2001 Reviews (N-Z)
You've heard all about the originals from everyone from Julian Cope to Johnny Rotten, but as I've never had them in my collection, I picked up these three reissues as I' ve always been curious. A few observations, then, from a "first timer."
I can see what some folks are griping about when they say it would have been better to just release a greatest hits comp of the best tracks (as it is, each piece has the original artwork and no bonus tracks, so they only clock in at under 45 minutes,) but from an historical/growth/transition perspective, I'm glad I got them all. Frankly, there is a bit too many harsh changes of pace within the same LP to really get comfortable with the grooves they lay down. Perhaps this is the point, but segueing from The Sex Pistols to Eno-produced Bowie on the same LP is quite a tempo change.
It's finally revealing to see what all the hype/fuss was all about after reading all those quotes from Lydon & Cope claiming, in effect, that Neu! (much more than the US equivalent and the groundbreaking work from Detroit, e.g., Stooges/MC5) inspired the British punk scene. I see/hear those as proto-metal inspirations anyway - perhaps inspirational to the punks in "attitude" but not in sound. But after hearing "Hero" [Neu! 75] I can now see where the whole Brit punk sound came from. And, although I've never heard or seen it written - there is also an enourmous Killing Joke thing going on here as well.
Yes, the Pink Floydisms are jarring in retrospect, so the releases in situ are "all over the musical map," but the influence and further development of what I've always attributed to Kraftwerk is right here in Klaus Dinger's motorik beat (now I know what people are talking about when they use that term – see, I told you these were educational releases!)
So, I would suggest that if, like me, you've read about Neu! ad infinatum but never really HEARD them, these are indispensible. Just be prepared to maybe program the selections yourself.
It’s hard to belive it’s been two decades since Ian
Curtis threw himself a necktie party and left his Joy Division mates, er,
hanging in the wind. Recruiting drummer Stephen Morris’ girlfriend Gillian
Gilbert into the fold, Bernie Sumner, Peter Hook & Co. rechristened
themselves New Order and proceeded to change musical history forever by
combining “Hooker”’s monstrously melodic basslines and Sumner’s
elliptical, boy-next-door lyrics with Morris and Gilbert’s electronic, motorik
dancebeats to formulate the definitive “sound of the ‘80s”, which has
since begat everything from “white disco” to house, jungle, trance and hip
hop (check out their “greatest hits” package, 20 Years of New Order,
which has simultaneously hit the shelves with this new release). Recently, the
band had fallen on “hard times” (a classic Human League 12” also from
about 20 years ago that wouldn’t have existed without New Order paving the way
via early hits “Temptation” and “Blue Monday”) and headed off into other
band projects (Hook’s Revenge and Monaco, Sumner’s supergroup Electronic and
the other two’s, well, The Other Two) that are best forgotten. Luckily for us,
time has apparently wounded all heels and the quartet’s allegedly notorious
egotism has taken a backseat to their obviously enormous talent for writing
catchy dancetracks that stick in your head as well as your feet.
Leading off with the killer 1-2 punch of “Crystal”
and “60 Miles An Hour,” Get Ready picks up where Low-Life left off – two
great singles to draw the listener in (both are on the Greatest Hits package)
and keep them around long enough to check out the rest of the album before
hitting the eject button. Granted, like the Buzzcocks, New Order have always
been a “singles” band (preferring 12” over the standard 7” – “Blue
Monday” and “Temptation” are still two of the biggest selling “extended
tracks” ever), but this time they’ve overloaded Get Ready with an entire
album’s worth of could/should be hits. “60 Miles” features one of their
strongest melodies since Low-Life’s “Perfect Kiss,” augmented by
Bernie’s Jagger-esque snarl and a Primal Screama-delicious arrangement.
“Turn My Way” features one of Gillian’s most heartwarming harmonies and
melodies reminscent of Sumner’s days spent in Electronic – there’s a Pet
Shop Boys laid back vibe throughout that shows he picked up a few pointers from
that New Order-Smiths-PSB collaboration. In fact, several of the mellower tracks
bear an uncomfortable resemblance to the big “E” (“Viscious Streak,”
“Someone Like You,” “Close Range”), but the closer “Run Wild” offers
an introspective love song with religious overtones that at least adds something
new to the Order’s canon of dancefloor rockers and electro shockers.
Old JD fans will recognize Hooker’s distinctive
opening bassline from “The Eternal” at the start of “Primitive Notion”
and “Slow Jam” is sure to elicit screams of plagiarism that seemingly
accompany every New Order release. “Rock the Shack” is pure Madchester -
marrying the Mondays to The Farm and The Primals (rumour has it the latter’s
Bobby Gilespie contributes backing vox) and Bernie rips off one of his meanest
solos ever – I didn’t think he had it in ‘im!
So, something OLD Joy Division fans will enjoy... Something NEW Order fans have been waiting for for years... Something BORROWED – what New Order record doesn’t...and some of their best songs since "BLUE Monday" all add up to one of the year’s best releases. Welcome back – good on ya!
Three years in the making, this Texas supergroup’s
sophomore effort improves on their awkward debut by smoothing out the rough
edges, focusing more on traditional song structures and playing to their
strengths, most notably Brian McBride’s cinematic sense of space. Borrowing
heavily from the atmospheric soundscapes he creates with Stars of the Lid,
“Limits…” is free from the annoying and directionless backwoods campfire
songs that made The Pilot Ships' debut, There Should Be An Entry Here
sink with a resounding thud.
“The Lazy Swimmer” sets the (snail’s) pace with a
piano tinkling quietly in the room down the hall and “Find Out You’re
Nice” marries Smog (whom they’ve toured with) and Drugstore to good effect
(the latter’s “Super Glider” is a familiar reference point.) Cheree Jetton
(Bees Are Black) moans and coos her way through “Deleuze” just like Bardo
Pond’s Isobelle Sollenberger on nitrous oxide (an injoke reference to SotL’s
debut, Music for Nitrous Oxide.) “Driving Off” brings to mind The
KLFs seminal Chill Out (God, was that really over a decade ago!?) as a
heavily treated guitar strums aimlessly over an ambient electronic landscape.
We’re talking Leone-ville and Ennio Morricone’s presence is duly noted.
“Knotted” places electronic space beeps over a
forlorn guitar as a scratchy record plays in the background and “Side”
borrows the chord progression from Windy & Carl’s “Lighthouse” (cf. Drawing
of Sound) over which soft vocals (courtesy Monroe Mustang’s Chris Linnen
– his brother, Mike is the other “pilot”) whisper a tale of lost love,
regret and abandonment. “Pilot Suicide Theory” incorporates backward guitars
and minor key piano tones to create an ambient set piece that has recently been
used in David Green’s film George Washington.
Overall, while slightly derivative of its ambient
forebearers, the sophomore slump has been avoided and further adventures in this
vein are strongly encouraged.
On his fourth album (third on Camera Obscura and first
since relocating to Austin, Texas), ex-Crystalized Movements guitarist Eric Arn
has reinvented the PU sound into a loose, improvisational jam band, eschewing
formal song structures to create lengthy instrumental passages that sound like
you're sitting in on one of their practice sessions. In fact, the whole thing
was recorded in guest guitarist (from Charalambides) Tom Carter's living room
over the course of about 10 hours with no overdubs or "fancy stuff".
Nothing much happens during the 17-minute opener "Uva Urtana", just
(over)loads of spacey guitar notes stretched from here to infinity as Arn and
Carter seem to be feeding off each other's suggestions for where the
"song" might go next. The unfortunate result is that it doesn't really
go anywhere – just sort of moseys along aimlessly, the pitfall of most
informal jam sessions captured on tape for general release.
