2001 Reviews (A-E)
[Note: These reviews originally appeared on a monthly basis around the time of the respective release. I've alphabetized them for easier reference, so there may be some irregularities in the cross references (the "aboves," "belows," "aforementioneds," etc.) I've tried to rewrite a few as I came across them, but I may have missed some. If something is missing, go back to the archives page and look in the alphabetical listing (by artist) for the review. Thanks!]
EXTREMELY harsh, improvisational noise from one of Japan's foremost
practitioners of the fine art of room-clearing atonality. This 2xLP will have
even your most open minded friends running from the room in abject horror.
Leader Makoto Kawabata winds up his cohorts and turns them loose across 13 trax
of sheer terror that aren't so much "songs" as excuses to wrestle as
much noise possible from their designated implements of destruction.
"Vocalist" Cotton Casino's a capella caterwauling on "Virgin
U.F.O." gives new reason to re-evaluate Yoko Ono's similar squealings on
her experimental solo outings like Fly, and the instrumental passages
(particularly on side two) masquerading as full-on freakouts (U.F.O. stands for
Underground Freak Out) run into one another as if the titles were mere excuses
for chord changes. It all adds up to Excedrine headache #92 and the perfect gift
for an ex-wife or husband who won your record collection in the divorce
settlement.
The first half of side three presents the record's one redeeming musical note
in "The Incipient Light of The Echoes," a Steve Reich-ian minimalist
electronic round featuring a repetitive, unintelligible mantra that sounds like
Cotton's chanting "Officer Julie" over and over. It's hypnotic and
annoying. You'll spend more time trying to figure out what she's saying than
getting lost in the eternal buzz, floating along on the wave of electronics.
Reich's "Music for [11] Musicians" continues as the track seques
into "Magic Aum Rock," where the vocals drift into the background and
a "Tubular Bells" vibe takes over until the wolves are released again
for more speaker shredding lunacy ("Mercurial Megatronic Meninx" – I
can't make these titles up and apparently neither can they – dictionary
please!)
Side four finds more electronic noodling and disembodied (and disemboweled)
voices shrieking in the night until 15 minutes of speaker buzz later, the whole
thing mercilessly draws to a close. Some life changing experiences are not worth
experiencing and this is one of them.
Nor is the double live album. A whole lot more of the same, only in front of
a room full of people who seem to enjoy this sort of thing. I couldn't really
tell, because the whole shebang (recorded on recent US and French tours) sounds
like the microphones were hung out of the bathroom door, which was probably
located on another floor from the sounds of things. Oh well, at least they were
safely segregated out of harm's way. I'd have thought that Kawabata would at
least have had them plug into the soundboard if he was planning on releasing
these shows. As it stands, however, it reminds me of all those shows I went to
where I arrived late and I could hear the sounds of the band from the parking
lot. Fortunately, things improved once I got inside the club. Unfortunately, I'm
afraid, here, it's the other way around.
One half of the brilliant Stars of the Lid duo, Adam Wiltzie has teamed up
with Labradford’s bassist, Robert Donne to form one of the world’s first
superstar ambient extravaganzas (although listeners may be familiar with their
earlier split LP, The Kahanek Incident, Vol. 3 where Wiltzie remixed
several Labradford tunes and Donne remixed a few Stars of the Lid tracks) and
the expected results can be enjoyed on their self-titled debut, one of the best
releases of 2000. Closer to SotL in execution than McBride’s Pilot Ships
(i.e., atmospherics over “songs,” although Wiltzie drops in an ocassional
surreal lyric now and then), AEK is so quiet that grandmothers and newborns
alike will drift off to slumberland under its magical spell. Unlike SotL,
however, guitars are readily identifiable (particularly on“3x2 (edit)”) and
they blend effortlessly with the ocassional piano (“Sparkwood and Twenty
First”) and electronic loops (“The Luxury of Dirt”) to form the perfect
soundtrack to your next daydream.
“Sparkwood…” also bears more than a passing resemblance to Angelo
Badalamenti’s Twin Peaks soundtracks, an influence previously
acknowledged on SotL’s “Theme from Twin Peaks Episode 30” on The
Ballasted Orchestra. Donne’s basslines are especially striking on this
track. The buried story recited under the atmospherics also recalls the work of
the late, lamented Texas band Twenty Six and their This Skin is Rust
release. Fans of Wiltzie’s other side project, Windsor for the Derby will also
be pleasantly surprised. Although the guitars are not as prominently displayed
here, the ambience of their earlier releases is faithfully rendered and a bit
more focused than on either of their Trance Syndicate releases, Calm Hades
Float and Minnie Greutzfeldt. The sound is closer to what we heard on
Difference and Repitition (Young God, 1999.)
Never falling into new age elevator muzak, AEK combines the best of the
pair’s “home bands” to carry us across the sky on a cumulous cushion of
pure sound, unfettered by the distractions of everyday life. Ignore the
self-consciously ridiculous titles like “The Girl with the Flesh Colored
Crayon,” “Sophteonal” and “Prue Lewarne” (maybe they should return to
their earlier practice of not using songtitles as on Windsor’s Calm Hades
Float or Labradford’s Mi Media Naranja and E Luxo So) and
just sit back and melt into your beanbags. This is navelgazing music at its
finest and fullest expression. Set and setting hereby established, you know what
to do next.
