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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These five Lucier pieces dating from 1961 to 1970 provide handyillustrations of my love-hate relationship with American academicmusic. Its central Theory versus Music dialectic is interesting. Is thetheory on which music is based important? If so, to whom? If a CD makesno sense aesthetically or otherwise until the liner notes are read (andthe liner notes are in this elevated domain unquestionably important)what does that say about the music? Does the pleasure of listeningdepend on the theory or should the pleasure be sought in the theoryitself? The first illustration on this CD is "Vespers" (1969) whichinvolves performers moving around a given acoustic space withdirectional pulse generators. I liked the piece before I read the notesbut I find it makes even more interesting listening how that I have.The piece demonstrates the theory that humans perceive physical spacethrough our sense of hearing. Without the theory, it's fifteen minutesof attractive clicking sounds but with the theory the listener becomesconsciously involved by providing and operating the apparatus for theperceptual half of the experiment, which can lead to deeperunderstanding and pleasure—it's rather like having impressionistpainting explained to you for the first time. Implication: theory canenhance music. "Chambers" (1968) illustrates another point; beforereading my response was: sounds okay, nice enough. It involves variousrecordings of sound spaces, such as a railway station, cafeteria orwhat-have-you, playing on portable devices, disguised in some kind ofwrapping, that are placed within the performance sound space—thuschambers (i.e. acoustic spaces) within chambers. Now that's fine andperhaps even witty, in a rather twee academic way, but grasping theconcept doesn't improve the listening experience and I'm beginning toget annoyed by the suggestion that the concept is even relevant to me.Implication: theory doesn't always enhance music and can detract. Onyet another hand, "North American Time Capsule" (1967), a performanceon the archaic Sylvania encrypting voice encoder without thecorresponding decoder, is unlistenable with or without the various deepand interesting levels of meaning provided by its associated theory.Implication: theory cannot enhance bad music. "(Middletown) MemorySpace" (1970) is scripted thus: a number of singers and/orinstrumentalists go out into a city and "record, by anymeans—electronic recording, graphic notation, or memory—the sounds ofthe city," return and "re-create, solely my means of your voices andinstruments and with the aid of memory devices (without additions,deletions, improvisation, interpretation) those outside soundsituations." On this performance the music sounds like rather dullimprov. Contemplating the composition (i.e. the instructions) providesa better distraction than the music: can it be done?; does it matter atall if it can't?; is the absurd impossibility of the parenthetical"without" clause another joke?; is this what group improv sounds likewhen exerting personality and thus interaction is explicitlyforbidden?; what must it be like to be paid to think about thesethings? And there we have, I fear, the crucible of my irritation:jealousy. These Cagian exercises must surely be great fun for thecomposer and may even be pleasing for the performers but the disregardfor whether or not the music will be any good to listen to is a littleirksome to the mere audience member. The implication is that composingand being a composer is more important than being a listener, eventhough the former is existentially dependent on the latter (composingfor its own sake has little to do with music). Such elitism isjustifiable and I am thankful for it when the resulting art is good andvaluable. But when it is not, which is not the exceptional case inAmerican academic music, I find that I cannot discard it without envy. 
This is proof that a band can combine a number of different musicalgenres into an album and still have it be as beautiful as it isinteresting. Country and folk roots, good ol' fashioned rock, blues,and sound collages all fit together quite nicely and summon spiritsboth old and new with outstanding results. Califone's Quicksand/Cradlesnakesdoesn't have a single wasted note on it. Electric and acousticinstrumentation fit together like pieces of a musical puzzle few othershave been able to solve; tape loops of broken, stringed instruments,computer beeps and bloops, and spiraling machine noise slideeffortlessly into and alongside country-tinged ballads full oflamenting pianos and dancing guitars. A perfect example of this lovelycombination is "Horoscopic.Amputation.Honey.," where buzzing guitarsshift in and out of mix that includes wooden, rattling percussion, whatsounds like a type-writer, and twangy acoustic guitar. Tim Rutili'svoice plays a big part in the music, too. At times his voice is sweetand soft like a lullaby and elsewhere it is bold and full of attitude.The rebellious and edgey "Your Golden Ass" is full spicey vocals,surreal lyrics, grimy guitar, and steel drums that somehow fit in witheverything else. The primitive and nervous "(Red)" makes me feel likeI'm in the middle of an almost-deserted and very dangerous townsomewhere in a vast desert and "When Leon Spinx Moved Into Town" is asexy, albeit quiet, rock tune blossoming with southern spices and atension that is hard to identify, but is looming and menacing in a verysinister way. The entire album is lavished with images and emotionsthat leave no room for dull moments. Califone has given birth to onehell of a fine rock album; it is diverse, full of lovely songs, andjust plain fun to listen to. 
