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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I have a weak spot for good Detroit electro. I'm endlessly turned on bythose repetitive beats, that dystopian future groove, those analogpeaks and valleys. Because of this fetish, my collection contains farmore of this stuff than is probably healthy, but certainly favoriteshave emerged: Juan Atkins, Drexciya, Dopplereffekt and Cybotron, toname a few. I have also tuned in to the current of newer techno actspiggybacking themselves on the Detroit sound, and for the most part, Ihave been quite disappointed. Imitation may be the sincerest form offlattery, but it's also the sincerest form of boredom. Dr. Lektroluv'snew continuous mix of neo-electro acts highlights some of theseproblems. The first two tracks are perfectly realized classic Detroitsides, but then the mix takes a turn for the worse by lingering alittle too long on purposely weird, self-consciously retro stuff. Theproblem with "electroclash" is that much of the artists have forgonemusical inventiveness and production acumen in favor of veryheavy-handed, simplistic techniques that become dull after thirtyseconds. For all of their cleverness, a lot of these bands would have areal problem creating a track as good as Model 500's "Night Drive,"made twenty years ago without the benefit of a laptop. Some of theartists here are quite good: Octagon Man, Silicon Sally and thenow-ubiquitous Liaisons Dangereuses. Did all the DJs in the world meetover the summer and make a pact to spin "Peut Etre...Pas" untileveryone was completely sick of it? Radioactive Man's "Do TheRadioactive" is an interestingly textured track, not surprising sincehis volume of the Fabricseries was one of my favorites of the year. Ersatz Audio' Kitbuilderspipe in with an unbelievably overblown epic disco-house track withpretentious lyrics. The last part of the mix really loses steam, withweak tracks from the omnipresent Adult. and the overrated Crossover. T.Raumschmiere's glam-punk stomper "The Game Is Not Over" is probably myfavorite single of the year, but it feels strange sandwiched between aretarded retro track and the lightweight Oriental disco of Yellow MagicOrchestra's "Behind the Mask." In the final analysis, there isabsolutely no reason to buy or listen to this mix. Get one of thoseCD-burning programs that have a cross-fading feature and make your ownmix: it's bound to sound better than this.
The idea of hip hop beats or samples mixed with other live instrumentscan go like crunchy or smooth peanut butter: it goes down easy or itneeds some chewing but either way it sticks to you. I like my peanutbutter smooth, and Loopian Zu lay it down with an even coat so that Idon't even need the second slice of bread. Then they throw on some oddand crazy improvisation that takes it to a higher plane that is stillsmooth, but can cause some confusion if you don't know where to pointyour ears or your mind. Not to worry, as it all plays out in the end asa very coagulated whole, where every move is not necessarily planned,but the members are firing on the same cylinders so it all feeds thebeast within. "Regents Park" is full-on mad drum glory with scratchesand squelches of fancy, mixed with killswitch classical vocals thrownin for good measure. Then, the fantastic two-part track fades in withsmooth horns and guitars before dissolving into cacaphonic noise andhorn and drum rambling that do Miles Davis proud. They blend theirinfluences with almost equal airing and time, not in some bouillabaissethat sounds indistinguishable. The horn section is the focal point ofmany tracks, and they nail it down tight. Loopian Zu are clever andsneaky, not blunt and unimaginative, and the main difference isartistry. "Nuso" is the flagship, with awesome solo voice question andchorus answer vocals, all anchored with the same dub or jazz basecoat.Some awkward moments exist within the same formula, like "Foot Prince& the Emergent Sea," which annoys with its "Love in an Elevator"beginning and muddled progression vocally and instrumentally. What itbuilds to is anti-climactic and meandering. No matter: they've alreadymade their point, and it's a small pothole on the highway. I still feltmoved by it, and didn't need anything to help wash it down. 