At last, the first great drug record of the 21st century! Like swimming in
marshmallows or doing pushups in a lemon meringue pie, former Spacemen 3 bassist
Pete Bassman (that can't be his real name!?) has concocted a cotton mouthed
cocktail of electronic euphoria that will set your head reeling and keep your
senses working overtime. While Pete "Sonic Boom" Kember and Jason
"Spaceman" Pierce have gone to great lengths to distance themselves
from their heady S3 daze, Mr. Bassman has remained true to the original vibe and
delivers the best Spaceman 3 release since Sonic went "boom" and Jason
found that old time religion. Hypnotic 'tronics, repetitive, krautrockian
moto-riff-iks, distorted fuzzboxes and sleepy vox – shit, close your eyes and
you'd swear you dropped "the perfect prescription" in some stoned stupor.
"Here It Comes" is as smooth as a baby's bum with some tasty guitar
licks and Pete's rolling bassline propelling us into an ethereal oblivion.
"Retroglide," as its title suggests, harkens back to those vintage S3
blissouts as catatonia settles in for a long comfortable stay and doesn't pack
its bags until well after the final track has evaporated into a cloud of purple
smoke. The mind continues its downward spiral with "Electro Blues" as
the feeling slowly dissipates from arms and legs and your eyelids
struggle under two ton weights. The prophetic "Losing Touch With You"
signals complete surrender of all sensory control…and that's just the end of
side 1!
For those able to wrestle themselves away from the carpet long enough to flip
the record over, you'll find "Getting Close To Nowhere" a welcome
respite as Bassman kicks in with a little pick me up. You know the feeling:
somewhere in the midst of that cumulous buzz, a voice or flickering candlelight
will stir you back to planet Earth. Pete's slo-mo vocals and drawn out
enunciations drag "Feel the Rain" out to seemingly twice its 4:00
length and the hypnotic drumming, rolling basslines and sweet guitar lines will
have you back in the clouds in nothing flat.
From here on in, it's every man, woman and child for themselves as the epic
eight minute "Cool Earth Sensation" slowly takes hold, refusing to
release its stranglehold on your synapses until th efinal two electronic
dronefests "Last Exit" and "Motorway Reprise" complete the
eternal buzz, landing us safely on terra firma.
So, life IS a motorway and our journey ends back where we started. This
stoner's rendition of "Autobahn" even comes complete with a hidden
track, just as life always reveals hidden surprises along the way. The fact that
the track is merely a continuation of the "reprise" only indicates, as
Al Pacino found out in Godfather 3, that the more you try to escape, the more
you get pulled back in. A life affirming sentiment for these crazy times if ever
I heard one. So, just sit back and enjoy the trip. Mr. Bassman is at the wheel
and all is right with the world!
Philly's A#4 were criticized for affecting faux-British accents and copping Spacemen 3 riffs on their Lounge debut, Introducing.... I wonder who'll they'll be accused of ripping off this time? In an aboutface rivalling Japan's rise from glam-y NY Dolls' wannabes to prog-y Yes couldabeens, A#4s full-length follow-up (there was a brief EP in between) is aptly titled, as it sounds like "Lucky Bishops Play Selections from the Rubbles' Songbook" with the ocassional foray into XTC ("King Richard"), Beatles ("Monday Morning Gloom", with its gentle folky flute flavorings) and Canadian country rockers Blue Rodeo (the excellent, Nick-Lowe-would-kill-for melody of "Mercenary Man") territory.
The jaunty "Gotta Find A Better Way" grafts Garcia licks onto a
Shoes backbeat and "Local Fashion Junky" sounds like any number of
forgotten ditties gracing those Rubbles and Chocolate Soup for Diabetics
"oldie but goodie" Brit pop/psych comps. Alongside The Montgomery
Cliffs power pop and the aforementioned return to form of God Bless The Go Go's,
this is one of the best pop releases of the year.
As one half of the songwriting team behind The Posies, one of the finest unheralded pop bands, Auer brings an impressive résumé to his debut solo release. He and partner, Ken Stringfellow are current members of the revolving drinking club known as The Minus 5 (Young Fresh Fellow, Scott McCaughey and his fellow REM sleeper Peter Buck are also known to belly up to the bar on occasion) and they both joined Alex Chilton in his brief attempt to resurrect Big Star from Chris Bell's ashes, so it should come as no surprise that Auer has a pretty eclectic record collection, from which these 6 tracks were probably drawn (the "½" presumably referring to the instrumental version of Serge Gainsbourg's "Bonnie and Clyde," last heard to good effect as the hidden track on Luna's Penthouse release.)
Kicking off with The Chameleons' "Tears" and Swervedriver's "These Times", Auer wears his pop inclinations on his sleeve, presenting fairly straightforward yet pleasant readings of lesser known tracks by these cult favorites. Stripping away Flo and Eddie's harmonies and Todd Rundgren's wall-of-sound production, Auer reveals what a wonderful pop tune The Psychedelic Furs' "Love My Way" really is.
