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Field recordist Jana Winderen’s latest finds her indulging her long-standing passion for capturing the sounds of hidden environments yet again, this time in and around the Barents Sea region of the Arctic Ocean. Using an array of specialized microphones and a great deal of editing, she has woven the resultant decontextualized sounds into an immersive suite of frozen and mysterious desolation.
Energy Field is the sort of album that only a very specific type of person could have made and Jana Winderen is a very specific type of person: an artist living in Norway with a background in both science and fish ecology.Appropriately, it is also the sort of album that only a very specific type of person will enjoy, as it is composed purely of field recordings with no conventionally music elements.Also, its complexity can only be fully appreciated with headphones.
Despite the superficially limited scope of Winderen’s recording trips, she managed to accumulate quite a wide palette of sounds to work with. Aside from the deep undersea rumbles and hums that she was able to capture with hydrophones, Jana also spent some time harvesting sonic raw material from glacier crevasses, fjords, and various terrestrial areas of Greenland and Norway.As such, the three lengthy works collected here incorporate a number of disparate textures: howling winds, pleasantly burbling streams, breaking waves, crashes of thunder, chirping birds, yowling dogs, hungry and/or horny fish, cracking and straining sheets of ice, and a host of other sounds that are not readily identifiable.
The degree to which Winderen has tweaked the recordings is not entirely clear.Obviously, she cleaned them up a bit and combined them in strange and unexpected ways, but they still basically sound recognizable (although I regrettably cannot identify exactly what a crustacean sounds like).At times, some sounds seem to reverberate or echo cavernously in a way that suggests studio enhancement, but it is entirely possible that such resonance is natural.
The emphasis here is, unsurprising, quite firmly centered on process, concept, and the simple wonder of unearthing previously unheard sounds.Nevertheless, Jana does an admirable job of shaping her material into a listenable and quasi-musical arc.For example, there are distinct crescendos of deep multi-tracked bubbling and roaring waves, ominous passages of deep underwater drones, pleasant stretches of placid rippling, and shimmering beds of eerie oscillation and dissonance.It is an oft-mesmerizing soundworld to get drawn into- at its best, Energy Field is able to convey something far larger than any traditional musician could have: the disturbing enormity of the world that we never see.
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For their Thrill Jockey debut, this Baltimore three-piece continue to hone their signature electro-pop to new levels of clarity and focus. While looking to ‘80s synthesizer bands like OMD for inspiration is certainly a pretty common occurrence these days, Future Islands manage to make those familiar sounds seem fresh, muscular, and invigorating by departing from the blueprint in some inspired ways.
In Evening Air is likely to be most peoples' first exposure to Future Islands, but they have actually been steadily releasing material in one incarnation or another since 2003 (when they were known as Art Lord & the Self-Portraits).All those years toiling beneath the radar were clearly well-spent though, as the band’s frequent touring with fellow Wham City collective folks like Dan Deacon seems to have chiseled their songs down to their punchy essence and garnered them quite a following (the vinyl version of this album sold out with impressive speed).
Future Islands have only been a trio since 2007, but it is difficult to imagine them any other way, as the three members complement each other so perfectly that there doesn’t seem to be room for anyone else.The core elements of the band’s sound are J. Gerritt Welmers’ lush synth hooks and propulsive drum machine beats, but it is the other two members that elevate the music to something significantly more than skillfully rendered synthpop revivalism.I don’t tend to notice bass players very often in rock music, but the pared-down minimalism of Future Islands' sound pushes William Cashion’s punky strumming very much to the fore for dramatic effect.Welmers certainly does a great job crafting memorable melodies and bouncy songs, but their impact would be much blunted without Cashion’s throbbing and energetic low-end contribution.In fact, some songs ("Long Flight," for example) would still hold up beautifully even if the keyboards were removed entirely.