The music of Jan St. Werner and Markus Popp has always been, for me, aheartening, if predictable listen. While their separate activities likeOval and Mouse on Mars have seen considerable evolution over the years,St. Werner and Popp's collaborative project Microstoria has remained asomewhat static affair. Unfortunately, while previous installments inthe Invisible Architecture series joined several idiosyncratic artistsin collaboration or improvisation, this fifth volume features onlyMicrostoria, with no foreign body to alter their established sound.What's more, the music is a 2000 live performance containing only songsfrom the group's two latest albums, that year's Model 3, Step 2, and 1996's _snd.True, the seven songs here are some of Microstoria's best, and severalare extended far longer than their album versions, most notably adouble-length, eight-minute "Soso Sound." The lack, however, of any newmaterial, and the music's relatively strict adherence to albumprecedents, make this a mediocre release and unessential listening forprevious fans. New listeners, however, should find this disc a perfectintroduction to the work of two consistently fascinating music-makers.The live environment contributes to a looser sound with more roughedges showing, and highlights the aspect of Microstoria's music thathas always been the most appealing to my ears, the childlike abandonseen waning in the recent solo efforts of both St. Werner and Popp(excepting Popp's excellent So record). The latter's distortedrumblings and swift jump cuts have never been so wistfully assembled,coupling beautifully with St. Werner's meandering melodics, gathered aseffortlessly and organically from a guitar as from a PowerBook. Thelow-end has not been much a part of the duo's bag of tricks, but heredroning bass is surprisingly effective and often jarring, no doubtmeant to enliven the live experience but translating nicely to disc.That said, there is nothing too striking or really "new" about thisrecording, though it is anything but boring and certainly as beautifulas anything Microstoria has produced to date. Those hungry forsomething new might wait for the new full-length to be released soon.A sense of humor never hurts when there's no real central theme to spoil with it. Beginning with the plainly announced statement "I am the ruler of the world, ordained by God. I am George W. Bush," this razor-sharp EP never lets go, pounding the hell out of my ears with mortar shell beats and rapid-fire melody wiggles. It isn't exactly clear if 1-Speed Bike is trying be funny or just have a good time, but the results of his dashing drum programming and science-experiment melodies are zany and comic tunes.
"Bleeched Bumbaclot Warning" starts off as a series of extra hyper snare rolls and bubbling flasks before turning into an odd commercial for hallucinogenics use by slapping a strangely slow guitar and keyboard melody over the now spasmodic rhythm section. I somehow get images of small animals (in cartoon form) bouncing about my head while travelling through hyperspace in an episode of some really cheesey sci-fi flick. The Hrsta remixes included (as well as the second half of the CD) are a little less out-of-control and feature more droned out samples drooling under obviously live samples of drum performance. This isn't the most innovative thing in the world, but there's something humorous and oddly exaggerated about the whole disc and that only lends to its appeal. It would've been nice to hear some more comic commentary on the disc after laughing my ass off at the material on the first track, but the chill-out section at the end is a nice relief and contrast against the all out attack of the first half of the EP. I was surprised to hear this coming from GY!BE's drummer and quite frankly I was happy to hear such a drastic difference. Sure, there's a political message here, but how seriously should that be taken when "I am handsome like Donald Rumsfeld" and "I am believer in truth and justice like motherfuckin' Tony Blair" are uttered just about a minute apart?
"The Illness" bombastically opens the second full-length release onIpecac for Kid 606. It's a refreshing change from what seemed like anendless parade of songs entirely built on popular hip hop samples,which, frankly got really old, really quick. From minute one, we'redancing again: it's not a just a barrage of noise and it makes nearlyeverything since the last full-length record seem like filler. It seemsthat an attention on both song structure and fun stuff are being givennearly equally. However, some of my favorite elements like melody andconsistency within a few tracks are forfeitted by a strong attentiondefeceit, but it's always been a 606-ism, dating back to the VinylCommunication days. Much like his last Ipecac full-lengther (gosh wasit over three years ago already?) Kill Soundis much like a collection of sorts, providing slices of the variousstyles 606 has tackled over the years. There's plenty of nightmarishupbeat post-gabber noisefests like "Powerbookfiend" and the b-side to The Illness,"Ecstasy Motherfucker," while downtempo breathers like "Andy Warhol isDead" and the serene closer "Parenthood" are very pretty but a bit tooshort. Wayne Lonesome, a dancehall DJ/vocalist from Kingston arrives onthe scene (most likely through the Bug and Rootsman connection) to givevoice for "Buckle Up," which is probably the strongest track on thedisc (look for a hot 12" on the new offshoot Shockout). At times, riffsare started but neither strengthened nor mutated, making repetition ofideas and lingering memories a bit difficult. The psycho-dub bass riffat the end of "Who Wah Kill Sound?" for example aches to be exploitedand mutated, but is left pretty much alone. What is repeated, (orperhaps overused), are some of the samples used throughout differenttracks. (God I wish he gave up the "yeah, wow" bit was killed after thefirst song.) Those who have been able to catch 606 live this past yearhave probably noticed how much more dense the music seems to bebecoming, and in most respects, this album is a fun dance party, buthe's proven that he has the ability to make a few brilliant songscompletely over the top, and after seeing a fantastic live show, I maybe guilty of expecting something ever so slightly more on an album. Theaddition of the video for "The Illness," however, is awesome, as acartoon kitten tries to kill sound before sound kills him.