And therein lies the charm of this EP. Auer obviously has an ear for catchy
melodies and presents them here without all the overwrought histrionics and
deafening (over)production that buried these tunes in their original versions.
Not essential, but an interesting experiment in "songsmithing" and pop
archaeology and a game attempt at excavating some really good tunes from some
really bad producers. For the full-length which will hopefully follow, I'd like
to hear him attempt to "de-Spector-ize" something off Leonard Cohen's Death
of A Ladies' Man or The Ramones' End of The Century.
French pop is enjoying a renaissance of late with major buzz surrounding recent releases by the likes of Air and All Natural Lemon and Lime Flavors. On their third self-released album (distributed domestically by Nettwerk America,) ADL enter the fray and here's hoping they can find their way out as quickly as possible. There's nothing here that St. Etienne (a British band, by the way, although they're named after a French soccer club) hasn't already covered ad nauseum and, thankfully, abandoned. Sultry chanteuse, Valerie Leulliot can read the phonebook and make it sound sexy, but this listener is not ready for yet another sub-genre of alternative music, "orchestral techno." In fact, OMD is a major influence on the sound here, especially their overlooked treasure, Architecture & Morality. The main problem I have is that this sacharine elevator muzak is so relentlessly mundane and derivative that even fans of the cinematic stylings of Air's Virgin Suicides soundtrack will be hard pressed to imagine any film that this stuff could possibly accompany. The album begins innocuously enough with "Je Reviens," which might raise a few francophile eyebrows and prompt comparisons to latter day Francoise Hardy. "Je Suis Un Balancier" also elicits a few toe taps before overstaying its welcome and then it's straight into French techno/disco with cellos, violins and seemingly half of the Paris Symphony jockeying for position behind the nearest microphone. Burying the single, "Le Salon" (the only other track worth a second listen) at the end of the album is a cruel and unusual punishment and reeks of a marketing decision to force us to wade through the muck that precedes it. This could all be excused as brilliant satire if Val and her male counterparts had a sense of humor, but I've a feeling they're deadly serious. I'm just terminally bored.
Even the blurred and out of focus band photos couldn’t quite prepare me for
the musical quicksand that oozes from within Bardo Pond’s 6th release. The
opener, “Two Planes” emphasizes the region within which the Bardos operate
– somewhere between the “here and now” and some astrally projected other
universe “out there.” It reminds me of that old Outer Limits TV episode
where the little girl chased her ball through the bedroom wall into another
“plane” of existence. This one is also quite reminiscent of what Mogwai
(whom they’re currently touring with) or Gods’Peed might sound like
attempting to play one of Ennio Morricone’s soundtracks.
“Inside” returns to terra firma enough to leave a recognizable rock
steady beat and, promisingly, partially identifiable lyrics from Isobel.
Unfortunately, she and the band head in opposite directions over the next 12
minutes and by the time they’re done, the brothers Gibbons have resorted to
their tried and true formula of window rattling guitar pyrotechnics and Isobel
is once again speaking in tongues that the world’s leading semanticists have
yet to categorize.
“Aphasia” is no improvement. Over a descending fuzzy guitar riff, Isobel
wails utterances the likes of which I haven’t heard since my wife gave birth
to our daughter 13 years ago. Hey! Izzy’s just invented “Pitosin Pop!”
“Favorite Uncle” introduces acoustic guitars into a Bardo record for the
first time I can remember, but the rest of the backing is a slo motion haze of
distortion over which Izzy mumbles something about unspeakable nastiness that
even the enclosed lyric sheet doesn’t aid in deciphering. “Swig” works a
little better, aided immeasurably by some soothing flute work from Izzy. This
one is earmarked for my next wyrdfolk mix tape and is the best Bardo track in
years.
Beyond that, it’s pretty much business as usual if you’ve been following
the band’s progression (or lack thereof) over the last few releases. “Ib”
features some of Izzy’s nastiest vocals – a pissed-as-hell snarl over 8 ½
minutes of Stooges skronk that’ll generate complaints to the “sound
police” of your local neighborhood watch. “Hum” floats quite effortlessly
on a wah-wah bed of roses and the closing 12 minutes of “Ganges” is as dirty
and sludgy as its namesake. It ebbs, flows and winds its way around your brain
like a disease eating away at your ability to distinguish inner from outer
reality and you’re once again faced with those “two planes” of existence
to choose from. This is where we came in. Where you go from here is entirely up
to you.
Emulating your heroes on your own recordings is not necessarily a bad thing,
as long as you add something of yourself to the material
and don't merely act the copycat (cf. Frank Marino & Mahogony Rush).