Occasionally there is a song which comes along that is so damnedexciting time just plain stops for three minutes and 14 seconds. Theexperience of hearing Sharon Jones' cover of Janet Jackson's "What HaveYou Done for Me Lately" on the local college radio waves has beenabsolutely maddening. Perhaps the novelty of a soul revival outfitdoing a 1980s cover tune in 1960s funk style was enough to get thissong noticed, but once it's heard, it's damned addictive. No matter ifI was stuck in traffic behind dildos on mobile phones or getting up andready for work, the world truly did feel like a great place to be whenthis song came on. Hearing the album in full now is nothing less than adivine reward. It's safe to say that the energy captured by Jones andthe Dap Kings througout the entire record is equally as feverish andunstoppable as the single, and after countless listens it's not losingone bit of the charm. Dap-Dippin'is the first full-length for NYC-based Daptone Records (founded in thewake of the demise of Desco records) and collects a number of the songsfrom various 7" singles released by Jones over the last couple years.Recently, the singles and albums seem to be popping up in bizarreplaces and catching on to those both curious and adventurous enough togive it a try, and rightfully so. The music is a fantastic tribute tothe untainted sound of years long gone, presented in living mono andskillfully produced with an ensemble of talented musicians to give it alive in-studio production feeling that bands HAD to get right backbefore multitracking was affordable. Jones, a former session vocalistand the singer occasionally known as Miss Lafaye, fronts the groupthrough ten songs of unchained vigor with the saucy attitude of themost famous funk frontmen and the seasoned grace of a lady who knowsher shit. The real leader however seems to be Bosco Mann, bassist forthe Sugarman 3 and probably a member of a number of Daptone (andformerly Desco) in-house bands. Dap-Dippin' tactfully has theelements which usually contractually made up a late 1960s vocal soulrecord, with the live clip for the introduction, the high energy hitsingles (like "Got a Thing on My Mind" and "Got to be the Way it Is,")the ballad ("Make it Good to Me") and the tunes with the instrumentalbreakdowns for the band to show off and the listeners to get down("Pick it Up, Lay it in the Cut"). I hate to admit that it may besomewhat formulaic but I will stand by my claim that it is undeniablyfun. 
Armed with insomnia, a handful of members from the Godspeed family, and some egregiously long song titles, Set Fire To Flames oscillate only between dark minimalist music to moderately fleshed out instrumentals. Though Set Fire To Flames does not stimulate the same fiercely glorified feeling as Godspeed, they are able to elicit a more subtle response in some of their songs which has the potential to be no less rewarding. Most of the time, though, this sensation is a little more evasive, and the rewards a little more oblique.
The ensemble is quiet, and soft-spoken, and forever tinkering with their own sound, like a child who is playing doctor for the first time. "Deja, Comme Des Trous De Vent, Comma Reproduit," the first song is a meandering melody line which repeats over and over with instruments coming in and departing. The line is engaging enough that the repetition is not abrasive. "Holy Throat Hiss Tracts to the Sedative-Hypnotic" features a field recording (not the only one of the album) of a truly mundane story recounted by an older gentlemen; something about a horse and a trampling. Or was it a trampoline? An intense creaking frames the story, sounding either like the creaking of a ocean vessel's guts or some ungodly-built metal structure held together by linchpins of corroded plastic. It's almost as if the old man realizes the banality of his story, for he swings wildly in the other direction and recounts a entirely incredulous tale of fire emanating from some man's eyes. "When Sorrow Shoots Her Darts" is a moody orchestral piece which regains some of the composure from the first songs, but ends too soon. The final song on disc one, "Tehran in Seizure/Telegraphs in Negative," is a marked change in sound, more of an organic noise piece than the others. The other departure in sound is "Buzz of Barn Flies Like Faulty Electronics," which approaches free jazz. The souls of both songs are muted and understated, demonstrating the how you have to listen rather intently to these songs in order to find their elegance, a lesson which instructs the listening for the whole album. In the end, the album does not sound dissimilar from what is actually is: a talented ensemble isolated in the confines of a dark house, making improvisational music while staring at boarded-up windows, blank walls, and a dearth of stimuli straight in the face.
