do more with it and learn how to compose a piece that increases its heaviness as it unfolds. If he's intent on doing something more subconscious and wants to throw the listener off, he needs to do more than add strange, disco-esque sounds into the middle of an extremely moody piece (see the otherwise excellent "Levity's Rainbow"). Establishing a kind of aura that is working through a constant change of sound is one thing, changing the sound so drastically that it makes me forget how great the past six minutes were is another. There's a lot good going on here, but I find these small points sticking to me and forcing me to acknowledge this as a spotty album with both very excellent and only mediocre moments. 
When the message is primarily about breaking down social and political barriers, it's only natural that the musical ones should be overstepped as well. For their third full-length release, the first for Ropeadope, the Brooklyn soldiers of Afrobeat open with the loaded question of "Who is This America Dem Speak of Today?"Ropeadope
The response is their typical high energy musical interventions of monstrous bass lines and fragmented horns with more syncopation than you can shake a rainstick at, aided by lead vocalist Amayo's clever take on the nation's history when it comes its culture. The nearly over-extended jams of "Elephant" and "Sister" are a lot more laid back in the shake-your-body department, although there is more of a heartfelt touch as traditional Yoruba chants and sincere, soulful vocals are brought in on their respective tracks. The grinding dirge of "Pay Back Africa" takes on a foreboding overtone of uprising which becomes more uplifting with the middle eight-styled key change. Subsequent cycles of the tune are heard with more mindfulness and awareness, which is likely the point based on its title. The would-be gospel according to Antibalas track "Indictment" should have been longer than its five minutes and change. This heavy handed, tongue-in-cheek track of linear beats and distorted horns, which ring out some heavy power chords and tight stabs, takes on a rowdy courtroom setting (the honorable Judge Reinhold presiding) where members of Dubya's office are indicted with a near "can I get a fuck yeah" styled chorus from the peanut gallery. Paced with the irate, high energy numbers early on, Who is This America? gradually settles into, at times, near trance-inducing repetitive choruses and grooves which melt away some of the tension. A glimpse of the shell's underside reminds that it's not just about finger pointing, but of hope as well.