San Franciscan Nick Bensen is obviously infatuated with the guitar pyrotechnics
and home recording techniques of The Bevis Frond's Nick Saloman (he even thanks
him in the liner notes), but the variety of styles (from the [Saloman alter-ego]
Fred Bison V-ish whimsy of "Where's Mr. Dave?" to the contemplative,
progy synth and string swashes on "Distant Memory #2" and the laid
back blues of "Pine City") and the mastery of a number of instruments
(Bensen, again emulating Saloman, is a one man band, playing guitar, bass,
drums, organ, piano, synths, vibes, et. al.) makes No Resistance a pleasant
diversion on a cold, wintry night in front of a warm fire. [Bensen also releases
his recordings – this is his second solo record – on his own label, a la
Saloman and his Woronzow imprint.]
The title track demonstrate Bensen's wonderful command of melody and the Durutti Column-ish "And The Time Is Now" hints at more than a few Tortoise records in Bensen's collection. For fans of the Frond (Bensen's voice is also quite similar to Frond bassist Ade Shaw's – the record is actually closer in tecture and execution to Shaw's own solo records, particularly on the bonus cut, "Frobisher Awakening", and "Rokery Lighter" sounds like an outtake from one of occasional Frond sideman, "Rustic" Rod Goodway's Ethereal Counterbalance project), Nick ends with a bit of a "Miskatonic Variation" of his own, the 9 minute guitar wankoff, "Icebound Wilderness" that raises hackles and clears rooms faster than his mentor's sidelong, er, divergences. I also liked the fancy extemporaneous codas Nick adds to quite a number of tracks, including short drum solos and sitar and synth embellishments. In short, not terribly original, but worthy of more than a few spins, particularly for fans of homegrown guitar-based psychedelia.
This is one of those bands I've HEARD OF, but never HEARD. A copy of their latest was lying around the radio station where I work, so I took it home and gave it a spin. For those in the same unfamiliar boat as I, imagine if Sarah Cracknell decided to leave St. Etienne to focus on her solo career and was replaced by Olivia Neutron-Bomb. Now remove Stanley and Wiggs' love of 60s British and French pop and replace it with bland Bacharach orchestrations. Even a thinly veiled attempt to win me over with a song called "French Rock & Roll" doesn't help. It turns out to be a repetitive, spoken word piece (as are several other trax on here) that doesn't even have any kitcsh value going for it. Sounds kinda boring, doesn't it? It is.
Another "black" mark on the summer listening scene is this debut
effort from a San Francisco trio whose name derives from Brando's band of rebels
in The Wild One. It's not such a bad idea to combine the sound of Bauhaus
("Red Eyes and Tears"), Spacemen 3 ("Awake", "As Sure
As The Sun") and Jesus and Mary Chain ("Whatever Happened To My Rock
'n' Roll", "White Palms") in trying to come up with something new
in these days of "retroverkill", and those are certainly worthy
influences. However, in an unfortunate case of "right place, wrong
time", Bauhaus and 2/3 of S3 reformed almost as soon as this hit the
shelves, rendering it superfluous and redundant.
It's not that the songs are all that bad (in fact, the final two, "Head
Up High" and "Salvation" are actually quite good and should serve
as fitting submissions for whoever wants to release another S3 tribute record),
it's just that the originals are out strutting their stuff again, so these
copycats are already past their "sell by" date. Or, to paraphrase
British DJ and indie/underground music guru John Peel, "I know what's good
for you and this ain't it."
Australian imprint Camera Obscura's second archival BSE release (their first
was last year's wonderful Sky Pilot,) this was that old desert fox, Jesus
Acedo's debut effort, originally offered in miniscule amounts on Pyknotic back
in '85. Not to be confused with the similarly titled Reckless release that
appeared a year later, this is the original trio of Jesus, Michael Glidewell on
bass and John Brett on drums. It finds Jesus struggling with ideas and sounds
that would gel on future releases like Lambent Flame (my favorite BSE
release), but the formative struggles thus presented are a real find for
students of psychedelic guitar instrumentals. In fact, I'm immediately reminded
of the similar territory explored on Clark Hutchinson's A=MH2, which also
incorporated eastern modality and experimental acoustic guitar pyrotechniques
into a totally new sonic experience. Even the song subtitles recall CH:
"Improvisation in the Key of A," "Improvisation in C Scale,"
"Blues in B Minor," etc.
Having come into BSEs catalog in inverse chronological order, its hard for me
to appreciate the many attempts at what would eventually become LFs centerpiece
"Beneath the Sapphire Sky," as no less than half the tracks (notably
"Ruby Eyes of China," "Heart of the Sky," "A Chunk of
Mandolin Love" and the latter half of "Ice Breaker") all feature
"Sapphire Sky"'s familiar chord progression. I'm also not sure the
reissue has been sequenced according to the track listing on the card tray
(which does not follow the original) as some of the subtitles don't accurately
reflect their parentage ("Emerald Eye 2s" "wacky guitar
solo" is anything but and "Icebreaker"'s "Fuzztone
Guitar" is not readily apparent,) but these are minor quibbles that may
reflect Jesus' wacked out sensibilities more than anything else and they are far
outweighed by the highlights, which include the beautifully atmospheric raga of
"Mandolin Winds" and the eastern tinged "Mayan Dance." Both
of these, indeed the entire album, would benefit greatly if Jesus had studied
the sitar and incorporated it into his work. If anything screams out for that
exotic eastern instrument, this is surely a perfect example. Of course, that
would be an entirely different album, but the one we're left with is no slouch
and comes highly recommended to fans of BSEs latter (and, LF aside, decidedly
inferior) output as well as to students of psychedelic instrumental guitar
music.