"Glass/Spitt/Revelation" joins our friends in
the midst of a Hawkwind-like "blow" – think "Time We Left The
World Today." About halfway through (presumably the "Spitt"
section), it morphs into one of those infamous Grateful Dead space jams where
the participants withdraw into their own inner flights of fancy and it gets real
quiet as each member attempts to avoid stepping into each other's
"space". The final "Revelation" segment is self-explanatory,
as the lightbulbs go off over their heads and the fires are lit under their feet
and all concerned coalesce into a "trance"-endant free-form lift-off.
Fans of Black Sun Ensemble may recognize a few of Jesus
Acedo's otherworldly fuzzy guitar lines in the opening segment of "Louse
Dances for Laos", an otherwise elaborate feeding frenzy of guitar freakouts
that segues into the short exercise in noise exploration called "Mercury
Shitstorm", which is not much more than the sound of the proverbail
you-know-what hitting the speakers (some might even suggest "coming though
it as well").
My favorite track, "Filament" finds everyone
firing on all cylinders. There's some beautiful violin work from Travis Weller
weaving around Arn and Carter's twin-guitar attack that actually has some
semblance of direction (i.e., a beginning, middle and end – in that order)
that, for once, keeps this listener curious enough to travel along to the
journey's end. The aforementioned Dead and BSE influences merge effortlessly and
make me wonder why no one's tried this approach before. When executed properly,
as here, it's a marriage made in instrumental improv heaven.)
I would have like the record better if there were more of these "structured improvs", but if your tastes lean more towards the looser, let's-try-it-out-and-see-what-happens approach, then this will be right up your alley.
The much-heralded and far less successful new RHP album is a major disappointment. In the five years since singer/guitarist Mark Kozelek essentially told 4AD honcho Ivo Watts-Russell to fuck off for not releasing Songs For A Blue Guitar (which trickled out on film maker John Hughes' ill-fated and now defunct imprint, Supreme), Kozelek has masterminded a John Denver tribute, two solo releases (including an AC/DC tribute!), appeared as the bassist in "Almost Famous" and saw the title track from SFABG appear on a film soundtrack and another, his cover of The Cars' "All Mixed Up" appear in a Gap commercial. Perhaps all this interim activity clouded his judgement and distracted his attention from his main project, RHP, which hadn't released a proper full-band album since '95s Ocean Beach. Old Ramon, meanwhile, had taken on a mythology of epic proportions, joining the aforementioned Smile, A Teenage Opera and Shambaholic on the list of "will he or won't he ever release it" projects.
Aside from a demo of "Smokey" issued on an obscure compilation on Badman (The Shanti Project), we had no idea what Kozelek was working on or what Old Ramon was supposed to sound like. Now that it's here, our doubts and concerns were justified, for nothing in these overlong (the 10 tracks average over 7 minutes apiece), rambling observations of life in "la la land" delivers anything new to the RHP canon (in fact, the songs were recorded 3-4 years ago and apparently languished in Kozelek's vaults awaiting release.) Maybe Ivo was right?
Beginning with an ode to his cat ("Wop-A-Din-Din"), Kozelek and Co. drag out tired 80s hair band guitar riffs ("Void"), somnambulistic stream-of-consciousness tales of broken relationships with lost angels ("Between Days" sounds like an old Jackson Browne reject sung by Bonnie Prince Palace, Will Oldham and, tellingly, namechecks both Hanoi Rocks AND "Sonic D") and old Eric Weissberg & Deliverance vibes ("Cruisin'"). It all just illustrates more about Kozelek's record collection than his songwriting abilities. The latter are represented in all their glory on RHPs first three records and the reader is directed to pick up those or the 4AD 2xCD Retrospective to fully appreciate Kozelek's talents and understand why "Ramon" is not the only one feeling "old" by the time this terminally boring, 72-minute snoozer finally ends. Definitely NOT worth the wait.
Brian John Mitchell is a one-man music industry down in
his hometown of Raleigh, North Carolina. For the past decade, he's been running
his own label (Silber), writing his own fanzine (QRD) and recording under the
Remora monikor. As the latter, he's released five cassettes and appeared on
dozens of compilations, some on his own imprint. This, however, is his
"first proper album" and despite his contention that it is "the
first time a record was done as an intentional whole unit rather than a
collection of arbitrary works from a period of time", it still feels like a
collection of antiques and curios. As such, it has the air of a jukebox
collection of mix tapes, but I like his record collection of influences that are
spread across these 21 tracks, ranging from under a minute ("Melodica
Song") to just over 5 (the Popul Vuh-ish "Nothing Hurts Quite Like
You.")
This kitchen sink approach is not new (Abunai!'s Mystic
River Sound from a few years back springs immediately to mind) and
guarantees a wide audience, but its success will hinge on just how patient that
audience will be with the cornucopia of styles, influences and musical
approaches thrown at them in one sitting. Luckily, Mitchell and I have similar
tastes, so this will spend a lot of time in my CD player. If you like the
cinematic soundscapes of Stars of The Lid, Azusa Plane and Windy & Carl,
you'll groove to the pure drone of "7 Falls," the gentle, repetitive
5-note guitar riff of "Harrower 2," the high pitched, horror film
drone of "Dying for Warmth" and the barren, industrial wasteland of
"Europe Revisited," in which Mitchell sees nothing but death and
destruction and records the sounds of a dying continent accordingly.
Although his vocals are not the most melodic I've ever
heard and the album may have worked better if it was all instrumental, there is
a naïve charm to the naked honesty with which he sings "Go To California,"
"Luxuries of Wealth" and "Every Morning." Fans of the
homegrown psychedelia of Ring, Smog and Six Organs of Admittance and the
backwoods campfire singalongs of Palace, P.G. Six and Songs:Ohia will find much
to admire in these tracks, for they sound like you could do them yourself. For
the esoteric fan with unlimited funds and a penchant for collecting obscure
soundtracks, there's the aforementioned Vuh-vibe of "Nothing Hurts Quite
Like You" and "To The Sun," both of which sound like something
off the "Nosferatu" soundtrack. I can almost picture Kinski in his
boat drifting across the fog-enshrouded English Channel wending his way to
Transylvania. Even fans of the pure guitar virtuosity of Robert (The Cure)
Smith, Vini (Durutti Column) Reilly and Roy (the Kiwi King) Montgomery will be
pleased with "1919 Atlantic."
So, if any of these styles of music turn you on, you'll definitely want to add Some Past's Future to your collection.
[NB: An abbreviated
version of the following was published in Ptolemaic Terrascope #31,
January, 2002.]
While recovering from hernia surgery after lugging this
5 lb. monster up the front stairs into the music den of iniquity, I had plenty
of time to explore the cause of my predicament. Those fine art folks at Camera
Obscura have completely outdone themselves this time, pulling out all the stops
with the presentation of Birds of Appetite – surely one of the most
elaborate packaging efforts since Spiritualized delivered “Ladies &
Gentlemen...” in those custom-designed pharmaceutical tablet boxes, complete
with prescription info and DEA warnings.
What feels like a kilo of plastic has been poured into
the two slabs of “unbreakable microgroove” vinyl, all housed in cardboard
sleeves so thick you could use them to protect your shop windows during a
nuclear attack. All of this is a superfluous extravagance if the important stuff
in those “microgrooves” causes one to test their malleability. But not to
worry, for Minneapolis’ finest psychedelic export have once again delivered
the goods on this, their third full-length (all on CamOb.)