Just when I thought I was through with all of these worthless bandswith "The" in the title — like it's something important that they're"The" anything — here comes one I adore, and will be listening to foryears to come. The Sems is essentially Pete Bogolub, who wrote andrecorded the lion's share of the album at home, bringing in somefriends later on to augment it and make it all sound like a soulbursting at its seams. His is a raw and simple indie pop sound, withspace rock leanings and fascinating melodies. Bogolub is shy about hisvocals, it would seem, as they are drowned out by the music anddrenched in effects, but his faint whispers are just what is neededhere and there. The music and subject matter take interesting twistsand turns, — sometimes separate, sometimes together — and it's a bitstartling but desperately wanted once I got used to it. The switch from"Harmless" (shoegazer) to "Stalker But Nice" (noise pop), on to"Curlew" (ethereal ambience) and then "Speak Softly" (more noise pop)is an especially jarring progression, but after that the album settlesinto a nice calm and even jangly pace. It's there that the braverycomes on a little more in instrumentation and vocals, but it's neverover a certain even keel, and that's where the real beauty is. Theearlier tracks have an unadulterated passion to be sure, but the latterhalf has sweetness and comfort to spare, with enough minor detours offancy to make the heart ache and the brain swell. These musings are notcomplicated or even challenging: just straight-ahead power pop withsome depth and definition. For Audraglint's first CD release and TheSems debut I don't think there are better results to be found. 
Both 2000's eponymous double album and 2001's New Electric Music have shown New Zealand's famed noise rockers moving (perhaps lurching) towards a more sparse, more seductive sound. Though any Dead C record will inevitably contain enough variety to postpone classification and prolong interest, the group's post-millenium output so far has predicted a steady increase in song quality, as well as more broad, stylistic refinement. The shoddily-produced, clattering heap of guitar, bass, and drum noise that was the signature sound of early Dead C has taken a thinner, more bottom-heavy, and more atmospheric form as of late, with concentration on complex textures and assemblage rather than riff torture.Starlight Furniture Co.
Surely none of this has been enough to alienate fans of the earlier, junkier, rockist style; the Dead C seems a band that consistently skirts expectation, only to receive little or no acknowledgement for their efforts. They've never quite escaped the stigma that reduces them to lo-fi, feedback-happy sludge rockers, and their fans strangely adore them for it. Do true appreciators of the Dead C occupy some hidden corner of the elitist camp, brandishing their treasure like some jagged crystal? I like to think so, though The Damned, like any new release by the band, has me confused. Half of the disc's six tracks are of the same ill-produced, tripping-over-itself, psych/noise thump that the C have mined for years. Elsewhere, songs like the aptly-named "Atmosphere," feature the group at their most hypnotic, riding waves of distortion, amp buzz, and shuddering guitar screech, patient in its development and highly effective. The louder, busier tracks do not work as well, often losing focus and drifting aimlessly, but on tracks like "The Provider," the band proves it can create thoroughly gripping, even unique music from the most derivative of forms. With each new release, the Dead C identity inches closer to what I've suspected they were all along, more of an institution than a unit bound by rules of time or progress. The group plays as if preaching, by compulsion. They may not be believed, but they will be heard. They may repeat and contradict, but the germ of what they are doing is always audible. Epic four-track noise jams to play on repeat: this is why I listen. 
This is precisely what I would expect from a band that's trying tochange the world and sound extraordinarly unique. It's all over-the-topand contrived to the point of oblivion. It's as if the band gottogether and said to themselves "Lets be a whacky group ofpseudo-anti-somethings and write annoying lyrics with even moreannoying performances thereof while also trying to imitate some ofthose tripped out black and white cartoons from way back in the day." Ican see it, now: this band is going to be called amazing and inventivebecause their live act is akin to a sideshow circus (see the videoincluded on the CD) and their album features amazing sonic tangentsthat light up the speakers in ways never thought possible. I'll be thefirst to say that's a load of shit. There's nothing here I haven'theard before and I've heard it done a thousand times better. This ispopular music wrapped up in a hipster burrito so as to be acceptable topeople that find The Strokes and The White Stripes unacceptable forwhatever asthetic reasons that come to mind. To be specific, the track"Mor Grl Cops" features a near metal-esque guitar rhythm sectioncombined with a gypsy violin, a child-like choir, some drugged leadvocalist, and some guy that likes to scream "if life were a game /you'd say shoot shoot / bang bang and your dead." At times I think thevocalists must want to create a nightmarish listening experience whereguttural whines and Yoko Ono screeches mix in a soup of acousticstrumming and those all too predictable chord progressions. In the end,it all ends up sounding way too typical.I was able to predict when weird sounds were going to be used, I knewwhen the breakdowns were coming, and I knew from the first note howthespian the singer would get with his performance. It's predictable tosay the least and in the end the whole package betrays the image itwishes to portray thanks to the band's concentrated attempt at comingoff as something esoteric, mysterious, and important. I've been toldnoise is an annoying genre, but noise has never given me a headachelike 1:3:1 has. 