Bonny Billy – “More Revery” EP (Temporary Residence)
Short (6 tracks in under 15 minutes) covers’ EP from Will Oldham features his alt.country take on obscurities from Papa John Phillips, PJ Harvey and Bill Withers, among others. It’s got more balls than the typical family of Palace-related releases, but it’s still too backwoods, “hick”-y for my taste. Some of it veers into Songs: Ohia country, some is just plain ol’ country (Tim McGraw’s “Just To See You Smile!?”) and some ramble aimlessly (“Strange Things.”) For fans of the genre and/or Oldham completists only.
Oh, to be a fly on the wall at the marketing meeting that green-lighted this
release! I'd sure love to know what goes through these aging yuppies' minds when
they start throwing around Reprise's obviously healthy "product
funds." With so many deserving artists struggling to scramble together
enough money to put out labors of love in miniscule quantities of 100-500
copies, why, oh why do we need a "best of" collection from a minor
footnote in the history of new wave dance music? For the clueless out there,
Book of Love were a New York-based synth pop quartet led by the unrelated
Ottaviano's, Ted and Susan, who kept the dance floors hopping a decade and a
half ago with such lightweight ear candy as "Boy," "You Make Me
Feel So Good," the titular track (all included here) and the eponymous
"Book of Love" (their biggest and best known hit, which for some
strange reason has been omitted.) Apparently, they went on to release three more
albums (all on Sire) which no one ever heard of, let alone bought, which makes
this release all the more curious. The fact that a third of the contents
(including a superfluous remix of "Boy") were lifted from their debut
should tell you all you need to know about Book of Love, including where to
spend your money should you be so inclined.
So why does this thing exist? Admittedly, I lost a few pounds sweating up a
storm to that first album (15 years ago!) when, at the height of the "white
disco/new romantic" movement, Book of Love were welcomed as America's
answer to Human League and anything that got you on the dance floor probably
found its way into your record collection. And completists (?!) may be enticed
by the three new recordings (all pleasant enough if you're heading off to
"80s Night" at your local disco). But the whole shebang reeks of a
marketing salvo to see if enough interest could be generated by these moldy
oldies to warrant a future full-length original recording. Who knows? Maybe the
80s are making a comeback and Reprise is positioning themselves at the forefront
of the revival? (There's a commercial making the rounds these days that features
kids singing Karaoke-type versions of Culture Club's "Karma Chameleon"
and I recently dusted off my original to play for my 12 year old daughter, who's
been dancing around the house driving us crazy with her
"interpretation.") If enough Top 40 stations pepper their Saturday
night "club mixes" with selections off I Touch Roses, maybe the
kids'll even buy a few copies. They sit well next to the latest from the
Brittany wannabe's and the boy toys out there and, let's face it, dance music
isn't going away. So maybe it's just the old fogey in me that's campaigning to
let sleeping dogs lie. For if Book of Love and Culture Club are making a
comeback, what's next: A Flock of Seagulls box set!?!
Well, what have we here? The new album by John Cale and The Holy Rollers? Or
is that Bryan Ferry and His Religious Converts? Why, no, it's actually the
latest from Nick Cave and it hopefully ends his trilogy of deadpan, mopey
snoozers which began with Murder Ballads and peaked on his last release,
'97s The Boatman's Call. This time out, Cave and his sad sack of Bad
Seeds trudge through a dozen inspirational tunes with the heavy-handedness of a
reborn Christian reliving the Stations of the Cross on Good Friday (the fact
that this went into national release on Good Friday this year probably isn't a
"coinkydink," as Bugs Bunny would say.)
From the moment Cave opens his mouth on "As I Sat Sadly By Her
Side," we are immediately transported into Roxy Music territory, ca.
Ferry's emotive swansong on Avalon. The only thing missing is Andy
MacKay's wailing sax, replaced here by Dirty Three violinist Warren Ellis' moody
fillers. The title cut is quite possibly the slowest, most boring track Cave has
ever unleashed and sets the stage for the litany of negro spirituals and other
songs of faith and devotion that follow.
Cave's fascination with Leonard Cohen (he covered "Tower of Song"
on the I'm Your Fan tribute) continues both in name (the shamelessly
derivative "Hallelujah" cops more than just its title from Cohen) and
spirit(uality): you can think of this as the Christian equivalent of Cohen's
Jewish examination of guilt, self-doubt and inadequacy. Even the album's best
track, "God Is In The House" sounds like an old Cohen outtake,
especially in its oxymoronic juxtaposition of the hypocracy of man's actions
when measured against his philosophical "front" of equality for all.
The other issue I have with the album is its lack of original lyrical ideas.