Guitarists Erik Wivinus (also of local legends Skye Klad
– see below for their latest - and Gentle Tasaday – whose debut is also
available from Cam Ob) and Sean Connaughty (also of The Vortex Navigations –
debut on Cam Ob as well) team up with bassist Doug Morman and skinpounder Matt
Zaun (another Skye Klad member) for a collection of ethnic wyrdfolk which is
lighter than their previous “Red” outings (“Mantra” and “Ampersand”)
and heavier on the Floydisms, ca. “Set the Controls....” In fact, leadoff
track “Vessel Is Vacant” cops the riff right out from under Water’s nose
and eases its way into our cranium like a hot knife through butter. It ends so
abruptly, however, I thought they left the coda on the cutting room floor.
“Ithsmus” is easier to absorb than pronounce,
circling around the room like a spider ensnaring her prey in a web of guitar
duals, Connaughty and Wivinus challenging each other in a series of “can you
top this?” guitar runs. “Minutia Divine” invites Neil Young over for a few
bonghits, Connaughty’s falsetto recalling the Canuck godfather’s occasional
forays into the ether. Beneath it all, samples, loops, acoustic guitars and
Zaun’s special fx rumble along like tribal warriors readying for the “sweat
tent.” It all escalates into the sound of dissonant voices that form the
perfect soundtrack for Connaughty’s massive cover/gatefold artwork that
resembles a 21st century Dante’s Inferno. The sound of a stylus ripping across
the grooves is a familiar reminder to heads everywhere to “come down” and
turn the record over.
Side 2s centerpiece, “Sadhu” features more spacey
“swooshes” over Connaughty’s crystalline electric guitar runs as Wivinus
serpentines his way over, under, sideways, down
and back again in the finest tradition of twin guitar gods Deebank &
Lawrence (Felt) and Lever and Smithies (Chameleons.) Snippets of
Disintegration-era Robert (Cure) Smith also sneak in for a few guest riffs. This
is a guitar head’s fantasy come true and these two masters have adjourned as
the new “heads” of the class of ’01!
Proof these guys also know what to do with sidelong
opportunities lay in the microgrooves of the 20 minute “Trench of Fire.”
(Some less successful attempts weighed down the otherwise commendable Harmony
of the Spheres 3xLP experiment, but I’m not naming names. But the 2xCD
reish and draw your own conclusions.) Sadly, the trusty microgrooves at the
beginning of my copy suffer from remnants of some careless distributor’s
lunch, but once past the annoying rice crispy critters, the familiar opening
strains of Siouxsie’s “Premature Burial” eventually yield to
Connaughty’s echoey dive-bombing kamikaze assaults on the psyche while Wivinus
swabs the deck with thundering Sabbath tonnage and the rhythm section announces
the arrival of the Walkyrie. The sensual overload pinned me to my sickbed,
leaving permanent imprints on both mattress and cerebellum. It was all I could
do to extricate myself and muster enough strength to sample side 4s
anticlimactic “Mumpsimus’ Lament” and The Wreck of Old 99” – that and
the bowel-evacuating scratch-the-stylus-across-the-record gimmick that once
again accompanies the arm eject on my turntable.
The former catches our heroes mid-jam, similar to the
outtakes on Abunai!’s latest, Round Wound (also on CamOb for those
keeping score.) Wivinus’ vocal utterances are lost in the maelstrom, but I’m
sure he’ll agree THEY are not what we’re here for.
The clanging bells at the onset of the latter imply
“Old 99” may be some sunken liner at the bottom of one of Minnesota’s
10,000 lakes, but I’m going out on a limb and offering an alternate reading:
the (often indistinguishable) TV samples and funereal organ flourishes, to my
ear, signal the end of the 20th century (although purists will rightly argue it
should, under my scenario, be called “The Wreck of the Old ‘00” – but
even they’ll have to admit that’s a stupid title, so artistic license is
hereby granted.)
Ending this album with this particular track, in light
of what’s proceeded, indicates not only the end of the century, but the end of
Salamander’s “phase 1” and the start of a gentler, kinder direction.
Goodbye “Old Mr. Jones.” He’s dead and buried and Salamander have embarked
on a new journey to the stars. The “birds of appetite” (a pseudonym for
vultures?) are circling overhead observing the carnage of our past, their tears
of remorse dousing the fires of the apocalypse below. As the final track is
interrupted by that shattering “stylus scratching” – that wake up call to
all you sleepy “heads,” once again the familiar echoes of The Cure’s Disintegration
fade into the horizon. Welcome to the 21st Century, schizoid men and women
everywhere.
Beginning with another Camera Obscura release, native
sons The Sand Pebbles hail from nearby Melbourne and are no strangers to the
living rooms of folks "down under," having scripted "coffee shop
scenes" for the popular soap opera, "Neighbours." They also
feature on the Television tribute Test Patterns and have a track on the
forthcoming Masters Apprentices' tribute, Living In A Child's Dream, due
any day now from US indie, Aether. But to the release at hand, The Sand Pebbles
offer up a tasty conglomeration of power pop with a ballsy, ear-shattering
guitar solo courtesy the Casanovas' Tommy Love ("Noah's Ark") and a
Bevis-styled guitar instrumental that would sit quite nicely on his recent Acid
Jam II comp ("Hey, Let Me In (t-1)".) The highlight, however, is
the eight minute b-side, "Sundowner," which begins with faux applause
and builds ominously on the back of Beck Zack's mellotron and guest Murray
Jamieson's Nord synth flourishes until drummer Piet Collins' harpsichord
clatterings and wall shattering "techno" skinpoundings threaten to
send the whole shebang skyward in some tribal offering to the prog/psych gods of
yore. The perfect soundtrack to your next night flight, "The Sand
Pebbles" is a welcome introduction and tasty teaser for more cinematic
psychedelia to come.
I don't know exactly what "warm inventions"
Hope's been cooking up since the demise of Mazzy Star, but based on these four
snoozers, I hope (no pun intended) she's planning on approaching the U.S. Patent
Office seeking protection – she's gonna need all the help she can get once her
fans catch wind of this disaster. "Sparkle" finds her whispering sweet
nothings (literally – there's no "lyrics" to speak of, just erotic
moans – echoed, no less, to the point that even Barry White would blush,) and
Ji-Young Moon's mournful cello on "Down the Steps" is overshadowed by
Hope's annoyingly repetitive two-note piano "playing." It sounds like
a love song to her puppy, but the pretentiously obstruse lyrics could be
directed at a parasitic lover: "I don't want to make him stay, but now
he'll never go away."
"Around My Smile" [too close to Mazzy's
finale, Among My Swan for comfort] finds Hope more somnambulistic than on
the slowest MS tracks and her nitrous oxide-induced twee vocals are the
"beathiest" coos this side of Andrea True's demands for "More,
More More." Too bad Hope's about 10 years too old for this shit – if
Tittany Spears tried to get away with this, she'd probably sell a truckload of
gold records – Hope is just embarrassing. There's nothing sadder than a
thirtysomething woman trying to pass herself off as a teenager. Even coercing
the legendary Bert Jansch to pluck his way through "Charlotte" only
barely rescues the song from its mundane surroundings. Unfortunately, Jansch
completists will probably want to seek this out – all others are advised to
head screaming in the opposite direction.
