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Several of Fay’s songs on the Piano, Guitar, Bass & Drums 1970-71 disc were either on his lushly orchestrated debut Bill Fay, or the more stripped down follow up Time of The Last Persecution. The album is made up of tapes found in various locations and approved for release by musicians who obviously had a tight bond. That trust in each other enabled them to keep the music simple. So the sweet, ticking drums, the scattered piano notes, and unfussy bass all make for a perfect unhurried atmosphere in which Fay’s unusual voice flourishes. Additionally, Ray Russell’s wildly brilliant guitar playing adds a barnstorming edge to some of these lovely and deeply personal songs.
At some point Bill Fay must have acquired some conviction that life on Earth would eventually be interrupted by the intervention of a higher spiritual power; an intervention prophesied to fix the folly and misguided actions of humans that had wrought widespread war, false idols and misery. His images interpret the book of Revelation yet he conveys a gentle vulnerability and humanity which make apocalypse and salvation all sound rather comforting. That he also sings of not kneeling in "dead cathedrals" and complains of a spire "that blocks out the sky" is rather appealing. The versions of “Plan D” and “Pictures of Adolph Again” are love songs to the joy of existence albeit with a backdrop of horror and delusion. I hate to compare Fay to anyone else, but the warmth generated by his voice and Russell’s guitar on “I Hear You Calling” put me in mind of the late Ronnie Lane at his most soulful. Fay’s genuinely touching love of nature, his appreciation of his landscape of origin, and his love for his family both balances and compliments his other concerns. His honesty is unmistakable since he obviously sings about his own back yard. I also can’t think of another songwriter who mentions trees quite as often and treats the minutiae of everyday life—door keys, dustbins, your team losing, old school friends who have passed away—with such a matter-of-fact reverence.
I have never heard anyone sing or tell stories quite like Bill Fay. His phrasing and dialect are, if not unique, then certainly unusual, and his lyrics are disarmingly direct. It’s as if a character from Adam Thorpe’s odd rural epic Ulverton has come to life and is regaling us with history, observations of nature, and heavy portent. There is a consistently humble quality to Fay’s voice and yet it manages to be mesmerizing. I say humble, but when he speaks the words to “I Will Find My Own Way Home” he seems to be acknowledging failings (perhaps a crisis of faith) but sounds as determined and cocksure as if he were auditioning for the role of Brian Clough in The Damned United.
The second disc, Still Some Light, is lighter and several of the tracks seem a bit over-sentimental at first. Maybe they are, but what emerges is Fay’s loyalty to his natural mode of expression. For example, “Hello Old Tree” is enveloped in the feeling of returning again and again for reverie to a favorite spot in his landscape. That song makes me think of John Cooper Powys’ notion that all of creation, including trees and stones, has a soul. Equally, the song “Diamond Studied Days” revels unashamedly in a strong feeling of grateful nostalgia that mirrors its topic: the love Fay’s parents gave him as a child. He merges several of his main themes, nature, peace and spiritual redemption, on the hymn-like track "There Is A Valley". His singing (of his own words) on “My Eyes Open” defies the truth that they were written quite separately for Michael Cashmore's originally unrelated music, so good is the match. Like most of the second disc, the piece is quiet and lush. By contrast, “I Wonder,” the final track written by John Fay, has a pleasantly rough production and a ragged acoustic edge that some might associate with Syd Barrett.
Fay's brother did the cover and booklet paintings and there are some completely natural looking photographs of Bill Fay and his close family in which he seems happy and contented and his hair looks like it hasn't been combed maybe since his mother tried to do it when he was a schoolboy! In the booklet he writes one of the longest thank you letters I've ever read. With almost forty years betwen these recordings the over-riding feeling is that there's no pretense and, depite some of the grand concerns, no preaching. I find some of the songs less successful than others but mainly enjoy the lovely imperfections of these marvelous demos and home recordings. This is the sound of someone recognizing danger and fears, but hoping and trusting for the best. Bill Fay’s proceeds from this album will go to “the major charities active in the poorest places of the world.” Including, I believe, Doctors Without Borders/Médecins Sans Frontières.