Besides regurgitating Cohen in a Christian context, Cave borrows Lowell George's
"Six Feet of Snow" for "Fifteen Feet of Pure White Snow,"
and Spacemen 3s "Walking with Jesus" becomes "Oh My Lord" as
Cave assumes Christ's persona and walks the streets of Galilee complete with
crown of thorns (here updated to "plastic antlers"), fleeing both the
"Sword of Damacles" and Christ's own "Spear of Destiny" in
pursuit of the fellows behind "the [Passover] plot" to put him to
death. Elsewhere, you'll find references to the Garden of Gethsemane
("Gates to the Garden") and the parable where a disguised Jesus
accompanies two men walking along an open road (both "We Came Along This
Road" and "Darker with the Day"), although the latter does
attempt to imagine what was going through Christ's head as he walked among his
disciples on Easter Sunday following his resurrection.
All of this is delivered in such hushed, reverential tones (Cave even resorts to whispering the vocals at one point) that it's all one can do to stop bursting out laughing at the pretentiousness of it all. A major disappointment and an early candidate for worst album of the year.
The fairly recent proliferation of husband/wife musical collaborations (cf.
Low, Charalambides, Stone Breath, Yo Lo Tango, et.al.) continues with this new
EP from Jennifer DeForge and Tom "The Fish" Guttadauro, a
Massachusetts couple whose non-musical scribblings have ocassionally graced our
inboxes. Following a none-too-auspicious cover of NYC femme duo, Retsin's
"Pink River," which finds our heroes speaking in heavily heliumated
tongues with HAL the computer, C/S dive right into the gene pool inhabited by
the ilk of Terry Riley, LaMonte Young and other denizens of the deep throated
electronic school of sine wave manipulation and computer generated drones on
"Wedding Drone," apparently written as their wedding song. I'd love to
have been a fly on the wall of that reception! Must have been one helluva
"first dance!" Fifteen minutes of Speak 'n' Spell bleeps and bloopers
later, "Two Women" arrive with a speaker-shredding onslaught of
distorted guitar drones which elbow their way quite nicely up to the bar in
between Far Eastern Japanese and Far Southern New Zealand noisemongers Merzbow,
Fushitsusha, Bruce Russell, Al Galbraith and Roy Montgomery.
The EPs highlight, "I've Got A Mandate, Shazam" sounds like Steve Reich run amok in a video arcade. Repetitive, ponglike electronic drones rise and fall like a space age pinball machine inducing a hypnotic sense of alienation - sort of like R2D2 nursing a headcrash hangover. An eponymous full-length is also available at the label's website (www.threelonelykaiju.com) and if it's anything like this teaser, it will appeal to fans of avant weirdos, Suicide and last year's Ohm box of experimental electronic gurus.
To paraphrase Walter Yetnikof, then-head of Columbia Records who refused to release Cohen's Various Positions, "We know you're sexy, Leonard; we just don't know if you're any good." Ten New Songs hints that Yetnikoff may have been right on both accounts. Leonard Cohen...sexy? Imagine the combined testosterone levels of Jacques Brel and Serge Gainsbourg oozing down your speakers like honey over a ripe melon. "Not any good?" Listen to side two of this record. The pessimists will rightly claim the songs suck: bland, emotionless Muzak for the Geritol generation. Optimists, however, can claim solace in the wonderful first side and, while agreeing that the latter material is not up to the usual Cohen standard, quote the title of one of the standout tracks: "That Don't Make It Junk."
Let's concentrate on those early tracks. Each benefits from the trademark wit
(the aforementioned track opens with one of the great couplets of Cohen's
career: "I fought against the bottle/But I had to do it drunk") and
masterful command of melody - listen to the lilting come-ons in "A Thousand
Kisses Deep" and "Here It Is," which features a beautiful duet
with Sharon Robinson, who co-wrote this, as well as several tracks on Cohen's
previous album, The Future. And "Love Itself" glides over a
familiar rolling guitar line that's kept me busy for weeks trying to remember
the original. Cohen delivers his familiar "oh, woe is me; I've lost at
love...again" lyrics in his typical cigarettes-and-alcohol-damaged voice,
which sounds like he just had nodules removed from his throat 15 minutes before
entering the studio. At 63, it sounds as coarse as sandpaper (sort of like Tom
Waits with a sore throat) but, like Dylan, it's part of his charm and he uses it
to up the pheremone levels a few notches. Hey, why do you think Barry White sold
all those records? Surely not because of his Adonis-like physique!
And therein lay the rub of Ten New Songs. Cohen certainly isn't losing
sleep putting out new product (he's released less than a dozen albums in 35
years - hell, Nick Saloman put out that many Bevis Frond records in less than
five!) or thinking up album titles (half of his catalog is merely vanilla
descriptions of the content: Songs of..., Songs From A Room, Songs
of Love and Hate, Live Songs, Recent Songs, Ten New Songs...sense
a pattern here?) But the romantic inflections of his whispered vocals, the
soothing arrangements and playing of his anonymous band and Robinson's own sexy
accompaniment - as orgasmic as Doris Troy's cooing on Pink Floyd's "Great
Gig in The Sky" add up to the most romantic "fuck album" I've
heard in ages. Just don't listen to it alone. That'll spoil half the fun!
