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 voice of Blixa Bargeld of Einsturzende Neubauten is the rawmaterial from which Andrew McKenzie constructed the sounds on the twodiscs comprising Normally.Disc one begins with silence. Silence is merely sound that lingers justbeyond the threshold of audibility. Silence is unpotentiated space.Sound is the dissipation and usurpation of silence. When sound beginsto gradually seep into the silence of Normally, the experience is akin to the onset of a hallucination. For Normally,McKenzie is not interested in language; any whispers or screamscontributed by Mr. Bargeld are rendered indecipherable, and henceforthaffect the listener on a purely subconscious, subliminal level. This istellingly similar to the practice of talismanic magic, where theconscious desire is sublimated through a series of transformations intoirretrievably esoteric codes and diagrams, bizarre correspondences andperverted anagrams. Magic and ritual are McKenzie's primary motivationson Normally. Like the hallucinatory state, where the mind issometimes freed to make sympathetic connections between thought andmanifestation, so too the sounds on Normally contribute to anunraveled head-state in which synchronicities are the rule rather thanthe exception. At various times during my first listen to disc one, aslayers upon layers of meditational aumgns are gradually compounded, Iheard the unmistakable sounds of descending piano scales, mewlingkittens, distant muffled screams, even the sound of my front doorviolently being forced open. These were phantasms, no doubt, catalyzedby the abstract drones and ghostly monasterial choirs that McKenziesculpts. By the 28-minute mark, the piece has taken on the majesticintensity of Gyorgi Ligeti's haunting choral works, sounding like theinfinite vibratory intonations cascading from the void of space. Disctwo, or "Sphotavado," deals primarily with the breath. Just as AleisterCrowley noted after a lifetime of study devoted to the tantricmeditation, there is no better purgative than pranayama (breathcontrol), and no better way to enervate the aspirant than therepetition of mantra. Using Bargeld's mantric recitations and breathyintonations, McKenzie provides a series of distinct, dynamic passagesover the 65-minutes of the disc. Each passage fades in and out likebreathing, and each takes the listener to a more remote, rarefiedstrata of magical conception. From the gentle, reedy abstractions ofthe opening passage all the way to the serpentine, metallic Kundalinibrain-swipes of the final breath. At high volumes, many of theseprocessed sounds vibrate portions of the ear canal in an unexpectedway. I found that by moving my head back and forth, or changing myposition in the room, I could radically change the experience oflistening to "Sphotavado." McKenzie, therefore, has created a raresound sculpture which can be actively engaged and changed by thelistener. The enigmatic packaging and accompanying foldout bookletcreate a remarkable series of "blinds" that distract and mislead evenas they lay bare the central theme of Normally; words createvibrations; vibration is the result of sound; sound is the articulationof existence; existence is created by a single word, vibrated.
When a band displays all the ferocity that could rip my muscles off mybody sinew by sinew it gets my pulse going, and that's exactly whatGuapo have on this, their fifth full-length. Recent work with CerberusShoal and the addition of a third member Daniel O'Sullivan have bothtaken Guapo down a new and risky path where they seem to let their hairdown more, worrying less about the artifice and more about the art.These songs are almost painfully direct with less noodling and inherentdistraction than previous work and the band is all the stronger for it.The one weakness is that Five Sunswears a bit thin in a few areas as a result of almost incessantrepitition — particularly on the title track, represented as one longpiece with five track separations. As a result the album cannot beendured in one sitting, but the pure aggression and brave reaching istantalizing all over. When taken in portions it is a delicious andfulfilling meal. The title track starts the record, and the firstsection features non-structured jamming with quiet keyboards and loudcymbals and gongs. Eventually the quieter moments are broken by louderdrumming and guitar noise, then a full-out sonic assault is unleashed,with distortion and deafening percussion climaxing in a loud squeal. Iwas beside myself as the song moved to its next section, a morestructured collaboration with driving bass and percussion and a playfulkeyboard. The piece itself put me in full-out sway mode, but here theinternal repeating of the same parts grates a bit, then it all seems tostart over but with more squealing. The third section redeems it, alljazz drumming and piano solos with touches of shred guitar. It islengthy, but it never wanes once, with a steady pace and varied tempos.I let the sound embrace me, and the remaining suns made me secure,paranoid, and warm as the tracks progressed, ultimately devouring me ina wall of sound like a tidal wave. A brief intermission, and then"Mictlan" and "Topan," two tracks that share the same aesthetic butbecome far more melodic and structured. These were scenes in ahunter/hunted movie, with a relentless killer and a hapless victim inan elaborate game of cat and mouse. I felt closer to them than "FiveSuns" and all its glory. There is a beauty in their simplicity that Ienjoyed, and that I will reach for again and again even though theywere a bit darker in tone. Overall, however, Guapo has created a soundfor this record drenched in solidarity, and when they keep it simplethey just soar. 