From the moment the needle hits the record (sic; this IS
a CD only release!), we're in for something different from the Portuguese duo,
Saturnia on the sixth release from this New Zealand imprint. (Cranium head [pun
intended], Richard Stockwell also runs an excellent mail order catalogue which
specializes in the best of the current crop of psych, prog and krautrock
releases). That opener, "Chrysalis" is a wonderful, sitar-drenched
effort that sets the stage for one of the finest "chill out"
experiences since its inception nearly 20 years ago with The KLF classic that
gave the genre its name.
"Still Life" makes good use of all the
instruments at Saturnia's disposal, including several synths, e-mu vintage keys,
castanets (!), metalophone and tons of fx. It's the perfect antidote to that
long day in the office or sitting in endless commuter traffic. Pour something
cold and relax out on the patio.
"A Trick of the Light" sounds like it was
recorded in a bird sanctuary or the local zoo's zombie birdhouse – put this on
your walkman next time you visit your furry friends of flight. The theremin bed
also adds a nice sci-fi/horror touch that compliments this atmospheric stroll in
the rain forest.
The disk's centerpiece and strongest track is the
ominous, 10-minute "Azimuth/Menadl." Propelled by a processional
drumbeat and frightening organ loop accompanied by theremin, gongs and assorted
fx, "Azimuth" could have been the perfect track for the infamous
"masquerade ball" scene in Kubrick's "Eyes Wide Shut"
(although, admittedly, Jocelyn Pook's original still scares the shit out of me).
About halfway through, the track segues into "Menadl," which begins
like Simon & Garfunkle's "Old Friends" and ends like a cross
between Stereolab, Witch Hazel Sound and High Llamas. Beautiful!
By the time we reach the anit-climactic title track,
which is more of an "atmosphere" than an actual "song,"
we've been treated to a myriad of theremins, organs, crybaby wah-wahs, stell
guitars, synths, chimes, bells, gongs, whistling wind – a veritable De Wolfe
library full of cinematic "beds" and sound fx, all adding up to a
lounge lizard's dream soundtrack to woo that special someone on a coll autumnal
evening.
Hot on the heels of Lamp of the Universe's The Cosmic Union [see review elsewhere], Cranium has delivered two of the year's finest releases and is definitely a label whose releases we'll be looking forward to in the future.
Eponymous side project from Christina Carter
(Charalambides) and Heather (Ash Castles on The Ghost Coast), these two long
drones (descriptively entitled "Holding" and "Breath
Threads") slip into a Vulcan mind meld and don't release their grip on your
psyche until long after the disk is placed back in the jewel case. The ladies
sing, chant and ocassionally howl like sirens beckoning sailors to their demise,
but the real treat is that steady chord organ drone, embellished by bells and
other haunting percussives. At times, there is a spiritual aura and a religious
fervor to the playing and chanting, but always, there is that long drone –
relaxing, hypnotic and meditative. It's been done before – Terry Riley's Reed
Organ pieces come to mind as well as, to a lesser extent, Kendra Smith's work
with the Guild of Temporal Adventurers; but,
if something is executed as well as this, I don't mind hearing it over and over
again. Now if I can just get that ringing out of my ears….
The lazy acoustic blues of the harmonica-led,
Morricone-inspired "Dust Part 1" is disrupted by the speaker shredding
skronk of "Woman Gone Bad" and we're off on a mind boggling set of
stoner rock where Monster Magnet hangs out with Black Sabbath and my only advice
is to hop on this train or get the hell out of the way cause this train's just
gonna keep a rollin' and it ain't stopping – not no way, not no how. These
dirty no accounts hiding behind pseudonyms like "The Prophet,"
"The Horse," "The Snake" and "Devilfinger" all
under the spiritual guidance of their self-professed guru, Gentian Honeydew
Peace Raven III (anagram that, sucker!) make Motorhead and Steppenwolf sound
like a bunch fairy choirboys on church holiday.
"Electric City" writhes under Hendrix's thumb
like a butterfly nailed to a wheel while "Blues for the Universe"
marries Quicksilver Messenger Service to cult Brit phenoms Help Yourself while
Cippolina smiles approvingly from his grave. ("The Girl from Shady
Grove" is another tribute to those masters of the "West Coast
psych" as if you needed any further reminders of who these cosmic cowboys
grew up listening to.)
"I Ain't Superstitious" drags a howling wolf
through muddy waters like a biker dragging old ladies from the back of his
Harley and "Killing Time" rewrites Hendrix's "Foxy Lady,"
inviting George Thoroughgood along for the ride. A bunch of hooligans and
lagerlouts like this are bound to get "Busted" every now and then, so
they wrote a song to commemorate the festivities: 8 minutes of nasty, snarling,
vocal chord-shredding viciousness with guitars a-blazing away, leaving fingers,
ears and other bodily orifices bleeding in its wake.
"Blown Away" spits out ZZ Top's
"Tush" with reckless abandon, followed by the 15 minute centerpiece,
"Long Black Gown." Mourning widows are the least of these lads
concerns, but the story/song actually hints at a glimmer of remorse for the
carnage left behind by this musical answer to Peckinpah's Wild Bunch. For about
five minutes, anyway. Then it's a 10 minute guitar dual to the death as
"Horse" and "Snake" riddle each other with every trick in
their songbook and memories of allnight riff raves and Television, Grateful Dead
and Allman Brothers concerts fade into the dusty sunset as night falls and our
sixstring strangers sidle slowly out of town to the waning strains of "Dust
Part 2."
Just who are these masked marauders, these leather-clad
Hersham Boys? I don't want to spoil your own guessing games, but fans of the
Woronzow stable of artists should have no trouble solving the mystery.
This has all the earmarks of a disaster: a movie rating
for a band name and a title that cries out: “WARNING! Hicks Ahead!”
Thankfully, it’s none of that; rather, an interesting amalgam of acoustic
psych and wyrdfolk that combines the instrumentation of Incredible String Band
with the trad. arr. folk of Stone Breath, Gryphon, Six Organs of Admittance and
In Gowan Ring. Throw in some folky Donovan-esque embellishments, some backward
tracked acoustic guitars and some weird goofy shit like hemence, ukelin,
shakahachi, d’tzu, djembe and the ever-popular sacred dung drum and you’ve
got a listening experience from Pat Gubler (he’s Mr. Six) and Tim Barnes
(he’s the one with the holy shit in his drums) that’s among the most
elegiac, spiritual and nirvana-enducing I’ve heard all year.
“Unteleported Man” is divine soma captured inside
six minutes of ecstatic, hallucinatory vibrations that’ll have your head in
the clouds seeking godhead. Ben Chasney’s Six Organs of Admittance should open
the gates for a seventh as “Quiet Fan for SK” invokes his earthy, fireside
picking and clearly qualifies as one of the titular “porch favorites.” It
all ends with a folksy “Down by the River” vibe that captures the essence of
Mr. Young better than the 10 minutes it took Low to attempt the same (see review
of their collaboration with The Dirty Three elsewhere.) In fact, Young’s peak
period of early 70s druggy haze permeates much of this release, right down to
the lazy solos on “The Shepherd.”
For eight minutes, “Go Your Way” illuminates a
forest of waterfalls, roadside ponds and sunlit paths, highlighted by PGs harps,
tin whistles and that unpronouncable but ethereal sounding instrumentation
alluded to earlier. Vocals just this side of Ian Anderson’s folky Jethro Tull
peak tug us safely along, but it’s the seamless segue into “The Fallen
Leaves That Jewel The Ground” and its resulting pastoral beauty (not to
mention that priceless title) that evokes more than a passing nod in the
direction of Brothers Timothy (Stone Breath) Renner and B’Eirth (In Gowan
Ring.)