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Red House Painters (I) has been one of my favorite albums for ages, but it is by no means a flawless work—far from it, in fact. It can be overly melodramatic and solipsistic at times and has a sprawling and somewhat overwhelming running time. It doesn’t matter though, as Mark Kozelek’s appeal lies in his warmth, honesty, and humanity. He is inconsistent, but when he connects, he does it on a deep and meaningful personal level. He connects quite often on this modest affair—in fact, much more so than on his next couple of “serious” albums. This release certainly lacks coherence and polish, but it has an uncharacteristically unfussed-over intimacy and rawness to it that Mark had a hard-time recapturing. Also, this is a rare chance to hear the band indulge in some of their more outré impulses (they don’t usually work so well, but they are often intriguing to hear).
From the very beginning of “Evil,” it is immediately clear why these songs were orphaned—they don’t sound quite like other Red House Painters’ songs. Although it unexpectedly begins with Kozelek good-naturedly chuckling, “Evil” takes the already slow and melancholic RHP formula and pushes it into a darker, more skeletal, and still slower place. Despite initially centering solely upon Kozelek’s resonant vocals and some delicately picked acoustic arpeggios, it is instantly a very heavy song. The dark tone and the way that Mark slowly and deliberately draws out every single word imbues even somewhat innocuous phrases like “Mom and Dad, is it a boy or a girl?” with an uncomfortable menace. The lengthy spaces between notes and beats create a vacuum that makes every single nuance of the song seem important and fraught with mystery. Then, oddly, the second half of the song shifts gears into an experimental coda of wordlessly repeating and somewhat dissonant falsetto vocals. The next track, “Bubble,” is similarly sparse and glacial, but completely inverts the tone into a lushly melodic and bittersweetly autumnal love song that is one of the best things that Kozelek has ever penned. I love the impossibly slow drumming and beautiful, sleepily unfolding chord progression- the music is the perfect foil for Mark’s lovelorn lyrics, like falling leaves or snow.
It isn’t until the third song, a decent cover of Simon and Garfunkel’s “I Am A Rock,” that things become a bit more conventionally “rock”: chords are strummed, the drummer starts to play like he has emerged from the somnambulant trance of the first two songs, and there is a relatively normal pace and structure. After that, there is a brief return to extreme slow-motion (“Helicopter”) before the band picks up the pace again for two back-to-back classics. “New Jersey” reprises one of Red House Painters I’s best songs with the added inclusion of some unexpectedly enthusiastic drumming, resulting in one of the most warm, immediately gratifying, and catchy songs in RHP’s oeuvre. The deeply confessional and hauntingly powerful “Uncle Joe” follows it.
“Uncle Joe” is one of the most lyrically dark and overtly autobiographical works of Mark’s career, as it is peppered with phrases like “I’m looking at the ceiling with an awful feeling of loss and loneliness” and “the after late-night television pain…I’m running out of strength again.” Even so, it has an extremely strong melody and some subtle flashes of light and humor (“it was unintentional when I spit in your beer. I am over-influenced by movies”) that prevent Kozelek’s unfiltered catharsis from becoming oppressive or overly mopey. It is simply a great song: existential anguish is rarely this poppy and pop is rarely this dark.
Of course, being an out-takes collection of sorts, Red House Painters II can’t help but miss the mark a few times. Kozelek thoughtfully saves the failures for the end of the album though, so they’re easy to avoid. “Blindfold” is initially another pleasantly slumberous piece in the vein of “Helicopter,” but takes that song’s lengthy jamming outro and amplifies it into something quite awful. It goes on for over eight minutes and features some singularly bad primal metal howling for the final stretch (not something this band is generally associated with). The album then limps to an anticlimactic conclusion with a very brief, but very ill-conceived cover of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Still, the handful of great songs on this album is well-worth investigating. Kozelek certainly went on to release some wonderful and essential late-period albums (like Old Ramon and Ghosts of the Great Highway), but this is the most stripped-down and spacious representation of his darker, more bluntly emotional early period.
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Owing perhaps to their classical training, the album unfolds like a symphony. They really know how to wield tension: building it up and releasing it in bursts; soaring high and then laying fallow—but not utterly inactive—as the various strains of their playing resolve themselves. “The Night You Left New York” is their opening sonata. With a devastating pulse whipped out on the drum kit, a crunchy and melodic guitar hook courtesy of Stephen Griesgraber I am pulled right in. The two violins swirling around each other lift me off the ground and carry me upwards like dry leaves in the autumn wind. Colorful electronic treatments of the instruments become apparent towards the end.