I was immediately a little confused upon popping Individual's new disc into the CD player because it sounded almost like the CD was skipping through a copy of Pan Sonic's "Osasto EP" on fast forward. Actually, as I grew to understand, that's a lot of what can be expected from this album of minimal, deconstructed technoise. Each song has a particular rhythm that it exploits for a set duration and the dynamics are created by filters, LFOs, and subtle delay effects more than flourishes of arrangement. Most of the parts of each track subtly fade in and then gracefully exit over time. For this reason, I'd say that 180 Bullets... takes more after the minimal techno and trance mom's side of the family than it does after dad's unruly noise side. Such a simple formula works for Individual though, and the repeating patterns of thumpy kick drums and static bursts begin to behave the way a multisyllabic word does when you say it over and over and over. Are there new rhythms constantly bubbling up to the surface or is my brain just latching on to different parts of the same loop to keep from feeling bored? Either way, it works and none of the tracks ever seem too long. In fact, a few end abruptly on the short side, begging the question of how to tactfully end a piece of music that relies on its monotony and microscopic shifts in scope for its drama. The track titles have an obsessive militaristic theme that I don't really pick up from the music itself, but if it takes reflection on war and bullets for Individual to come up with tracks like these, I hope he keeps at it.
I came to Nels Cline's work by way of the Geraldine Fibbers and I had never heard any of Devin Sarno before, but I was expecting "Buried on Bunker Hill" to be something of a free-jazz style improvised guitar and bass workout. What I got instead was a thick, syrupy collection of drones and crackles and ebbing waves of distortion that is equal parts menacing dark noise and plaintive restrained ambience. If Subharmonic were still issuing their duet series that featured solo guitarists (Justin Broaderick, Page Hamilton, Thurston Moore, etc.) let loose for a side of a record to make any and all amount of noise they wished with their axe of choice, Buried on Bunker Hill would be a crowning achievement to a novel and intentionally limited approach. Where layered guitar and bass improvisational noise often fails me is in its creators' lack of ability to move from one point to another and then another with enough momentum as to seem organic and evolving. Cline and Sarno thankfully don't have that problem here, as they consistently build up to crests of deep, haunting noise and then flow back down to quiet moments that only suggest the power lurking underneath their arrangements. There's relatively little resembling the traditional timbres of the instruments used to make these songs, but when the recognizable guitar phrases surface as on "Only Peace," the atmosphere fades a bit to the background to give the stringed voices a chance to shine. Interestingly, Ground Fault founder Erik Hoffman was himself not sure of how this record could be classified based on his self-imposed series system (I=quiet, II=medium, III=loud) and initially released it as a part of the 'quiet' series. It is frequently quiet and loud and somewher in between so Hoffman's later admission that the record is more of a 'medium' probably makes the most sense. Buried on Bunker Hill is diverse but focused; it's dark but often tranquil and it winds up as the kind of record you can listen to quietly if you want to have some distracting noise in the background, or that you can listen to at full volume if you want to tremble before the monolithic force of echoing sounds crashing over you.