Simple stated: a classic entry into the pantheon of
wyrdfolk and acoustic psychadelic releases and one of the year’s best.
Fresh off the stage from last October's Terrastock IV
festival in Seattle [although I believe the 12" may have been offered at
one of the merch tables,] northern California singer/songwriter/mystic Ben
Chasny graces us with these gems that supplement a small, but remarkable body of
work that stands high amidst the finest extant examples of wyrdfolk, acid folk,
acoustic psych or whatever your chosen bon mot of the moment happens to be. Both released by small labels
right here in my home state of NJ, they may become major collector's items
before you finish reading this, so act quick and score a copy or two before
they're all gone.
The title track of the 3-song 7" evokes Tom Rapp
during his Pearls Before Swine heyday and could have been an outtake from Balaklava.
A moody, emotional, acoustic ballad, it features one of Chasny's finest vocal
performances. The two tracks on the flip were recorded during a "live
mic" segment in "The Pit" at KFJC-FM in Los Altos Hills, Ca.
(where SubArachnoid Space's These Things Take Time was also recorded) and
were engineered by Primordial Undermind's drummer, Grawer, during his Friday
afternoon radio program. The first, "Sum of All Heaven" is
and the second, a nigh unrecognizeable rendition of the Stones'
"Dead Flowers," strips away the country/western pretensions of
Jagger's faux hick drawl and breathes fresh life into this, er, dead chestnut.
The Stones never could do c&w (witness Let It Bleed's abysmal
"Country Honk" or "Exile"'s horrific "Sweet
Virginia"), but Chasny understands its essence – behind all that phoney
baloney imagery and "ah, shucks" sentimentality beats the heart of a
broken human being and unrequited love hurts the same, no matter how hard you
try to gussy it up behind frozen smiles.
"The Manifestation" is a whole other ball of
wax (or, should that be "vinyl"?) This side long lathe-cut 12"
(an engraved sketching of a flaming sun adorns the reverse) begins as a bubbling
cauldron of drones, bells, hums and percussives that could be the soundtrack to
a bad trip or a religious epiphany. Over a mystical vibe reminiscent of what one
might encounter in a ceremonial "sweat tent," Jennifer [no surnames
are included] recites religious incantations that sound like she's reading from
the Tibetan Book of The Dead, while Ben's haunting double-tracked warning
of impending doom and spiritual fulfillment only serve to heighten the
psychedelic experience. A pit helmet and a change of underwear are strongly
advised.
It all implodes into an extended electronic drone courtesy the curiously monikored, Utrillo. Windchimes tinkle on a neighbor's back porch, gradually giving way to high pitched, furious strumming like those old baseball cards we used to stick in the spokes of our bikes when we were kids until the final, gentle acoustic guitar fadeout, signalling "The Manifestation" is complete. Whew! It's up to each of you to determine how (and into what) you've been transformed.
The benefits of doing a weekly radio show is that you
get to advertise yourself to the music world and make some great contacts who
are all too willing to grace your airwaves with their presence and share some of
their newest material. About a year and a half ago (on Terrastock III weekend as
things would have it,) I had the honor of interviewing Erik Wivinus on my
"No Soap, Radio" show heard every Monday evening from 8-10PM (eastern
time) over www.wnti.org and locally at 91.9 in Hackettstown, NJ. As a member of
three of the best psychedelic bands in Minneapolis (Salamander, Gentle Tasaday
and Skye Klad), Erik's been keeping my head spinning for years and it was during
the recording of some of these Skye Klad sessions, I believe, that he took time
out to chat. It's a pleasure to report that the results far exceeded the
marvelous teaser that he sent me earlier, an advance copy of "Mind's
Eye" (a different version of which leads off the proceedings.)
"Vespers," for instance, calls to mind Ian Curtis leading Hawkwind
through an amphetamine-fueled "Master of the Universe," while
"Killer Goodnight" finds Peter Murphy fronting Sabbath with Mr. Mojo
Risin' nodding gleefully in the wings. Gothic Death Metal, anyone?
"Sleep At the Bottom" applies the brakes
somewhat, being more atmospheric, but still dark and foreboding. The catchy (!)
chorus is straight outta Bongwater territory and the wind tunnel guitar FX hover
in the air like frozen breath on a cold winter's night in the local cemetery.
"Debutante" marries Joy Division's industrial clatter with Bauhausian
histrionics, while the ensuing half hour trilogy of "Ionosphere,"
"Taxaphene" and "Amber" sets the controls for the heart of
the sun with a baggage compartment stocked to the gills with everything from
Floyd and Hawkwind to Fields of the Nephalim and Love & Rockets blaring full
blast on the stereo.
In sum, fans of Nordic Death Metal minus the axe-wielding, church burning murderers will find a lot to endorse. If your tastes run more towards dark, gothic, atmospheric, sonic assaults with the spectre of Ian Curtis presiding over the proceedings, by all means seek this out. Hopefully, available soon, as Erik tells me he has scores of record companies fighting it out in steel cage death matches and offering vestal virgins, prime Hawaiian real estate (wink, wink) and the keys to the local pharmaceutical labs in exchange for the honor of bringing this one to the masses of pot headed pixies stroking their beards the world over.
First off, I hope the addition of the parenthesis
doesn't mean Bill Callahan is contemplating pulling an "Artist Formerly
Known As Talented" on us, although "Prince Alone In The Studio"
indicates he does have a sense of humour. In any event, I'm pleased to
announce ol' Bill is back with a vengeance on this return to past glories, his
finest release since The Doctor Sailed At Dawn. Oh, his voice still
reminds me of a tagteam tonsil tussel between Leon Russell and Tom Rush,
especially on the closing "Revanchism," but it is also beginning to
veer off into the romantic, depressing, lonesome loser of say, Richard Baskin
(cf. his soundtrack to "Welcome To L.A.") on "Keep Some Steady
Friends Around." "Depression," as in "No…" is also
the flavor of the day on such moaners as "Song" and "Slow Drive,"
but they are saved by some of Callahan's most virulent guitar histrionics –
think Leonard Cohen goes alt.country, taking Russ Ballard along riding 6-string
shotgun.
Elsewhere, Geoff Greenberg's pulsating bassline drives
"Natural Decline" deep into the caverns of false memories (you'll
swear you've heard it somewhere before and you'd be right – it's not-so-subtly
nicked from Kraftwerk's "Hall of Mirrors") and Jessica Billey's
strangulated catgut strokings on "Dirty Pants" and "Lazy
Rain" add another layer of grime to these already mean and lowdown white
trash confessionals. My only quibble is with the short length of the release
(again fans are asked to pay full length prices for essentially a half hour's
worth of material), but the quality of the tracks, while certainly not
justifying the economic hardship being foisted on the faithfull, at least makes
the pain a little easier to bear.
Sonically akin to stablemates Tarentel, Sonna mine the
same fertile territory of meandering, improvisational instrumental jams that
Tortoise first laid claim to a decade ago. Label spokesman Jeremy deVine and
vocalist Chris Mackie weave intricate guitar lines around each other while
rhythm section Drew Nelson and overly aggressive drummer Jim Redd hold down the
fort. “Low and To the Side” jogs along about six inches off the ground, all
light, breezy and carefree and is one of the better of the six lengthy tracks
included on this Baltimore quartet’s debut longplayer.
The gimmicky title track(s) illustrate the dichotomy and
indecisiveness that seals the record’s fate and ultimately leads to its
downfall. “We Sing Loud” suffers from Mackie’s weak falsetto which diverts
attention away from the song’s directionless playing while “Sing Soft
Tonight”’s syncopated melody line focuses too much attention inwardly, the
result being we aren’t sure whether Sonna are offering their own take on Red
House Painter’s trademark slower than molasses presentation or piggybacking on
Tortoise’s post rock yuppie Muzak for the masses.