Front man Samuel T. Herring, however, is what truly sets the band apart from their peers.On record, his vocals are an endearingly soulful croak that imbues the songs with a ragged emotional resonance.That said, it was not until I watched a few videos and live performances that I began to fully appreciate him: he is so theatrically manic that it's like watching a Jack Black skit, but Herring isn’t joking.Or maybe he is, as the charmingly low-budget surrealism of the band’s early videos betrays an excellent sense of humor.Regardless of whether his exaggerated mannerisms are intentionally comic or not, he is undeniably fun to watch and very difficult to look away from.A singer that positively oozes charisma and heart provides the ideal foil for Welmers’ songcraft and melodic sense and Cashion’s general ballsiness.Future Islands have achieved that most elusive of qualities: excellent chemistry (coupled with the self-awareness needed to make the most of it).
In Evening Air is not quite a flawless album, as Herring sometimes errs a bit too much towards hamminess for my taste (particularly on "Tin Man").Also, the band can be a bit blunt in displaying their influences at times, most notably on "Walking Through That Door" (a forgivable crime though, since it is a great song).Nevertheless, the bulk of the songs are so catchy, well-constructed, and exuberant that I can’t help but fully embrace the album anyway (especially "An Apology").
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This cassette is the debut solo release from Andrew Fogarty (also of Boys of Summer and Toymonger) and it builds on the same dreamy electronic textures as his other projects. Caught somewhere between '80s sci-fi soundtracks, sound effects, and drifting electronics, the music on this EP is a shimmering blend of styles and sounds.
 
The two pieces on the cassette both investigate the variety of tones that can be wrought from analogue synthesizers. The bubbling and racing sounds Fogarty extracts from his synths on side A gives a feeling of traveling at speed through a kaleidoscope. Some of Fogarty’s style is instantly recognizable from his work in Boys of Summer but he expands his palette significantly throughout this and the subsequent piece. Ray guns, radiation, tractor beams, force fields and teleporters: these are the kind of images that come to mind listening to Dinosaur.
Side B is an altogether warmer piece as dozens of balmy loops and layered melodies compete with each other; the mix boiling like a primordial soup during a storm. Suddenly the chaos gives way to a wet, pulsing noise which steadily increases in its intensity. The piece eventually returns to a similar kind of kosmische-influenced sound-scape like on side A.
While Dinosaur does not shift Boys of Summer from the top of my favorite Fogarty-related projects, it does pack enough punch to be a serious contender. Both sides of the tape show enough variation and tonal development to place Reptile Brain beyond the categorization of simple noise. There is more in common here with music from the BBC’s Radiophonic Workshop than with the contemporary noise scene; granted this is not that unusual but Fogarty does it with a lot of class.
 
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Kevin Ayers may yet get his due. His influence on British psychedelia and the avant-garde school of glam rock are pretty obvious. Equally, Brian Eno's first solo records (the pre-ambient period beginning with Here Come The Warm Jets) owe as much of a debt to Kevin Ayers as they do to the Velvets. Older music lovers won't need to take my word for it, though, as they will fondly recall the 1974 concert and album Ayers did with Cale, Nico, & Eno (ACNE).
A late harvest is in bloom for Ayers with this release, as well as the 4 CD set Songs For Insane Times 1969-1980 (including an unreleased 1973 London concert) and his rapturously received new album Unfairground (made with fans from Neutral Milk Hotel and Teenage Fan Club, Bill Wells, Bridget St. John, Phil Manzanera and others). Ayers best work is a dance between his joyful talent and his lack of killer instinct. His concerns tend to be women, wine, and philosophy (not necessarily in that order).
Fellow former commune dweller G.F. Fitz-Gerald has hung on to these discarded tapes for more than 30 years. The sections where Ayers is laying out both simple and complex demos and specifying what will go where, who will be doing it and what it will sound like are fascinating. Hearing Ayers singing again reminds me of the contrast between his voice and that of his fellow Soft Machinist, Robert Wyatt. Wyatt's cracked, yearning voice can sound beautiful but always seemed like a strain. Ayers sounds like a man permanently on holiday and his resonant tone slides around as rich and easy as rum spilled on a glass table. His guitar playing is underrated, too, as shown on the playful and fuzzy instrumental track "Crystal Clear."