The second release in this year's Piehead series is a stirring, evocative disc from a UK-based musician who goes by "Knowledge of Bugs." There's no way around the Greg Davis comparison for me, so I'm just going to get it out of the way: the things that work about My Way No Way are the same things that make Greg Davis' processed guitar compositions so appealing. Although there's a fair amount of digital artefact and evidence of computer manipulation of these tracks, the organic, emotive nature of the playing still shines through much to the composer's credit. It's nearly impossible to fault Tom Bugs' approach to the guitar because from the looping bits of "The Accuarian" with underlying, amplified field ambience to the percussive lurch of "Heard Through Floor" accompanied by delaying plucked guitar to the soft organ drones that close out "1 Tonne Wheel", everything maintains a consistent space without ever sounding like too much of the same thing. The one strange exception is a narrative-vocal laden track, "Endless Path" that sounds a bit like a ballad that was penned in a lush forest populated by wood elves and magical wanderers. At the end, the narrator bumps into what I picture as wise old wizard who drops the science "Your life is an endless path." The song takes some getting used to, but after repeated listens it makes a nice connection between the more traditional singer-songwriter technique and the post-modern songwriter-digital editor technique that is employed throughout. Knowledge of Bugs has presented another link in the growing chain that connects the digital world of sound design and computer recording to the time-honored tradition of a lone musician playing music because it suits him. So far this year, Piehead is 2 for 2.
Somewhat discontinuous with Quecksilber's output thus far, which hastended to focus on works either more singular in process (ScottHorscroft's 8 Guitars) or more challenging in construction (Ambarchi & Ng's Vigil), Wirkus' third release is, nonetheless, a lovely and substantial slice of autumnal electronica. The one real surprise of Inteletto d'Amoreis that the music was created live without computer, via only threemini disc recorders, run through tremolo effects and mixed down. Ratherthan producing the kind of rough-hewn, shifting sound field that fellowlive-from-disc operator Philip Jeck diligently occupies, Wirkus'approach is much more minimal, a largely additive process where warm,melodic fragments pile up with lace-like delicacy, tracing comfortablewall-patterns. The artist's mini discs sample string quartets, pianopieces, and droning amplifier hiss, all extremely welcoming sounds,placed with enough economy and tasteful repetition to create stablepieces, thick with the hazy lull that people like Jeck and Fenneszconcoct regularly. What they lack in uniqueness, Wirkus' songs make upwith a quality of intimacy that often feels lacking in similarproductions, where the music's melancholic or nostalgic focus threatensto push it towards a remote, bookish level of engagement. Each trackseems cut from the same slow, thoughtful mold, an easy incline into atender plateau where melodious fragments graze the inside of grainystring loops or gentle static envelopes. Wirkus' pacing is entirelyappropriate given the warmth and level luster of the sounds used, andnothing here suffers from thinning structure or a lukewarm melodicsensibility. Inteletto d'Amore's only odd moment comes in thesecond track, "Blask," where the artist adds a vocal over the disc'sonly overtly rhythmic loop (of common amp hum and golden feedback).Sounding eerily like Alan Vega, Wirkus utters a breathy chant thatdoesn't really connect with the comforts of the record overall, and heseems to know this, calling up a hesitant, last-minute delivery withthe same minimal variation as his hypnotic backgrounds. One misstepaside, the disc, while unremarkable, will still demand return listensfrom most fans of experimental electronica or anyone looking for someabsorbing sonic wallpaper.Abner Jay was a classic ragtime song-and-dance man, learning his trade with Silas Green's Minstrels in the 1930's and WMAZ Minstrels in Macon during the 40's and 18's. Lap dissolve to the late 60's, and Abner Jay had transformed himself into a one-man-band and traveling nostalgia revue, issuing a series of private press LPs that now trade hands for ridiculously high prices. Sweden's Subliminal Sounds recently released this compilation, collecting material from three of Jay's best albums.
