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"
The Fall continue to tour a disturbing experimental past life and pack pristine venues with enthusiastic dripping venom, shambolic contempt and twisted wry amusement. "We are the new Fall," the lads hesitantly proclaim on the up an' at 'em opener, as Smith harrangues anyone who'll listen that they'd better look up! Who knows whether they'll stick it long enough to become an old Fall? The drummer's already shuffled off. For now Fall fans can ruminate on the twenty-third (at least 18% studio non-compilation) album proper from Mark E Smith and whoever else can put up with his bad Spanish accent impressions. Ditching the band that made the mostly excellent pro-tooled belter "The Unutterable", Smith has marsalled his ever expendable bedraggled combo to belt out a raw rocking set.
Cog Sinister
Every Fall album has at least one track that demands endless repeated listening. This album's classic 'Crop-Dust' gets its hooks into my brain for hours, combining primal addictive Fall rhythm with a killer snake-charmer riff whilst the sound levels are tweaked like tape drop-out. Mumbled backing vocals recall the twilit dusk of the haunting gross-chapel era, and Smith declaims a tale of a hesitant old singer from Manchester joining World War I soldiers in great coats. There is no mention of flabby wings here, but the time travel plays havoc with the liver and brain. The whole album has a kind of twisted time-warped feel to it. It sounds like the band that made early classics such as "Grotesque" and "Slates" took a dose of straight strychnine at a rockabilly festival and took a temporal wrong turn into an alternate pre-gramme reality in which only Smith could emerge the winner. A small alteration of the past turns time into space, which explains why shoddy collections of Fall demos have been proliferating across the earth. The hilariously abysmal sleeve and credit mistakes (two songs are listed in reverse order; there is a keyboard on the latter live portion of 'African Man' but no sign of former keyboardist Julia Nagle's name) are either a cockeyed homage to fan fleecing demo slew, or Smith just doesn't give a monkey's. In fact he eats monkeys for breakfast if the hilariously messy destruction of Iggy Pop's super dumb 'African Man' is to be taken seriously, which it obviously isn't. The African man eats elephants and lions too, but only because the hotel provides them. Lo-fi tapes and dyspeptic guitars infest the hotels and park themselves willy nilly in Afro Ibis Hotel man's driveway, where he strangles a screaming ibis for his supper (no fork or knife for him). He eats a skunk for lunch and sounds a bit shocked, triggering a time lock back to recent gig audio fragment.
The Fall haven't sustained such a lengthy unhinged and uncommercial onslaught since the violin scraping of 'Papal Visit' and this'll have trendy fairweather White Stripes fans running for cover faster than you can say 'Spectre vs Rector'. It's also far and away the funniest track I heard in 2001. Whilst mention of skyscrapers in 'Crop-Dust' might have some dubious claims on Smith's prophetic capabilities, it's 'Kick the Can' and the resurrection of their Can homage 'I am Damo Suzuki' at gigs prior to Michael Karoli's death that rings grimly eerie. For 'Hollow Mind' they redo 'Jerusalem' with too many notes on low power with no discarded brick chip. The R. Dean Taylor cover 'Gotta See Jane' pales anaemically next to the bouncy 'Ghost in my House'. Nevertheless this version of The Fall could teach most of these hyped-up soft rockers, like the Strokes with their Housemartins plus little feedback lick shtick, a thing or seven. This album sounds as ravaged as everyone's favourite toothless idiot savant singer from Salford looks these days. The band are solid enough, if rather normal next to the formidable Scanlon, Hanley, Brix attack, and Smith sounds gloriously deranged even if he seems to have less to say than ever. He's probably been saving up witticisms for his next spoken word album. Mostly Smith's voice has been mixed at speaker damage levels, and if he doesn't finish off yer hi-fi, the dustbin lid drumming on 'My Ex Classmate's Kids' will. That song is basically a slowed down rewrite of the popular freebie Flitwick single 'When I Wake Up in the City'. Instead of coughing and tapes of say nothing radio chat, Smith drawls his most barmy alingual vowels and latterly complains of aftershave stench like twigs up the nose. That's what you get for living in a 'Bourgeois Town' where container drivers do the hassle shmuck with a handful of antacid!
 