While What More Can I Say is probably destined to be known as a footnote to Ayers' work it is quite fascinating and very much more than scraping the barrel. It harks back to a time when he was almost something of an It-Kid, what with his joy of punning, his easy talent, his posh other-ness, his languid baritone croon, and his dreamy blond looks. It could all have turned out differently, and yet may. What has turned out is that he never had a star's ego or an inheritance. Marvelously, even now his photos exude the style of a bloke who used to hang out with Bardot and Deneuve but with whom it would probably be a rare pleasure to spend time sharing intoxicants; the least of which would not be his music.
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Obsessed with Lovecraft, ritual and recreating the atmospheres of an underground temple, it is easy to see how Moss arrived at their musical aesthetic. After the eerie Hammond organ, barely audible vocals and distant percussion of “Ritus” provide an unearthly start to the album, the ground opens up with a swell of guitar and swallows the victim whole. The drums and vocals both sound like they are coming from a chasm deep within the earth, the howls of a beshrouded priest and the percussive rhythms of the ceremony he is performing.
Listening to this album during the day is a futile endeavour, Sub Templum is all about context. Sitting down at night with the detailed sleeves in your hands and turning the volume up is the only way to do it. The arcane symbols and darkly psychedelic imagery of the sleeve make this less of an album and more of a grimoire. It would not surprise me if you could conjure up some foul demon by knowing the right gestures at the right points of the music. The three piece suite “Gate III: Devils from the Outer Dark” which takes up the second half of the album is how imagine such a moment would sound like, only in reality I doubt it would be as frightening.
Most of the descriptions and reviews of Moss I read treat them as just another doom band and while they are indeed as doom as fuck, they have made an album that manages to transcend the doom genre that spawned the band. Sub Templum is a dizzying and upsetting sonic journey that just happens to have massive riffs. There is a lot going on between the grooves and it is not all just Sabbath worship. Since their debut, they have sculpted their blackened sound away from genre clichés and have managed to develop a unique sound that on the surface is metal but this only hides in its depths a portal to a weird and foreboding dimension.
This review was made from the vinyl version of the album so unfortunately no mp3 samples.
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The ten tracks that comprise Unitxt do not deviate dramatically from one another, at least in the instrumentation used: all tend to be based around the requisite beeps, clicks and digital errors stapled on a framework of conventional 120bpm electronics. The actual dynamics of the pieces do vary notably, however. While the actual etiology of the sounds is not made clear, the presentation of 15 tracks named after various computer programs at the end leads me to believe the overall sound comes from opening data in sound editing software. I assume elements of the buzzes, blips, and screeches that were created were then carefully molded and shaped into the glitchy techno that comprises the album.
Tracks such as “u_06” and “u_04” both glide on microsonic clicks and pulses shaped into rhythms, the former featuring an obvious, but fractured and obtuse rhythm, and the latter propelled by a monotone digital click drum and a backing of what could be ancient modem connect tones sequenced to be almost synth-like. “u_08” and “u_09-1-2” also follow along with this more conventional techno structure, though the latter encroaches into more harsh territory with a build up of white noise covering the more rhythmic spots.
These noiser leanings are more apparent on “u_08-1” and “u_03”, both of which move along with clunky distortion-laden sounds that could be described as the sound of a dying hard drive or a malfunctioning sound card. The album as a whole begins to become more and more chaotic towards the end: the extreme high and low end frequencies of “u-05” are reminiscent, dynamically at least, of an abstract techno take on PIL’s Metal Box, while the closing “u-09-0” has even more noisy outbursts and textures mixed with pastiches of utter silence.