Jay billed himself as America's Last Minstrel Show, and he played an energetic combo of finger-picked banjo and harmonica, working the bass drum with a foot pedal. He introduced each song with bad puns and raunchy jokes, his deep Southern drawl a deliberate caricature of old-time Uncle Tom minstrelsy. It would be tempting to dismiss Abner Jay as a politically-incorrect anachronism, were it not for the obvious talent and intelligence with which he approaches his racially-charged material. By fearlessly accentuating the house Negro stereotypes that defined and imprisoned black performers in the post-Civil War South, Abner Jay is able to transcend them, exorcising the pain of his ancestry.
Nowhere is this more clear than in the heart-breaking song "I'm So Depressed," a track so beautiful and haunting that it floored me upon first listen. Beginning as a traditional-sounding blues lament, Jay's voice suddenly shifts into a high lonesome wail, choking back tears and belting out a series of deeply felt emotional cries that express an ancient sadness. "I was born during the hard depression days...My folks were sharecroppers/We had nothing, we had nothing, we had nothing/But grasshoppers/Looking back over my life/O lord, I'm so depressed."
On "Swaunee," Jay talks at length about his beloved Southern river, it's legacy and importance. Jay's narration is layered over an atmospheric instrumental track punctuated by the chorus of the traditional song, treated to sound like an old 78. Because of my penchant for outsider music, I have heard hundreds of hyped reissues of vanity pressings and much-vaunted musical oddities. Rarely have I heard anything as impressive as Abner Jay's evocative, recollective race-folk. One Man Band is currently the only widely available edition of his music, making it absolutely essential.
The glam rock era was the first time that popular music openly acknowledged its own superficial tendencies. The first time that the extravagance, glitter and condescension attendant to the rock n' roll lifestyle became an aesthetic badge of honor. Glam, through its emphasis on the primacy of make-up, wardrobe and snarling supercilious attitude, was pop music's first postmodern movement, containing both the substance of rock n' roll, and the commentary on the same. As such, it created a fleeting moment in history where anyone with the right combination of style, poise and bearing could become an overnight sensation, and often just as quickly fade into obsolescence.RPM
For every David Bowie, Brian Ferry or Marc Bolan, there were scores of glam divas-in-waiting like Jobriath and Brett Smiley. At least Jobriath, the world's first openly-gay rock star, got a chance to release two monstrously campy and epic LPs before public backlash silenced him forever. The winsome and sinewy Brett Smiley did not fare as well, recording Breathlessly Brett during a flurry of interest by the international music press, only to have the album cruelly pushed aside by an uncaring record industry and shelved permanently. Smiley was the willowy, blonde personification of glam, discovered and promoted like a classic Hollywood ingénue by Rolling Stones producer Andrew Loog Oldham. Oldham's vision for Smiley was to elevate the young man to the rarefied status of untouchable superstar before his first single was out. On record, Oldham accentuates the breathy, effete qualities of Smiley's voice, framing it in a series of impossibly dense Phil Spector-style teenage rock symphonies. And I mean dense: in addition to three guitars, Oldham wields orchestral percussion, a full horn section, synthesizers and strings. It's so unbelievably, absurdly overwrought that it somehow achieves a kind of righteous transcendence that makes for an entertaining listen. The muddy, reverb-heavy mix works beautifully for Bowie-style space oddities such as "Space Ace," a diamond in a Velvet Tinmine if I've ever heard one. A cover of Neil Sedaka's saccharine "Solitaire" sounds like a lost cut off of George Harrison's All Things Must Pass, replacing Harrison's sincere delivery with Smiley's affected sigh. Brett's only single, the raucous "Va Va Va Voom," stands up next to the best of glam's bubblegum hits. Oldham and Smiley threaten to burst into flames from sheer flamboyance with the ludicrous medley of "I Can't Help Myself/Somewhere Over the Rainbow," sounding very much like Judy Garland stuck in a K-hole. After hearing this magnificent atrocity, it doesn't surprise me at all that poor Brett turned up a few years later with a giant drug habit, starring in a series of pornographic movies. Released 30 years too late to be even slightly relevant, Breathlessly Brett still provided me with some rhinestone-studded revelations. 