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For over 20 years, William Bennett's infamous Whitehouse have remained on top of the power electronics game. While countless acts worldwide (particularly in Sweden and the U.S.) cannot seem to make the musical step past "Thank Your Lucky Stars," Whitehouse has evolved into a far more sinister entity with superior production quality.
Trimmed down to founder Bennett and longtime member Philip Best (also known to noise fiends as the brain behind Consumer Electronics), the duo have unleashed a venom-spewing foray into the digital/analog hybrid noise sound initiated on their essential Mummy And Daddy and further explored on the somewhat disappointing Cruise. The album opens with a vengeance on "Why You Never Became A Dancer," a blistering track stuffed with harsh lyrics. Truth be told, the real fun of any Whitehouse album comes from trying to decipher the rage behind their menacing and profane lyrics. As usual, there are some lines that exude their dark humor, as on "Cut Hands Has The Solution," (a song apparently about self-mutilation/cutting) where Best bellows "Are you so much of a slug that you can't live without a fucking sundae?" Here, both Bennett and Best doubleteam the victim, with a barrage of questions and insinuations that almost come across like a perverse Scientology auditing session. Supposedly based on the murder mystery linked to gay British actor Michael Barrymore, "Wriggle Like A Fucking Eel," released months before the album as a 12" single, slings verbal abuse at Stuart Lubbock, a used boytoy who ultimately drowned in the actor's swimming pool—a "chlorine gargoyle." The only contribution from now former member Peter Sotos comes in the form of a tape collage of television news programs on child abduction and prostitution, similar to those on the last two albums. Overall, his exit from the group seems only to have intensified the project's overall mission and sound. Bird Seed is destined for my Top 10 list for 2003.
It is so frustrating to hear this release when I know that Sam Shalabi can make excellent music. Osama is lacking almost everything that typically makes Shalabi's music so good. It's not that the musicians here aren't talented and it's not that the music isn't well played, the problem is the lack of depth and complete disparity between the songs.
None of the multiple sudden changes in musical style help to add to the album's enjoyability, they subtract from it because the changes seem so arbitrary. For instance, the opening song "The Wherewithall" begins with an excellent rhythm section and shimmering guitar melody that faultlessly and easily travels across a broad sonic spectrum. Indeed, it begins colorfully and promisingly enough but then suddenly explodes into a heavy metal brawl of screams and grinding guitars that completely ruins the mood that was only just established. Within the next four minutes the song goes from a quiet, meditative movement to a spoken-word dronescape and then back to still more heavy metal. Normally shifts like these are the sort of things that can make an album exciting, but on Osama this just isn't the case. This game of musical chairs pretty much continues for the rest of the album and it only becomes more annoying. Just when Shalabi seems to finally be settling down, he radically changes styles and ruins everything. Just one more note about this album: the title might suggest that an interesting political statement is being made; one that, given current events, would be worth investigating. This really couldn't be further from the truth. Sadly, I'd even venture to say that Shalabi doesn't have a message at all. A song with the name "Mid-East Tour Diary (2002)" might seem promising, but it starts off with the words "Why don't you just suck my big fat semetic cock?." The song only continued to alienate me as it plodded along with its redundant music and similarly aimless lyrics. The album ends as suddenly as it began and I'm left wondering why this was released; I know Shalabi can do better.