“Cloud Cover” in two parts is a slow movement. Here they explore one of my favorite features in music for the last sixty or so years: the use of a radio as an instrument in and of itself. Scanning the airwaves for signs of life, bits of static and atmospheric scree merge with the lulling violin and organic electronics. What is most impressive about the electronic aspect of this group is the fact that Christopher Tignor, who is the lead violinist and songwriter, writes his own software used for the live processing of the other instruments. It doesn't take a genius to go out and buy or download a music program for the computer and get it to cough up some weird sounding garbage, but it does take serious dedication to write programs from scratch and coax them into producing the desired sounds. In this respect Slow Six are part of a tradition that stretches back to the academic composers who first explored the possibilities in music opened up by computers. There is however nothing dry, dusty, or doddering about what they do. The radio voices, now manipulated so as to be wondrously unintelligible, bleed into the next track, “Because Together We Resonate,” which steps the pace up a notch again. From here on out they don't let up. The tension aforementioned is again held in perfect balance, escalating and descending, only the ingress and regress happen swiftly now. The guitar and violins dance around each other, moving expertly as clockwork without sounding at all mechanical.
“These Rivers Between Us” executes the album flawlessly with a smooth, but upbeat, and heartfelt finish. It is an inspired anthem building and elaborating upon the themes first heard in the albums opener. Theo Metz again shows his mastery of the drums by laying down a spell-binding foundation, joined by the low toned melody Rob Collins plunks down on the rhodes. Over top of this the guitarist and two violinists ascend to heavenly heights. In just under an hour they have unraveled the yarn of their musical structures and not only weaved it back together again, but have layered in new designs. Tommorrow Becomes You is definite an early choice for what will be on my best of year list for 2010.
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The music has a lot in common with German synthesiser music from the '70s. Ghosts of Cluster and Kraftwerk pass through the compositions, eerily beautiful. “Suno Vidis” could easily have come from the recording sessions of Cluster’s Zuckerzeit, the dancing melodies and childlike wonder are satisfying to listen to. Lowe again and again captures the very essence of pure, simple and gorgeous music although in a different way from his work as Lichens (which for me always has a very open and investigative feeling to it).
However, it is not all about simple melodies: there are some amazing textures and sounds being created throughout Eclipses. The ending of “Crayon Gym” features some wonderful sounds where the music is being manipulated slowly, ending up somewhere between a cracking voice and the throb of a mighty machine. Elsewhere, computerised beeps and opaque sounds wash over the listener such as on the sublime “Ŭyndham-a Horloĝo.” Here Lowe conjures up the kind of music that would accompany science documentaries in the '60s and '70s, the frenetic electronic blips representing everything from evolution to cloud formation.
As for the actual collaborative part of the album, the LP’s sleeve folds out into a large double sided poster to show off Lowe and Lazar’s handiwork. I am not an art critic but I like the imagery which is a mixture of abstract shapes, rainbows and weather (the use of prisms, light and weather going well with my mental images of “Ŭyndham-a Horloĝo” described above). The youthful style of drawing matches up quite well with the music on the record.
Although Eclipses is currently only available on vinyl, it does come with a download voucher for MP3s which is always appreciated for those who must sometimes leave their turntable behind. However, the experience of listening to Eclipses on my iPod was far less satisfying than putting the LP on the turntable and unfolding the artwork to gaze at while I listened. Plus this is music that sounds best coming out of speakers rather than headphones, the rich sounds filling the room in a way that is lost when listening to it in your ears alone. Finally, it sounds great at either speed which is harder to replicate on my iPod.
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Little Annie and Paul Wallfisch
Genderful [CD]
Southern Records
£10.00
11 songs, 41 minutes. Second album from Little Annie aka Annie Anxiety aka Annie Bandez and her piano muse and composer Paul Wallfisch is comprised of of songs which shove a dagger through your heart while tickling your funny bone. Gorgeous digi-wallet with 12 page lyric booklet.
Here comes Genderful, Annie and Paul's new album that somehow manages to perfectly mix soul songs and chansons, bluesy saloon singing and European cabaret styling into a gorgeous, new amalgam. Dig the gentle groove and the sad strings of "Suitcase Full of Secrets", and the fluttering, art-house-cinema-soundtrack glamour of "Because You're Gone Song". "Regret", "Carried Away" and "In The Bar Womb" would make Jacques Brel and/or Serge Gainsbourg proud. "Zen Zexy Zage", "Cutesy Bootsies" and "Adrianna" are brilliant little three penny operas for this post-gentrification/monetary meltdown epoch. Then there are subtle epics like "Billy Martin's Requiem"- a tough, groovy bit of NYC-back-in-the-day-free-association that mixes the ill-fated Yankees manager, the post-punk scene and all the brilliant men lost to AIDS in one smart, seamless package, and "Tomorrow Will Be", a shimmering, resplendent prayer to life with Annie as a knowing urban/urbane/earth mother.