Stern and Northam are far from an incompatible pair. Both artists havebeen actively confusing environmental (or "natural") sound andelectronic composition for many years, becoming prominent practitionersof an incredibly tactile, dimension-bending style of electroacousticmusic. The success of their output is as much a product of newtechnology as it is the result of the artists' willingness to plumb thedepths of the world's rubbish bins, forest floors, and highwayshoulders in search of "new" sound devices. Northam, in particular, hasassembled a dense body of work based largely on the rejection ofinstruments with any kind of outside referent, including keen effortsto avoid sound which gives evidence of even the most primitive forms ofmusicianship (i.e. strumming, beating). The artist gathers sound from atable of indiscriminant objects, where man-made refuse, natural forms,and all combinations in between enter the microphone field and feed thegloss of cracks, scrapes, and sandy shivers that become the basis forhis alienating contributions. Northam's music reveals itself as organicbut untraceable; by simulating and warping "natural" sounds, hedemonstrates an interest in examining the process by whichenvironmental sound is internalized, filed away for easy, oftenunreliable reference. Northam's sophisticated process of manipulationallows for something like a "telescoping" of sound events to occur, inwhich certain details are blown up within the already intricateassemblage. Microscopic wrinkles and chirps turn, with surprisingfluidity, to craggy landscapes and squealing waveforms, creating subtledislocations of distance that compound the initial disorientationbrought on by traceless noises. The effect is like passing a magnifyingglass over a mossy creekbed and watching as small green worlds leapinto unexpected life. Wormwood'ssituation is made more complex by the chorus of high-pitched drones andgentle, processed feedback that rise from each piece, giving the disc'ssharper points a soothing undertone and, at times, lifting the surfacenoise toward snarling crescendos. Based on my knowledge of the artists'previous work, I'm guessing these extended tones are Stern's, thoughit's possible that he's equally responsible for the disc's grittiertextures. Whatever the case, the synthetic quality of the backing soundprovides a nice contrast to the mad scramble that remains the music'sprimary focus, working to create many fine moments of expertlyexploited detail and interesting contrast. And while Wormwood hardly rivals some of Northam's grandiose solo works like :coyot:and From Within the Solar Cave, the disc also feels unique and is no easier to pin down.
For better or worse, many artists slip through the cracks, their worktoo idiosyncratic or esoteric to ignite any interest in the public. Asunfortunate as it is when great art is ignored, it creates the perfectsituation for record collectors and rare music enthusiasts, who deriveendless pleasure from discovering innovative music that wasmarginalized in its era. Once called "Britain's pop Salinger," a namethat is accurate in more ways than one, Bill Fay's unique discographyis perfectly suited for a renaissance of interest and enthusiasm. BillFay recorded two fabulously rare LPs in the early 70's that combinedhis acerbic wit, impressionistic lyrics and apocalyptic religioussymbolism with huge, Scott Walker-style MOR string arrangements andpsychedelic guitar riffs. His songwriting talent is immense, craftingMcCartney-esque pop masterpieces that seem entirely alien to thebizarre, hallucinogenic lyrical themes. Both his debut self-titledalbum and the follow-up Time of the Last Persecutionwere issued together on CD by the now-defunct See For Miles label, andhave since gone out of print. David Tibet's Durtro Records is on theverge of issuing Fay's unreleased third album Tomorrow and Tomorrow.In the interim, British rare-psych label Tenth Planet has released thiscollection of 25 early demos and outtakes on their Wooden Hill imprint.These demos include never-before-heard songs as well as nascentversions of tracks that eventually appeared on the two LPs. This is anextremely exciting release for Bill Fay converts, but it is far fromessential for newcomers, who would be advised to seek out one of histwo original LPs. The recording quality of many of the original tapesis rather poor, and the digital conversion doesn't seem to have helpedmuch. Further, Bill Fay's artistic voice is not as strong in some ofthe earlier material, which seems at first listen a little too similarto The Beatles. Tracks like "Warwick Town" and "Maxine's Parlour" arefine examples of urbane British psych-pop, but they rarely reach thetranscendent weirdness of his later work. However, there are many gemsto be found on Grandfather Clock. The haunting early version of"Garden Song" included here is startling, highlighting Fay's beatificdelivery on spaced-out lines like: "I'm planting myself in thegarden/Between the potatoes and parsley/And I'll wait for the grain toanoint me/And the frost to awaken my soul/I'm looking for lastingrelations/With a green fly, spider or maggot." Though I have a deepaffection for the extravagant string and horn arrangements on thealbums, it's fascinating to hear these songs liberated from the denseproduction. This collection quietly proves that Bill Fay was much morethan an amusing footnote in the history of British psych-pop; he was aliterate and emotive songwriter of the highest order.