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"Difficult" is a loaded word when used in electronic music reviews. In one context, it can be taken to mean the record is so far ahead of everything else out there that it needs numerous intense listening sessions to be understood and appreciated. On the other hand, it could simply mean that the record is an unfocussed, unlistenable and pretentious piece of crap. So when I tag these two new releases from Miami's Schematic label as being "difficult", which end of the spectrum am I referring to? Well, somewhere in between, but at least a little bit closer to the former than the latter.
On "Aleamapper", Atlanta's Richard Devine almost entirely abandons the crunchy beat structures of his previous releases and offers a set of soundworks that could loosely be referred to as "ambient" for lack of a better classification. There are some really inspired moments amongst the 16 tracks on the disc, but unfortunately the more interesting and vital bits are often cut short (one of the album's best tracks, "Mtr Method", doesn't even hit the two minute mark), while the more esoteric experiments are more often than not allowed to wander aimlessly. Despite these flaws, "Aleamapper" exhibits strong evidence of an artist who is committed to taking his music into new directions, so with a bit of fine tuning, I suspect that Devine's future work in this field of abstract sound could be phenomenal.
 
 
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As for Mr. von Schirach, his "Escalo Frio" platter feels like a cross between Matmos (who appear as guests on a track) and Prefuse73: quirky, organic sounding IDM with a hint of fractured hip-hop. [Jon adds: but kind of feels like a stoner kid obsessed with video games, Saturday morning cartoons and Count Chocula.] Unfortunately, the MCs he chose to provide vocals to be processed don't offer much in the way of exciting or insightful rhymes, but since they only appear in a comprehensible form on a couple of tracks it's not too distracting. Otherwise the album is actually a lot of fun, with sounds and ideas of all sorts ping-ponging back and forth, and even a goofy fake commercial at the halfway point that's good for a chuckle.
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Given enough time Jah Wobble will, hopefully, collaborate with just about everyone. Over the past few years he has successfully mixed his trademark, bedrock bass guitar styling with Laotian folk ("Molam Dub"), inventive saxophone ("Passage to Hades") and all out industrial rock ("The Damage Manual"), among others. Here he teams up with Temple of Sound, the duo of Neil Sparkes and Count Dubulah, both formerly of Transglobal Underground.More success! The disc is initially only available by mail order through Wobble's 30 Hertz label. And no, this isn't an album of Motley Crue covers, just an unfortunate title coincidence. Ten tracks, most in the 5 to 6 minute range, explore a genuine Arabic electro dub amalgamation. Wobble provides the soul shaking bass lines, Dubulah the guitar, keys, strings and programming atmospheres and Sparkes a host of ethnic percussion such as riq, zils, Egyptian tabla and darabuka. Among other contributors are 3 female vocalists - Shahin Badar, Natacha Atlas and Nina Miranda - who grace half the album with powerfully emotive, mostly foreign tongued strains. Every track is solid. Really solid. The quirky loops of "Cleopatra King Size" are laced with electronics, stuttered guitar notes and booming low end.
The wandering bass line of "Once Upon a Time in The East" reminisces of Wobble's legendary late '70s tenure in Public Image Ltd. The sweeping strings of "Maghreb Rockers" weave together a delightful tapestry of Middle Eastern flavors. A rolling mass of effected percussion brings "Symphony of Palms" close to Muslimgauze territories. And it doesn't get anymore lovely than the slower, more subtle "La Citadelle" - the lumbering groove, the solemn vocal, the gliding background guitar notes - all of which are revisited in the finale "Mistralazul 2". Fantastic. No word yet on what Wobble is up to next, but other recent releases include "The Early Years" and "Radioaxiom - A Dub Transmission" with longtime collaborator Bill Laswell.
 
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The result isn't remotely similar to the rhytmic, hypnotic, free-form other-worldly jams heard on Sam's Shalabi Effect album, but more of an improvisational collage, carefully constructed of loops and manipulated sounds. Rolling cymbals, tinkling pianos, multi-layered flutes, high-pitched ringings, field recordings and a repeated low-string color the 27 minute first track, almost like a tourist showing a slide-display from multiple projectors of various vacations. The sounds stay long enough to be identified and work into a comfortable synergy with each other, then move on, one by one, giving way to completely new movements which before long don't resemble previous or future snapshots. Just when a level of serene comfort is reached by the end of "Outside Chance," the blaring horns of the next track rush in. "Soot," accurately describes this track, as what appears to be distorted guitar loops, abrasive loops, tapes played at wrong speeds, and intruding horns create a gritty, dark, and uneasy sound. As interesting as it is, thankfully it clocks in under six minutes. The album ends on the nearly eight minute "The Wherewithall," which returns to the ease while soaking the listener in a thick tape hiss. The tinkling piano returns, an unoffensive guitar taps out notes and all lights fade.
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