“Step On It” stamps a little more originality into
the mix as the dramatic pauses and Don Caballero time changes keep things fresh
and exciting. The closer, “Real Quiet” isn’t, and that’s a good thing.
It’s actually quite upbeat – a good tune to blast from the CD as you cruise
down the highway with the windows open and the top down...in short, the perfect
“summer song.” It’s a sound I hope Sonna will build on in future efforts
if they hope to emerge from the gluttony of instrumental jam bands we’re being
inundated with these days.
Rumours abound around this release, from whether it
would ever see the light of day to what would it ever sound like (Jason
shitcanned the band that graced his two previous releases, retaining only
Thighpaulsandra from Julian Cope’s Queen Elizabeth project on keyboards). My
favorite [allegedly coined by Mr. Cope himself] was the proposed working title
“Don’t Just Do Something, Sit There”, which, turn about fair play, turns
out to be the title of one of the best tracks. So let’s clean up a few things:
first, it’s not the relentless piece of shit many would have you believe and
second, it’s not nearly in the same class as “Ladies and Gentleman...”,
Spiritualized’s previous studio release that was selected as the Album of the
Year by the DroneOn online discussion list. Personal opinion – it’s closer
to the former, simply because the mis-steps are so glaring and purvasive that
it’s impossible to escape their onslought: mainly, there’s too many fucking
people on here – I lost count after about 50. What is this: A Psychedelic
Symphony? Sax, trumpet, cello, Cor Anglais, several flutes, trombones, French
Horns, clarinets, alto/tenor/soprano vocalists, gospel choirs – hell, the
London Philharmonic probably contributed less personnel to the Moodies and the
Procols attempts at symphonic pomp.
“On Fire” sets the stage for what is essentially a
gospel record trying to pass itself off as pop and roll symphony – and
that’s the second problem: the nastiness of dirtyass r’n’r is tempered
with an angelic choir a la latterday T. Rex and this angel/devil dichotomy
throughout leaves this listener a little off balance: the melodies and
“balls” are there, but then the rug is continually pulled out from
underneath by dropping all these voices, strings, anthemic horns, etc. on
top...”The Twelve Steps” is a perfect example of this disturbing tendency to
chang horses midstream. There is also an annoying feeling of deja vu surrounding
many tracks: “Do It All Over Again” sounds like something off Karl “World
Party” Wallenger’s Goodbye Jumbo, especially those faux-El Lay/Jackson
Browne soundalikes, while “The Straight and The Narrow” is nothing more than
“Ladies and Gentleman”’s title track with new words and the aforementioned
“Don’t Just Do Something” cops the melody from Pure Phase’s “2000
Bars") and runs it into the ground. And why, oh why, do we need a gospel
rendition of “Lord Can You Hear Me” from Jason’s previous Spacemen 3 daze
(cf. their Playing With Fire release)?
Jason also could have used an editor – most of these
tracks go on FOREVER, outlasting their welcome with interminable codas (“Out
of Sight”, “I Didn’t Mean To Hurt You”, “Anything More” –
fortunately, these are also the boring tracks, so most listeners won’t ever
reach the finales before hitting the “next track” button on their CD players
anyway. And the less said about 11 minutes of “Won’t Get To Heaven” the
better – like 15 minutes of “Ladies and Gent’s...” “Cop Shoot Cop”,
there’s simply no excuse for this overindulgent filler.)
“Stop Your Crying”, the album’s best track, could
easily become a new anthem in these desperate times: I can easily see this
played behind images of firefighters and rescue workers attempting to pull
survivors out of the World Trade Center wreckage. Of course this isn’t what it
was written for (it’s actually a love song), but “right time, right place”
mentality and an aggressive ad campaign could do wonders to call attention to
the album, much like sticking a song into a Nike or Volkswagen commercial.
Bottom line: if you enjoy Dylan’s “gospel” period,
prefer recent Cohen with all those backup singers and think Bolan found his
calling by adding a hallelujah chorus all over his final releases, then this
might be for you. Frankly, I’m tired of rock and rollers trying to be
something they’re not; thankfully, Dylan got over it...let’s hope Jason does
the same....
With Neutral Milk Hotel and Oliva Tremor Control
apprently languishing in the elephant (6)'s graveyard somewhere, Portland,
Oregon's thebrotheregg (sic) step up fill the void on this, their debut
longplayer. Your reaction will depend on which side of the fence you fall on
with the aforementioned acts, because this could easily have been the latest
addition to either of their discographies. Leaning closer to the Olivias
(singer/guitarist/composer Adam Goldman couples their harmonic sense of melody
with the Hoteliers quirky, Beefheartian anti-music as evidenced on
"Negative Space", "Machine" and "Doormant
Podling"), tbe temper harsh, distorted sound effects (a la Olivia alter
egos, Black Swan Network) with laid back floaters ripped out of the Witch Hazel
Sound and High Llamas' songbooks. The best tracks, "No Te Gusta
Earth", "Futuristic", "Telescope",
"Fingerprint", "Billy Barty's Brains" and
"Omniuniminiverse" offer the latter groups' fixation on all things
Brian Wilson and benefit from the (A)ssociation.
However, the inclination to try something different by
tossing in the kitchen sink as a musical "spanner in the
works"-cum-"bull in a china shop" calls too much attention to the
cleverness of the arrangements and production (it took several years to complete
the project according to Woronzow's press release) at the expense of some good
tunes disguised within (paging Jon Auer – see elsewhere).
This is Woronzow's second attempt to capitalize on the popularity of the Elephant 6 collective (remember Vic Conrad and the First Third? Thought not.) and it's time, like most of those bands have already realized, to call it a day and let these sleeping elephants lie.
Another twig off the Spacemen 3 family tree,
Thighpaulsandra played keyboards on Jason Pierce's recent Spiritualized tour
prior to Jason shitcanning the whole band to start afresh. (We're still waiting
for that new record, Jason.) On his first solo LP, Thigh enlists ex-Throbbing
Gristle member Peter Christopherson, his Coil cohort John Balance and Thigh's
Queen Elizabeth partner, Julian Cope for a double album's worth of cinematic
mood pieces ("Abuse Foundation IV" prominently features the Bernard
Herrmann-esque string strokings of the Maureen Wilson Quartet; another track is
entitled "Celine and Julie Go Boating" after the Jacques Rivette
classic of French Nouvelle Vogue cinema), alien communications (courtesy
Balance's impenetrable blatherings on the opener, "Optical Black") and
operatic squealings (Dorothy Lewis' window shattering, dog-freightening ariatic
bursts on "Lycraland.")
Beneath it all, Thigh twiddles some knobs, manipulates
tape splices, drops in a mellotron here, a theremin there, distorts his own
vocal snippets and hammers out droning synth, piano and organ segments,
(sometimes forward, sometimes backward and ocassionally both at once – I swear
I hear the tape rewinding in the middle of "Lycraland.") "We The
Descending" is a game attempt at a proper "song," but Thigh can't
sing and the synth-heavy noisepop beat is something I thought we thankfully
abandoned 20 years ago when we ran the "New Romantics" out of town.
"The Angelic Declaration" is some vitriolic diatribe heralding our
hero's martyrdom at the hands of…oh, I don’t know – it's all too damn
confusing to follow. One LP down, one to go.