A few of the tracks feature spoken word elements by French poet Anne-James Chaton, which contrast the inorganic nature of the music very well. The opening “u_07” is perhaps the most conventional “techno” piece on here, and it’s frail, thin sound is nicely contrasted by the monotone reading by Chaton of the contents of Nicolai’s wallet. The other tracks with vocals are not quite as memorable, but the voice does inject a nice human counterpoint to the otherwise purely digital world.
I don’t think anyone would expect a Raster-Noton release to be a hit at the clubs, and this one is no different. However, as a clinical, glitchy disc that for all its abstraction, remains a tightly structured rhythmic work. It is an engaging set of sounds that functions well both in the headphone meditative listening as well as bowel shaking loud volumes that give a more visceral experience.
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Sonically based around dueling saxophones and underpinned by dark, heavily reverbed guitar ambience, Schwarzhagel is an extremely dark, tense listening experience. The short opening track of black, reverb drenched ambience and violent guitar string bends serves as a more than adequate prelude to the pummeling that awaits.
The second, longer piece begins similarly with wobbling pitch guitar and carefully controlled feedback that swells and sustains violently, but never feels unnecessary or unfocused. However, once the saxophones enter, the bleakness is replaced with pure violence. Tham Kar Mun and Yandsen both manage to produce the most tortured, pained shrieks from their instruments that rivals anything Peter Brotzmann or John Zorn has done similar in sheer brutality. Unrelenting, the guttural screams continue, occasionally dropping off into a death rattle just to come back strong. Finally, the horns retreat and the piece retreats into the calmer darkness of the guitar that opened it.
The third long track is more focused on noise laden guitar riffs that are punctuated by subtler, but still uncomfortable horn blasts. The guitar grows noiser and noiser until the latter half where it erupts into pure unhinged noise that could have been the work of Hijokaidan or Solmania for utter guitar raucousness. Throughout this piece, however, there is a greater variety of dynamics taking place. While the former piece was one unending blast, this one allows for some breathing room in the first half, with the volume and density of sound swelling and then retreating, allowing for more tension and less pure chaos.
Ending with another short track, the album closes is a much more softer manner than it opened, chiming, crystalline guitar tones shine through the mist of reverb, and the piercing feedback swells stay carefully under control. As a whole, it’s an interesting take on what is usually just considered free jazz. Even with the sonic parallels to the FMP label and other such camps, Klangmutationen retains a darker, more sinister quality that was never quite as apparent in other similar works.
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Having already reviewed the Daturas' Dead in the Woods CD a short while ago, I was anticipating a sustained barrage of raw granitic blockiness and in that respect I wasn’t to be disappointed. Despite that, their sixteen and a half minute slice of doom, “Golden Tusk the Endearing,” left me somewhat unconvinced. All the right ingredients are there: slow-moving tectonic plates of gravelly guitar, interrupted by splintering, sharp flinty shards as fault-lines shift and break, along with the protesting squeal of feedback, with the whole culminating in cyclopean seismic ruptures in its fabric. Yet, there is still something missing. Compared to the previous album, this one seems to wallow in a sludgy one-dimensional pit of its own making, and just self-indulgently stays there. It never really appears to elevate itself beyond that, determinedly staying in the lower registers without attempting to inject a measure of personality or dimensionality into it, which I found massively disappointing. I got the impression that it was too self-limiting and unwilling to break bounds, preferring instead to root around in the mud and muck, simply for its own sake.