This 1972 recording catches the iconoclastic British improv ensemble around the time of To Hear and Back Again,where the group was temporarily reduced to the duo of saxophonist LouGare and drummer Eddie Prévost. This is the interim period coming afterAMM's first recordings, those groundbreaking mini-epics of sax andstring-strewn factory ambience, and before the group's later, arguablymore "mature" phase, marked by the introduction of John Tilbury's pianoand a calmer, more subtle playing style. In '72, the temporary absenceof Keith Rowe's tabletop guitar and electronics meant the disappearanceof nearly all of the colorful industrial abstractions that made thegroup's early work such an unclassifiable joy, and in response, the duoof Gare and Prévost dips heavily into free jazz for this performance atLondon's Roundhouse, anticipating their work on Hear and Backtwo years later. The players are clearly competent and practicedcommunicators, making the disc's 47 minutes ample time for a few dozenbeautiful moments to emerge, but it's easy to feel disappointed with Roundhouseas it's really only a sidestep in the path of a group whose best worklies both ahead and behind. Gare demonstrates a keen appreciation forthe free-fractured melodic style of late-period Coltrane, merging withthe wayward stabs of Arkestran contemporary John Gilmore; however theseabilities had been previously established on the first two AMM recordswhere they found brighter placement within the rich textures of theexpanded ensemble, alongside Cornelius Cardew's disembodied cello. Thesaxophonist is more impressive during Roundhouse's quieterpassages where, removed from distraction or compliment, the soft arcs,low warbles, and the other more textural elements of his playing can befully appreciated (and picked out of other recordings). Prévost'splaying is, for the most part, a disappointment. Given the completelyalien repertoire of sound I know the drummer to be capable of, hisrelatively straight-laced performance here becomes my biggest criticismof the disc. Prévost might have been forgiven had he hung back to allowfor more subdued interaction with Gare's tenor, but instead he insistson punctuating most everything with tight, exhaustive snare rolls thatprove tedious before the halfway point. In contrast to other AMM discswhere one unbroken piece receives (seemingly) arbitrary trackdivisions, Roundhouse's single track includes numerous pauses,which, oddly enough, become the music's biggest asset. Continuallyeasing their instruments into and out of silence, Gare and Prévost areforced to repeatedly regenerate the piece from scratch, moldinglistener anticipation and crafting an increasingly complex work. Also,the recording leaves a considerable amount of audience noise and roomambience audible, allowing these sounds to blend with those from thetwo musicians and recalling the famous AMM credo: "Every noise has anote." During particular lulls in the playing, as distant coughs andshuffles enter the mix, I can almost hear the static edge of the absentRowe's shortwave radio, as if this room and these people were justsomething he was lucky enough to find on the dial as the sax and drumsstarted to die down. Moments like these are enough to make Roundhouse worthwhile and to remind me that even mediocre AMM discs make for irresistible listening.