"Terrible" is a horrible title for a song for
obvious reasons and Thigh doesn't disappoint. About 30 seconds in, I was ready
to rip this fucker off the turntable and toss it through the nearest window, but
I wanted to hear what the sidelong collaboration with "the Cope" was
all about, so I flipped the record over instead and settled in for some possible
justification for the $25 I wasted on this shit. [A note about
"Terrible:" it appears that Simon Norris' "water recording"
is misidentified on this track instead of track 3, "Home Butt Club,"
but I think the whole tracklisting on Side 3 is mislabeled such that "Butt
Club" is actually track 1 and "Terrible" may actually be Track 3.
Either that or the credits are reversed. No matter, they both suck and, for this
kind of money, you think they'd get the tracklisting straight. Damn hippie
freaks!]
And what of the QE reunion? Uh, bolt the doors, lock the
windows, drop the acieed and cue the strobelights: this is faaar out sheet,
maaan! Following the opening end of the world cacophony, complete with
disemboweled voices and random transient noise bursts, we settle into a hypnotic
world of echoed, backward voices, flowing water, chimes and ominous synths. It's
all completely disorienting. And when Thigh introduces the theremin to signal
our crash landing on a cold planet far, far away, the hair on the back of your
neck will get up and join your crawling flesh on a hasty retreat to the safety
of the nearest padded cell. Say hello to Thigh and ol' Julesy when you see 'em,
will ya?!
In deference to my dear old mum who just turned 75 and
who always taught me that if you can't say anything nice about someone, keep
your damn trap shut, I must admit that Coil's artwork and packaging are
incredible and the gatefold sleeve is plastered with hallucinogenic images that
suggest there's a terrific film floating around somewhere and the glow in the
dark vinyl looks pretty cool spinning around the turntable. There's even
something ominous brewing in the haunting soundscape of "Limping Across The
Sky" and Thigh's monk-like chanting is a nice, soothing touch. But these
minor quibbles aside, this is just about the worst album I've heard in years.
Oh, did I mention the bitchin' graffix? Shame they didn't put as much effort
into what lies inside. A ghastly, monstrosity of a record.
If Nick Cave is maudlin [see elsewhere], Michael Hopkins
is downright suicidal on this, his second full-length release under the Tinsel
monikor (following '98s I Wish The Talkies Never Would Have Ended, also
on his Wisconsin-based Keyhole Records. Mike also keeps great company: Keyhole's
last release, the Greg Weeks "Bleecker Street" EP [see below] was
co-released with the great fanzine, Ptolemaic Terrascope; this one is
aided and abetted by PTs "sister 'zine" Mats Gustafsson's The
Broken Face out of Sweden.) Accompanied by female protagonist, Lesle Chalim,
Hopkins' deadpan delivery at times recalls Stone Breath's Timothy Renner in its
inexpressiveness bordering on catatonia, not necessarily a bad thing considering
the dire surroundings. The sparse loneliness of these tracks (especially
"Rebecca" and "Sleep In Deep") also harkens back to the
homegrown alienation of Charalambides duo Tom and Christina Carter, making The
Lead Shoes the perfect soundtrack to a post-nuclear holocaust. The sense of
impending doom and claustrophobia on "Here I Was" (with its haunting
church organ) and "Eva's Window" (with its "Eraserhead"-like
industrial clattering) sound like these songs were written and recorded in an
air raid shelter, far removed from human contact and emotion. "Sleep In
Deep" is as dark as Cohen in a month-long funk – its somnambulistic tale
of out-of-body experiences reminds me of the German expressionistr classic
"Cabinet of Dr. Caligari."
This relentless hopelessness and resignation may well be
too bleak for some listeners, but fans of The Cure's "suicide trilogy"
(Faith, Seventeen Seconds and Pornography, as well as their
Carnage Visors soundtrack) and other doom mongers and naysayers such as
Nine Inch Nails, Psychic TV and Skinny Puppy may enjoy this in an "I told
you so" sort of way. Just hide the razor blades!
Tram are a guitar and drums duo (!) from London who
began life as part of Broken Dog's touring band. Their second album of quiet,
introspective bedsit music settles nicely in the craw like molasses caking in
the mid-day sun. Paul Anderson's breathy, effeminate vocals recall Tim Buckley
at times (their radical rearrangement of "Once I Was" from the Buckley
tribute album is included) and Nick Avery's drum taps are as unobtrusive as
Low's Mimi Parker, a band whose slower-than-an-iceberg sound Tram often
emulates.
Ocassionally, as on "Yes But For How Long" and
"This Sacred Day," Anderson comes perilously close to the castrated
squealings of the brothers Gibb and the heavily orchestrated flourishes
perpetrated upon "Giving Up" and "Social Disease" threaten
to drown the pleasant melodies in Belle & Sebastian histrionics.
Still, "Folk" is a "pretty"
instrumental, "Are You Satisfied" features a nice little trumpet solo
that emphasizes the drunken, smokey jazzbar ambience and "Light A Candle On
My Birthday," featuring a blistering violin solo by Fiona Brice reminded me
of Janis Ian's "Lullabye" off her Aftertones LP. This
instrumental cries out for a Claire Tory-type ariatic explosion. This might be a
tad slow for some listeners and "He Walks Alone" and "Underneath
the Ceiling" are throwaway nonstarters, but overall this is generally as
helpful and ocassionally, more so than any "FAQ" you'll find on your
favorite website.
Australian imprint Camera Obscura continues it's latest
series of reissues with this full length by Italy's UMMS, which combines their
previous two CDr EPs and takes its title from the latter (hence its inclusion in
this section). The trio (guitar/bass/drums) make pleasant enough instrumental
music, alighting somewhere in the middle of Morricone's rockier sound track
efforts and Tortoise's post-jazz improvs with a little Godspeed You Black
Emperor and Mogwai tossed in to keep things interesting. Fans of 80s great,
Felt, may also find a track or three to their liking – their short
instrumental LP Let The Snakes Crinkle Their Heads To Death is another
point of reference.
Unfortunately, with all these precursors and an overabundance of similar bands currently mining the same bedrock (e.g., Tarentel, Sea & Cake, Joan of Arc, etc., etc., etc., etc.,), Soundproof's interest lay more in hearing an Italian band play American "post rock", a miserable subgenre I thought we abandoned years ago than in any inherent originality. I guess the rumours are true that it takes about three or four years for American/British trends to reach the continent. And this alarming "trend" is something I hope will end right here. Now if we can also be done with those horrible Olivia Tremor Control/Neutral Milk Hotel copycats…. One of Camera Obscura's rare disappointments.
Back in 1963, Chris Marker used a series of still images
to relate a story of nuclear holocaust through the lens of one of its survivors.
Entitled La Jetee, it was the basis for Terry Gilliam's 12 Monkeys and
remains a seminal work in the examination of photographs as memory. While not as
revolutionary in its execution, this co-release from Wisconsin's Keyhole Records
and British music journal Ptolemaic Terrascope (eight trax in under half
an hour recorded direct to four-track over an eight day period – a sort of
"eight days of Weeks," if you will) does take a musical approach to
the same concept and manages to cram more heartache and despair into one
listening experience than almost everything else this side of Nick Drake's Fruit
Tree box set. New York singer/songwriter Weeks wrote each of these 2-3
minute "musical photographs" to encapsulate an entire relationship,
freeze-framing everything down to that ultimate moment of decision: "where
do we go from here?" We've all been there before – that point where we
ask each other, "do we get married or do we go our separate ways?"
Like a sad lover paging through an old photo album of the ones that got away,
Weeks leads us through a litany of loss and loneliness.