Monarch follows a similar path, equally subterranean and equally monolithic in execution, on their somehow appropriately titled “Rapture.” The difference here though is there is palpable heat and electricity being generated as the geological processes stack up in coiled-spring tension, releasing energy in tectonic spasms of high Richter-scale detonations. Utilising the same dirty filth-inflected instrumentation of granular guitar explosions and feedback, but this time augmented with the behemothic percussion of Stephane and the hellishly demonic vocals of Eurogirl (aka Emilie), “Rapture” dives and plunges into the lightless Stygian depths. Apart from any other consideration this adds the multi-dimensional layering missing from the Grey Datura’s entry. Miasmatically black swirls of noxious, asphyxiating essence clog the senses, enveloping and suffocating. Knife-sharp feedback and chainsaw guitar slice through, wielded by unseen hands, cutting and dicing with malign abandon. A genderless angelic voice rises from the airless gloom, enticing and pleading, until all pretence is dropped and its true demonic nature is finally revealed. One feels the weight of both the subterranean gloom and the mass of rock above. Oppression and dread take on a physical form here, cowing and buffeting the soul mercilessly.
I was more than a bit disappointed with the Grey Datura side, but it was more than redeemed by Monarch’s effort. Compared to it, “Golden Tusk the Endearing” lacked any energy or drive, remaining nothing but monochrome in the process. In contrast, Monarch ignited their engines, stuck them on full throttle and just let go. Consequently it felt like whole landmasses were moved and crushed, and mountains crumbled. Sadly though, the Grey Daturas never managed to emerge from their little pit.
Samples:
- Grey Daturas - Golden Tusk the Endearing
- Monarch - Rapture excerpt 1
- Monarch - Rapture excerpt 2
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Die Stadt
What brought these two (rather these three—a trio again!) back for asecond take at the arch abstraction that has protected their careersfrom scrutiny thus far can only be guessed at, left unanswered orforgotten by those with the courage and the will captivated enough tostretch prone across these two discs, these vast hollow spaces. I havenever been to space, but I’ve been trapped in the funnel of a bedroom’srestless blanket-mess enough times, absent and terrified, alone in asearch for clues that might be miniature parts of myself, to know wherethis is coming from.
“Post-technoid” this is not; switch on the lightand you might see it evaporate, petrify in sepia, graft onto an inch ofwallpaper. Here is glitch as the subtle-supreme counterpoint to anotherfragment of McKenzie’s masterpiece of micro-strata exposed. Glitch asdistinct and spare as Autechre can make it, set, as if upon silkenpaper, as if in an ancient dressing, with proportions easily projectedbut also perfectly, so very regularly, aligned.
It's funny how logic cantrip such a wide hole. Autechre, the neat sutures to the Hafler game ofplaying sweet orchestra for those deeply paranoid. Droning, descending,solemn innerspaces get ruptured, even painfully, but never without anhonest recoil, to the oceanic calm that is more reticence thanacceptance, a cold glow across distances whose shortness is beyondmeasure. No beats save that heart-click, the slow break of a bodyturning in on itself, the thuum-ph of an eyelid that has only to riseon things changed in their own deceptive degrees.
I have fallen asleepin these silences (there are many), only to be awoken by the swingingof latches and humming and swirling of machines in warm-up, again, forme. (He has awoken; he will not quit us; he has visioned the walls ofthis room in their true dissolve; he can see again) No rust, nothinghangs, nothing weeps or weezes and everything moves with a purpose thatis the only the assertion of its own maintenance. I cannot be astranger traveling through, all is part of and one with; I have willednothing but exist on the obliterating fringe of every new noise.
Haflerdrones forward and around, Autechre finds, binds, and questions, whatcan stifle and disprove this atmosphere, which details can push thisdrift into harrowing reverse? The answer is none, and the answer ispart of a continued method of questioning bent on perpetual negationand discovery.
I am at a loss to describe this painful union of forces.