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Giant Sand frontman Howe Gelb credits this solo project to Howe Home, a somewhat ironic reference to the fact that The Listenerwas largely recorded on a trip to Denmark, an ocean and a continentaway from the southwestern sounds that have defined his work. Despitethe change in cultural climate, and the use of Danish supportingmusicians, Gelb sticks to his formula with middling results. Theinitial attitude of The Listener comes across not so much asrelaxed, but lazy. Like a Thorazine stuffed Leonard Cohen, Gelb spillshis vocals over the music in a lackadaisical, arrhythmic manner. Hefloats above the songs, coming down occasionally to momentarily latchonto the beat before releasing it again. "Jason's List" ventures intoclassic AM Radio territory with a modest horn section that sounds rightout of a Burt Bacharach arrangement. On the first several tracks,smooth jazz bass lines and blue-eyed boss nova rhythms threaten toconjure images of hotel lounge singers and elevator accompaniment. Gelbis strongest when his southwestern roots and inspirations form the meatof his songs. "Torque (Tango de la Tongue)" is a sinuous duet withsinger Henriette Sennenvaldt that evolves around a fantastic Latinrhythm. The vocal interplay between the two is wonderful; their hushed,suggestive tones twist around each other as they dance cheek to cheek.Sennenvaldt's Danish accented English adds a disorienting andunexpectedly exotic touch the track. Her presence is welcome, and seemsto focus Gelb's sleepy delivery. The Latin shuffle continues on theinstrumental "Plango," and while it is nearly as entertaining as theprevious track, it really does not add anything to the formula. "LyingThere" is a cute song that shows a pinch of vitality after the album'shalf awake opening. "You can bungle up your own birthday party / byshowing up one year late / you can foul up playing in traffic / just bytrying to concentrate." It's a sunny track that wins you over with abright acoustic melody. "B 4 U (Do Do Do)" invigorates the album with acountry-fried, searing electric guitar while copping the vocal melodyto "Lean on Me." Everything works on this track, with Gelb soundingbuoyant and the accompaniment as bouncy as hell, like a bar band ontheir third round of drinks. "Blood Orange" sees Gelb once againtrading vocals with a woman, this time Marie Frank. Together they tella sweet, endearing love story that's pleasant enough. The second halfof 'The Listener' vastly outshines the first, landing on the oppositeside of the fine line between easygoing and meandering. In a solidfinale, Gelb closes with "Now I Lay Me Down" and "Lemmy N Emmy," twosongs that sound completely formed and confident. Tasteful strings adda stately poignancy to Gelb's worn guitar lines and dusty voice. 
It's so sad that some emo music has gotten the bad rep that it has, asthe style's beginnings had a lot of promise in bands like Sunny DayReal Estate and Mineral. It was energetic, loud guitar music with"emotive" vocal performance and songs that dealt with humanrelationships mostly. Emo has had its off-spring, from the emo-pop ofJimmy Eat World to the emo-sap (or, for me, emo-suck) of DashboardConfessional, and their sound is now more recognized and prevalent thanthe original. They are also the source of the bad reaction to emo.Every once in a while, though, a band or two come along that are loyalto the original sound without sounding trite, and the Impossibles weresuch a band. Showing off all the components of the original sound, butlacking a bit of focus, they released two full-lengths and 2 EPs beforecalling it quits. Now, two members of that band return as Slow Reader,a great name for a band if I've ever heard one. The sound isdrastically different from their former band, as now they record lushpop laments with electronic flourishes. The core feeling is there,though, and the vocal performance is still emotive while maintaining aninteresting detachment and laziness. "I Like You Most" may sound like ahorrible Chris Carraba song title, but it instead takes more from BenFolds and the Beach Boys with overmixed drums and clear harmony vocals."Stupid Bet" features the best lyrics on the whole release, with softlydelivered vocals and remorse over self-created loss and suffering."Anesthetic for the Amputee" is probably the most raw song on thealbum, with just acoustic guitar and a multitude of voices filling thethe speaker. It's a good start, with its weaknesses intact, but itshows promise. For a traditionally punk or ska label to be releasing itis really a good sign of where both artist and label are heading. 