This journey through the past employs time honored
metaphors of getting swallowed up in the undertow and swimming upstream,
fighting the rapids ("When Galaxies Collide" and "Deeper
Waters") and revisits previous musical attempts to unravel the dark night
of the soul ("dripping diamonds from your pillow to mine" from
"Front To Back" recalls "Tears on my Pillow" while
"your clothes and your records and your guitar, too, are the only things
proving that we were once two" ("Duress") bring to mind similar
sentiments expressed in The Psychedelic Furs "All of This and Nothing"
and Smog's "All Your Woman Things.") Even the title, Bleecker
Station, a brilliant little pun signifying both a state of mind and the
subway stop in Manhattan's Greenwich Village where Weeks lives serves to remind
us how fleeting romance can be and how a chance meeting on a subway platform can
lead to so much more.
These, then, are Weeks' "stations of the cross" he has to bear as he sits broken-hearted and alone, wondering where everything went wrong. "One in Ten," with its images of abortion, vampirism and murder and "Down A Dark Corridor" which alludes to Aids ("They have fed us tiny coffins…," "our sharp wits could kill us…," "their pills…in this sickly place…[are] making me ill….") round out the gamut of the consequences of relationships at the start of the 21st century. All of this morose imagery is housed in beautiful, sparse Drake-ish arrangements, Weeks' voice quavering almost to the point of breaking under the strain of responsibility for his predicament. If you subscribe to the philosophy that "it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all," buy this disk, break out the old photo albums and commiserate with Weeks. Misery DOES love company.
Another album whose listening pleadsure is enhanced by
its artwork is Consciousness, Windy & Carl's long-awaited follow up
to 1998s 2xLP Depths, also from Kranky. The couple continue to mine the
ambient soundscapes begun by Eno how many years ago now(?) with a series of
relaxing drones that explore the many sonic tonalities Carl wrings from his
guitar. As with fellow astral travellers Stars of the Lid and Azusa Plane, it's
impossible to tell these sounds are emanating from a six string. Like floating
underwater in a sensory deprivation tank or soaring amongst the clouds in a
hyperbolic chamber, these repetative drone loops take on a life of their own as
the listener gets deeper into each track. Caution is advised to novitiates, as
these textures will slowly assume control of your central nervous system and
you'll find your breathing mechanism rendered helpless about halfway through
"Balance (Trembling)" as the sound of approaching helicopters
permeates the room. This effect is especially frightening on a sense-around home
theatre sound system. By the time you touch down after "Elevation" at
the send of side one you're well advised to check your pulse for signs of life.
Side two begins with one of Windy's rare vocal
performances on "The Llamas Dream," but, as always, voice is just
another instrument on a Windy & Carl record and if there is a retelling of
the "dream," it's indecipherable. Wendy once again steps up to the mic
on the lengthy title track, a more conventionally strummed, mellow guitar effort
that even my 12 year old was humming along to. Its soothing effect on
grandparents and newborns alike can not be overestimated: this is an album for
all ages to enjoy, whether staring at the cover art (a hypnotic, concentric
circle with mirrored credits in vibrant day-glo colors that seem to jump off the
sleeve), relaxing with your favorite beverage or illicit substance, or just
reintroducing yourself to a loved one.
On their third [and what, sadly, would turn out to be
their last] release, Kent, Ohio’s Witch Hazel Sound continue the tradition of
intricately arranged, pop mini-symphonies that owe much to the genius of Brian
Wilson, Van Dyke Parks, Jimmy Webb and
Curt Boettcher, drawing heavily from the back catalogues of such sound
technicians as Love and The Byrds. The core trio of multi-talented
composer/producer/arranger/guitarist/keyboardist Kevin Coral, bassist Mike Split
and vocalist Mark F. are joined by new drummer Craig Lisik and full-time horn
player Jason Richardson to create an album steeped in the history of 60s pure
pop. Coral himself admits that this album has a “feel” of some of his
favorite releases from 1968, including The Notorious Byrd Brothers and
the Beach Boys’ Friends and Wild Honey, to which I would hastily
add Love’s Forever Changes, Orpheus’ eponymous debut and Buffalo
Springfield’s second album, Again. The point is that established
artists had taken chances to try something new, to head down the (musical) road
less travelled, if you will, to see where their whims and imaginations would
lead them. Coral, a musicologist and student of “serious” pop music (think
Association, Beau Brummels and Left Banke), has fashioned an album full of
sublime, carefully orchestrated and impeccably sequenced “moments”, that
collectively, harken back to the days of cruising around with the top down and
the AM radio blaring into the wide open spaces around you.
The opener, “Music Becomes Vibration” builds upon a
Spectrum-like Moog fuzz, swirling around Richardson’s catchy trumpet blasts
and Mark’s lighter-than-air vocals. “2 or 3 Things I Know About Her”, (a
great Godard film, and one of several, somewhat oblique film references in the
album’s song titles) comes across like Luna with strings, with Mark adding a
bit of a twang to his voice and coming up with a pretty spot-on Wareham
imitation.
“Providence”, a Richardson solo performance on organ
and vibraphone is the first of several instrumental interludes that keeps the
record from floating off to some faraway place on a cumulous cloud of cotton
candy. “Blue City” has a melancholic, late-night romantic vibe that tugs at
the heartstrings and a violin coda that had me expecting a visit from the
Witchita Lineman. Elsewhere, “Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye” and “Halo of Brass”
combine Mantovani and Bacharach with some of the more recent orchestral stylings
of Olivia Tremor Control, Neutral Milk Hotel and the High Llamas. With the
former two apparently extant and head Llama, Sean O’Hagan concentrating on the
greener pastures of Stereolab, Witch Hazel Sound is poised at the forefront of
this style of pure pop for now people, bridging the 6Ts and the 2Ms with music
that’s fun to listen to and brings back memories of simpler times, when AM
radio was king and the walls were alive with the sounds of Kasey Kasem’s
American Top 40 and Dick Clark’s American Bandstand. Forget that alt.country,
no-depression crap; this is where America’s true musical roots lie. As the
late Joey Ramone once asked, “Do you remember rock and roll radio?” Kevin
Coral and The Witch Hazel Sound do, and This World, Then The Fireworks...
is a valentine to all who have sailed before them. Come along and join them for
a musical journey through the times of your life....
The following led
off my November set of reviews. I’m repeating it here for posterity.
It's now been a month since the events of 911 shattered our world forever. America's first (and, hopefully, last) war in the 21st century sent me scavenging through my record collection to find solace in the music we made during our last war over three decades ago. This one seems more popular than Viet Nam in that most people have accepted the fact that we must defend ourselves and help the world rid itself of the nemesis of terrorism. We are united in this fight and, unlike Viet Nam, I don't hear many people screaming about an "unjust war", accepting for the moment that ANY war SHOULD BE "unjust." Unfortunately, as my father-in-law used to tell me, "some people are just 'shit' and need to be dealt with accordingly." As I look in my teenaged daughter's eyes, I see vestiges of myself at her age when Viet Nam was going on. Like her, I was pretty oblivious to what was going on – dealing with hatred, violence and death is just something a teenager doesn't have on the dance card of realities to deal with on a daily basis: the opposite sex, puberty and acne seem to take a front seat to this stuff. Also, music. Like my daughter, I was just entering teenagerhood and discovering and buying music for the first time back in the early 70s. The old adage about music soothing the savage breast seems to hold true today, so let's get back to our "normal" lives and review some of the latest releases that are giving me pleasure (and sometimes pain) during these dark days.