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Like any artist that is this intentionally outlandish and exaggerated,Peaches runs the risk of alienating the critics and audience who onceembraced her. Even I am not entirely certain how much of my fondnessfor her music is attributable to the camp novelty image she cultivatesand how much is actually based on the quality of the music itself. Thechunky, minimal Roland 505 beats and breathy sex-raps that dominated The Teaches of Peacheswere certainly unique, but upon repeated spins the joke wore a littlethin. Peaches makes a bid for continued cult success with herinsolently titled self-produced sophomore album Fatherfucker.The title operates as a provocatively obscene backlash against thefrequent use of the derogatory 'motherfucker' in hip-hop music. The newsongs expand the sound palettea little, trying to embellish the stark asceticism of the first album,but for the most part they retain the energy and brazen sex appeal. Thebrief onslaught of "I Don't Give a?" opens the album, based around alooped sample lifted from Joan Jett's "Bad Reputation," with Peachesrepeatedly assuring us "I don't give a fuck!/I don't give a shit!"Peaches gets back into familiar territory with the sexy, minimalelectro of "I'm The Kinda" spouting off goofy self-aggrandizing lyrics:"I'm the kinda bitch that you wanna get with/Sodom and Gomorrha/Todayand tomorrow". Several of the shortertracks emulate the dumbed-down Detroit sound of Adult., serving aslargely forgettable filler. "Kick It" features a much-vauntedcollaboration with proto-punk legend Iggy Pop, who returns the favorfor Peaches' involvement with his recent Skull Ring album. Themost surprising revelation listening to this trackis that Peaches somehow manages to upstage the venerable Mr. Pop,joyously stomping all over his vocals with repeated howls of "Tear itup/Rip it up/Kick it up.""Shake Yer Dix" is this album's bubblegum anthem, a splendidly idioticcall to arms, or in this case, a call to gonads. "Stuff Me Up" is afavorite of Peaches' recent live shows, a creepy micro-electro trackfeaturing labelmate Taylor Savvy, that contains one of her dirtiestlyrical double-entendres. "Rock n' Roll" utilizes an actual three-piecepunk group for an anarchistic Stooges-style bachannalia. Perhaps Fatherfuckeris just another spoke in her menstrual cycle, and for many the noveltymay have already worn off, but Peaches has created another awesomelylewd platter for all of the like-minded, skittle-diddling perverts thatmake up her peculiar demographic.
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Dreams never end. Savage freedom time has begun in avenues all linedwith trees. Times have been strange. Do you hear her enlightenedlaughter? Another reason to cut off an ear? Maybe not. Blixa Bargeldmused upon beauty in the night sky over Berlin, but decided that noarms would ever be able to stretch wide enough to form an adequategesture to capture beauty. Beauty, he decided, remained in theimpossibilities of the body. Rachel's music is a music of such heavenlybeauty they must be tapped into something primal, way deeper than merechord charts and floating tailed black dots on lines. Their logoincludes a crescent moon emblem, recalling a darkness before dawn or asweet scented flower just beginning to bloom. Jason Noble used to playguitar and holler for those monster bird rockers Rodan, who weresacrificed on the alt-rock altar a little too early. Maybe he cut outthe noble heart of the beast and transported it into a rotating chamberensemble in perfect harmony. He was definitely running on the same lineas me at Shellac's All Tomorrow's Parties. Rachel's enchanted and transfixed that weekend, but Systems / Layers is even more gorgeous than that singular performance suggested. Their last album Significant Otherswas a rare bird - the only time I ever saw it was that weekend. They'vetaken some of the minimal play from that and put it into a moreluscious frame, guilded by a theatrical group called SITI. Rachel'spulled an improvising system known as "The Viewpoint" into their orbitand they seem to have caught a glimpse of the music of the spheres.Rachel's discovered a lot, learning new ways of creating andcommunicating. Singer Shannon Wright helped significantly, singing sucha quietly lost yet deeply hopeful song as ever there was. Peel thelayers of an onion and tears run down, but there are no tears as theleaves of a lettuce fall and cover routine systems of dreary urbanlife, and as they rot let roses and chrysanthemums bloom throughcracked concrete. Rachel's transports me to emerald woodland glades ina primitive dream where words are no longer necessary. There is so muchwarmth and compassion in Rachel's music it could burn away all theimpurity in the blackest heart. To describe this music in the way of aregular review would debase it and spoil it's magic. Then the songbecame alive - so glorious!
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