The upright bass gives a resounding and metronomic thump thump thump onthe new Molasses album. This low-octave punctuation generates a gloomyyet suspended feeling: you might grow anxious in the gray fog thatsurrounds these songs, but you simply cannot escape it or shed thegloom. It lumbers methodically after you while your feet are rooted inplace and you have nowhere to go. But the more you are compelled tolisten in place, the more you notice the glistening sounds of the musicwhich come breaking through the gloom. Scott Chernoff's voice isfamiliar and inviting; it has this habit of laying a heavy croon oraccent on the end of verses and lines, while laying off almostdisinterestedly at the beginning of them. It's not unlike rocking upand down on the waves in a unstable rowing boat which could capsizewith the next swell. Again, the feeling is one of inescapableisolation, but this time some Dramamine might help.
Whilst the leading cut promoting the very disappointing Plastic Fangisn't much to get excited over unless you're big into the V/Vm Shakin'Green Door massive, the bulldozing Techno Animal remix of "Over andOver" shows just how a slice of mediocrity can be elevated togreatness. I only picked this single up for that remix, which is ashardass siren spurting as the best of their audio assaults and mightjust be the best thing Spencer has done, or had done to him, sincePussy Galore! Barry Adamson's remix of the same track is alsoeffective, if comparatively slinky and sleazy. It doesn't set theemergency flashlights off at quite the same frequency but it gets thefeet moving frantically with its fucked over drum'n'bass distortionmoves, as does the Tremelo Beer Gut mix of "She Said." Who is TremeloBeergut anyway? Only the sugary sheen of the Sub Species "MoneyRock'N'Roll" remix fails to get my blood pumpin'. This is a bland lotof ol' toss that sounds like some kind of misguided bid for Ibitha.Otherwise, this is a creditable salvage operation that pulls surprisingfiery modern machine shapes from an album that seemed like an exercisein terminally bland self parody. If you've ever enjoyed anything fromTechno Animal, Barry Adamson or Jon Spencer then this single shouldn'tbe ignored. So far I just can't be bothered to watch the four videos ofthe Explosion in action tagged on the end, but I guess they probablyoffer value for rock'n'roll money if you have a computer that can dealwith that much shakin' excitement, Steven.
I used to be a big Meat Puppets fan and when I finally got the chanceto see them play live and interview them it was a blast. Curt Kirkwoodwas as hilarious, hallucinatory and obtuse an interviewee as his lyricsmight have suggested he could be and they effortlessly blew thecomparatively lame Soul Asylum right out the door. Nirvana should needeven less introduction. So here are Kirkwood and former Nirvana bassistin a new trio with a drummer from some band called Sublime who I'venever heard of and probably never will bother to. As you might expect,Eyes Adrift are much more like Meat Puppets than Nirvana, after all,Kirkwood was that band's main songwriter. He still splashes togetherdashes of punk rock, country and weird psychedelic acidfire guitarsolos in a way that shouldn't disappoint any old Meat Puppets fans. Infact, the new band seems to have revitalised him and set him lookingfor slightly new angles to throw his illusive songlight on. The albumstarts unobtrusively and builds inexorably. What would be the firstside seems to coast by nicely, but it seems they saved the best songsfor the second half. "Solid" is classic Kirkwood, a huge psyched outlament by a protagonist whose blood has frozen in his veins, perhaps aperverse metaphorical reflection on Meat Puppets and his bassistbrother's drug problems? "Telescope" should have lovers of cute melodictwists and hard chuggin' metal riffage alike grinning from ear to ear,as Kirkwood shows anyone who'll listen how he'll aim his potato gun atthe sun. By the time they run themselves a "Slow Race," where theobject is to lose, there are no fish left in the streams, they've alltaken to the air. Despite some subtle textures imparted by computerediting and recording, there aren't really any huge leaps from MeatPuppets music, but some small progression has been made out of thecreative cul de sac that band seemed to end up in latterly. My biggestsurprise was finding a copy of this CD for the price of half a pint ofbooze in a bargain bin, but the last track is also quite a curveball."Pasted" is an epic meandering voyage that stretches out well overfifteen minutes and glues a vaguely folk rock lyric about old St Paul,which might be sung by Novoselic, onto some of Kirkwood's most ecstaticsundrenched guitar noise ever. You can hear the entire album at the Eyes Adrift site where they also have two new songs up for grabs. The obvious is dead.