Compilation tracks and singles from Norway’s Dipsomaniacs have been
trickling across my desk for the past year or so, but this is the first
full-length I’ve heard and on the strength of this, their fourth full-length
release, I’ve got a lot of catching up to do. My initial reaction was, quite
guiltily, that this is the best Green Pajamas record that Jeff Kelly never
wrote, but that only denigrates both artists. However, if you’re as unfamiliar
with the Dipsos as I am, this is a fairly obvious comparison that will put you
in the frame of mind to enjoy some of the finest pop/psych creations I’ve
heard since, for example, the Pajamas’ All Clues Lead To Megan’s Bed,
which was only my favorite album of 1999!
Singer/composer/guitarist Øyvind Holm is the “main-iac” at play here and
his confections run the gamut from Beatles-esque pop to Byrds-ian guitar-based
psych with stops off at the Monkees’ headquarters on the way through the
paisley underground to the left banke of swingin London in the 6Ts.
“Don’t Mourn” begins with such a rip-rolling bassline the laser
threatens to roll right across the CD. By the time Holm enters front and center
with his sleepy, Lennon-esque vocals, you’ve been mentally transported to
mid-60s Britain and the air is abuzz with the kaleidoscopic sounds of Rubber
Soul and Odyssey and Oracle “Faintly Blowing” in the breeze. The
sitar coda is also a great touch! “Feet of Clay” snakecharms it’s way into
your head, and Holm’s baroque strumming and cotten-mouthed warble wraps its
arms around you and all but tucks you in for the night.
Elsewhere, rose-coloured eyeshades of Paisely Underground stalwarts Rain
Parade and Dream Syndicate drip from your speakers like caramel over a candy
apple on the stomping “Of Reaching Out” and the mellow “Me For One” is
quite reminiscent of Kelly’s “Deadly Nightshade” contribution to the
Succour compilation and indicates that a solo LP from Mr. Holm would be a
welcome diversion. “At Granny Moon’s” has a freakbeat attack, like
Townshend crossed with Davies and Holm drags the trusty sitar out again for
“Bring Flowers to the Courthouse”, one of the album’s many highlights,
which combines the quirky brass drop-ins of the late Olivia Tremor Control and
Neutral Milk Hotel with minor key melodies straight out of the Beau Brummels and
Left Banke catalogue. Brilliant!
You’ll also love the faux-“Eight Miles High” solo intro and backward
guitars of “Fair-Weather Friend” and the elaborate arrangement and “space
is deep”, Hawkwind-ish “Show Me Every Corner”, with it’s high harmony
vocals (Three O’Clock’s Michael Quercio is frequently brought to mind),
farfisa break and sticky-sweet chorus that you’ll be humming for days. The
fine folks at Camera Obscura have delivered many great releases over their short
existence but, there’s no question, this may be their finest yet and is
definitely one of the best releases of the year. Seek it out immediately!!
That's right, lads, they're legal now! From teenaged, nookie nymphettes in the garage (as The Electrocutes) to center stage as the prime torch bearers of female raunch n' roll, The Donnas' fifth release finds them mining much the same fields as their obvious foremothers, The Runaways did nearly 25 years ago. (God, I'm getting old!) Mixing heavy doses of that Jett-fueled quartet's penchant for hook laden heavy riffage with the newfound experience of a world tour behind them, the girls, er, women have upped the ante with better playing, catchier tunes and a more professional presentation that still belies their tender years.
Picking up right where they left off with '99s classic Get Skintight,
"Are You Gonna Move It For Me?" starts Turn 21 off with an
AC/DC-styled chug-a-lug riff with Donna A's double-tracked vocals and Donna R's
buzzsaw guitar both recalling vintage Girlschool. The lead single, "40 Boys
in 40 Nights" is a punked up version of the beloved Nikki & The
Corvettes, another prime inspiration who ruled the roost for female bubblegum
rock nearly 20 years ago (did I tell you how old this record makes me feel yet?)
"Midnite Snack" rolls along on the powerful rhythm section of
Donnas C and F and the bubblegum-y "Drivin Thru My Heart" would make a
fine follow up single: catch melody, inane lyrics and Donna A's flatline vocals
all adding up to the perfect toe-tapping, head nodding singalong the kids'll be
blaring from their car stereos this summer.
Every Donnas' record contains a none-too-subtle Ramones ripoff and
"Little Boy" is Turn 21's entry: three chords, fewer lyrics an
and anthemic chorus all clocking in under two minutes. On "Don't Get Me
Busted," Donna F actually steps out for a rudimentary solo and the blink
and you missed it "Police Blitz" manages to incorporate Schlitz beer,
Cheech & Chong and smoking bowls all inside its 1:39 adrenaline rush.
By now you've got the picture: 3 chords, juvenile, coming of (legal) age
lyrics celebrating beer, bongs and boobs and vintage Ramones' riffs with
ocassional forays into The Runaways, Corvettes and Girlschool songbooks all
served up with the gusto and joie de vivre of four young babes in skintight,
hooker regalia who obviously just wanna have some fun. You will, too.