Sweet Trip have never made much sense to me, and they make even lesswith this record. It's always been too much a sound drenched in theDaft Punk motif for me, and this record continues in that vein. Denseelectronics swirl and build towards an aural climax only to berepeatedly foiled throughout by premature earjaculation, where theeardrums give out or the cerebral cortex just gives up. Sure, I guessall the right elements are there, with the clever arrangements by Robyand pure saccharine vocals by Valerie Reyes, but it's nothingearth-shattering or even noteworthy that hasn't been traveled before bybetter artists. There's a blatant largesse in these songs, whereeverything is louder than it should be, has more going on than isneeded, and takes way too long to end something that probably was bestnot even beginning. As annoying as Daft Punk are ("One More Time,"anyone?), they seem to know when to call it quits or to keep it short.Not Sweet Trip, on the other hand, who feature three songs over theeight minute mark with one honorable mention at two seconds shy, and Ican't even tell you one part I liked on them. "Velocity" shivers andshakes too much to get where it's going, and then when it gets there itfeels like dancehall trash. "International" languishes, bleeding like astuck pig, waiting for an inspiration of meaning, only to result tocut-up vocals and beats that sounded better when Dntel or Four Tet didthem. And "Sept" is only rendered interesting by the fantastic tablawork by guest Aaron Porter; after that, it's fairly by the bookelectronic indie pop, but goes on far too long for its own good.Elsewhere, the jarring Europop of "Dsco" sounds like Robbie Williamsand Sophie Ellis Bextor's ugly offspring, and "To All the Dancers..."sounds like a cheap imitation of some of Björk's best remixes. Stillnot clear to me, but not dead to me just yet.
For any true Guided By Voices fan, this collection is a bit pointless.This is the "best of" anthology that many have been urging Bob Pollardto compile for years. Not that they are finished releasing music, nordo they need another record to flood the bins that are alreadychock-full with their library; it's just that enough time has passedthat perhaps a compilation like this can show the history of the bandin a grander light. That is the one thing that this set does reallywell. Thirty-two tracks that are from a variety of their albums,singles, and EPs on Matador, Scat, TVT, and others, Human Amusementsserves not only as a reminder that the band is near genius almost allthe time, but that it takes a gathering of this kind to make a GuidedBy Voices album where no song is disposable. Every track is arevelation of the period in which it was recorded, but all together onone CD it's enough to do my head in. The only possible complaint —though not mine as I actually admire the move — is that there is noexclusive material to be found on the disc. This bucks the trend thathas become all to commonplace in this decade, and it's refreshing eventhough it almost damns this release to casual or first-time listenersonly. No matter: it's still the truest retrospective I've ever heardthat I didn't make myself. There are rare tracks, like the originalrecordings of "Teenage FBI" and "Game of Pricks," solid performers like"I Am a Tree," "Bulldog Skin," "Chasing Heather Crazy," "EverywhereWith Helicopter," and "Glad Girls" from the recent albums, and classicslike "Tractor Rape Chain," "14 Cheerleader Coldfront," "To Remake theYoung Flyer," and "The Official Ironmen Rally Song." This is a show ofstrength, a friendly glimpse at a much larger picture, maybe even achallenge to all of the mix tapes fans have made throughout the years;and it's a damned good one. As if their fans needed this villification. 
Was it hard to guess which direction the Load roster was headed? Afterchasing metal through a gauntlet of spastic duos with cracked guitarsand rack-less (gasp!) drums, the label sets its sights on the secondscourge of white suburbia: progressive rock. East-coastersUSAISAMONSTER are a guitar/drums duo with an affinity for the tight,noisy, and epic-length songs of labelmates like Lightning Bolt, butmade over with an arty, even jazzist take on guitar skronk and anelaborate, narrative approach to songwriting. Tasheyana Compost,their third and most mature full length, is a concept album dealingwith colonialism and the ravaged American landscape. One song's lyricsare taken from Chief Joseph's words; elsewhere declarations like "thisprogress looks like cancer cells to me" add a preachy element that issurprisingly welcome in the wake of so many noise rockers with nothingto say. The band compensates for any lyrical heavy-handedness withmock-poignant tales of highway adventure and humorous free associationsections. Likewise, the music oscillates between full-on noise blitzand more tongue-in-cheek bits where cheap keyboard sounds and stylizedcrooning appear. Blowout metal riffs mix freely with choppy acousticplaying, and strained screaming bleeds into the elfin chanting ofwoeful vagabonds. The stripped-down nature of the music prevents itsslipping into a mathy or studied sound, and the lyrical wit coveringevery track adds a proud, human quality. The whole is neatly nuanced,and while repetitious at times (especially the noisy parts), the albumsurvives on sheer exuberance. There's nothing fashionable here; thoughsome may fail to look beyond its raucous exterior, Tasheyana Compost is rich with blood of its own design, progressive rock stripped of all mysticism, carefully pessimistic, and damn fun. 