Belly(button) up to the bar, ladies - next round's on me.
NB: This also appeared in Ptolemaic
Terrascope #31.
Australian imprint Camera Obscura long ago established its reputation as one
of the finest contemporary psych labels in the world and this, its 43rd release
will only serve to solidify its place alongside legendary upstarts like Stiff,
Bomp, Factory, Fontana, Deram, Decca, et. al. The fifth full length from
Houston's Dunlavy is the first to hit my ears and, on the basis of what lies
within, won't be the last. Not many artists have such confidence in their
material that they choose to open with epic, 18 minute instrumentals, but
"Woe Be To Croton" finds ex-Mike Gunn-slingers Scott Grimm (not to be
confused with Houston's Project Grimm) and John Cramer sashaying into the room
with an easy going acoustic strum that reminds us of Hawkwind's debut busking
and builds to a spiritual cleansing of hypnotic moans, chants and religious
fervor like that aboriginal shaman in Peter Weir's "The Last Wave."
This loose raga vibe had me reaching for Buzz Linhart's old Seventh Son's 4AM
at Frank's reish with Hapshash's Coloured Coat on deck (us DJs always think
in terms of segues – an occupational hazard, I'm afraid.)
Not content to rest on their laurels, "Rob Walks In" sounds like
Cobain fronting CSNY in their 4 Way Street heyday. Sharp, sweet licks of
white lightning tear through the haze, but never threaten to deteriorate into
stadium guitar god wankoff. A mid section from another galaxy drops in as we
drop out to Dead-like forays into rambling, jambling, "what song were we
playing again?" cosmic stardust. The Shalabi Effect (a possible inspiration
for the album's title) takes hold of our senses and blasts us into the album's
most "structured" piece, "Sassy," a short Creedence meets
The Ventures instro that pulls us into a swampedelic pool of quicksand and
gleefully smirks as we struggle, helplessly, to free our mind and booties.
A slight misstep into Tortoise shell jazz, complete with Crimsonesque
signature changes ("Lacerating") is forgiven by the 12 minute closer
"Better Than Sleep." Like Crosby's "What Are Their Names"
(from his brilliant debut If Only I Could Remember My Name, the album
whose stony vibe most often springs to mind during this listening experience),
it flounders around in search of a direction for a few minutes (even dropping in
a moment of dead silence) before Grimm's taut picking and Cramer's slide find
what they're looking for and all hell breaks loose for 10 minutes of El Syd with
a frog in his throat and an honest-to-god "Free Bird" anthemic vibe
that ebbs and flows like the mighty Mississip. Hold on for dear life and ride
out this "apocalyptic vision of the nuclear destruction of Austin that came
to Scott in a dream." It fizzles out a few minutes too soon, but an overall
imprint has been forged on your psyche, making the search for previous
incantations in the Dunlavy catalog the next logical step in your search for the
eternal buzz.
Some of the best psych music on the planet these days is emanating from
Scandinavia. Excellent releases from The Spacious Mind and Peter Scion (Sweden),
The Dipsomaniacs and Ring (Norway) and Sigur Ros (Iceland) have been cropping up
over the last few years, and now we have The ECS from Finland, led by
guitarist/vocalist Timo Pääkkö. Their debut release leads off with the title
track, a catchy, acoustic driven acid-folk stomper, replete with crystalline
guitar solos and a hummable chorus that’ll stick with you for days. “Go All
The Way” is more radio friendly ear candy, riding along on a swirling Hammond
B riff that also punctuates “Paperbag Song”. These are the kinds of songs
that Bomp! Built its reputation on throughout the ‘80s, particularly on its
Voxx subsidiary: power pop from the garage.
“I’ll Be Your Dream,” a re-recording of a single by an early ECS
incarnation known as Jennie Tropik Dream is one of those songs you’ll swear
you heard all over the radio in the ‘80s when power pop/New Wave washed the
bad taste of punk out of the public’s mouths (and minds). It’s catchy as
hell and should propel this record into the collections of ‘80s revivalists
everywhere.
If you have both of The Sinceros’ records, you’ll love “Everywhere I
Look”, a rockin’ soul and r&b infected charmer that would have sold
millions if it had Huey Lewis’ or Squeeze’s name on it back in the day. And,
speaking of Difford & Tilbrook, I’d swear “My Dear Old Problem” was
one of their lost originals buried on a B-side somewhere. Elsewhere, “Dark”,
with its blistering guitar solo, snarling Hammond B and ominous minor chord is a
pop version of Black Sabbath and “Now Ann” marries Creation with The Who,
complete with Eddie Phillips' trademark windmill power chords and harmonies
approaching Four Seasons proportions.
So, if you recall the ‘80s frivolities and find yourself pulling out those old MTV-generation oldies but goodies more frequently these days, add this to your holiday shopping list. It’s one of those records you’d swear was oh, so familiar, yet Pääkkö & Co. have crafted a set of anachronistic originals that put the fun back in rock and roll. As Johnny Rotten said, “You remember fun, don’t you?”