Genderful is sentiment without sentimentality, inspiration without bombast, a collection of songs thick with pain and wit and joy.
A perfect reflection of Annie herself....
See you on the other side of heartache.
Track listing
1. Tomorrow Will Be 6:42
2. Miss Annie Regrets 1:22
3. Suitcase Full Of Secrets 4:06
4. Billy Martin's Requiem 4:53
5. In The Bar Womb 1:59
6. Because You're Gone Song 2:17
7. Cutesy Bootsies 3:01
8. Zexy Zen Like Zage 4:34
9. Carried Away 2:23
10. God Song 4:52
11. Adrianna 5:30
Running time 41:35 total
Release date: March 2010
File under: Pop, Melodramatic Popular Song, Piano Lounge
For fans of: Edith Piaf, Serge Gainsbourg, Jacques Brel, Antony & The Johnsons, Eartha Kitt, The Tiger Lillies
You can preorder this release now. It will be available on Monday 05 April, 2010.
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artist: Henry Jacobs
title: Around The World With Henry Jacobs (produced by Jack Dangers, Alex Artaud, & Henry Jacobs)
catalog #: IMPREC054
release date: April 27, 2010
upc793447529929
format: double CD
Absurd folklorist Henry Jacobs returns with a selection of rare interviews, odd loops, sales pitches, early
synthesizer demos, an ether-infused evening, and more! Produced in San Francisco and New York City, Around The World With Henry Jacobs is a travelogue that continues the story begun with The Wide Weird World of Henry Jacobs, mixing archival material from the 1950s with recent improvisations by Jacobs. Guests include Stan Freberg and Dr. Irwin Corey, with Alan Watts returning for a visit, too.
Also included is special bonus disc — First Night, one of the true gems from the collection. Recorded in
February 1957 by Henry Jacobs on the opening night of the Poetry/Jazz Series at The Cellar in San Francisco, this unique document captures the first time Kenneth Rexroth and Lawrence Ferlinghetti read their poetry to jazz in this very intimate setting. In contrast to Fantasy Records' Poetry Readings in the Cellar, you feel yourself a part of the audience here, moments punctuated with a register ringing, muted conversations, laughter, and clinking glasses. Includes Rexroth reading "Between Myself And Death" and "She Is Away", and Ferlinghetti reading "The World is A Beautiful Place."
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After a four-year hiatus, this slumbering drone supergroup has returned with a deeply unsettling and surreal new album. That time was not spent idly, as Above The Sky sounds like it has been sculpted and tweaked to razor-sharp perfection. Despite being the work of three people with three different aesthetics, there is no absolutely trace of ego, compromise, bloat, or wasted time here. This is as perfect as drone music gets.
Above the Sky apparently had a very difficult birth, as it originated from a single concert that Paul Bradley, Colin Potter, and Darren Tate played together in 2006. The trio wasn’t entirely pleased with the recording, so it was gradually embellished, enhanced, layered, and reworked until it finally became “A Place of Voices.” In the process, quite a bit of new material was recorded, some of which cohered into the album’s closing piece. The rest of it wound up as Beneath the Earth, a bonus album that sold-out very quickly.
Each of the two tracks included here is a half-hour long. The first one, “A Place Of Voices,” begins with ominous, queasy droning. As it progresses, the sound slowly undulates and swells while spectral creaks, scrapes and squeals flit about the shadows. However, only the peripheral mindfuckery remains relatively constant, as the trio seamlessly drifts from one movement to another. It flows quite beautifully, but it follows a very unpredictable course, as a cacophony of bowed metals can turn into a pleasant field recording of a flock of chirping birds within mere minutes (and does).
The following piece, “Cloudless Day,” fades in with a shifting, quavering mass of subtly clashing notes and a harsh metallic shimmer. The volume swells and drops unpredictably, heightening the deep sense of unease, and various elements begin to change dramatically until it graduates from “uneasy” to “harrowing.” Then it all abruptly stops, only to begin again in a distant, murky new form. After a while, that limps to a conclusion as well, but is soon replaced by a still more disquietingly hallucinatory phase that calls to mind a haunted hall of mirrors. Ultimately, however, the birds reappear and it all ends on an unexpectedly calm note: the titular “cloudless day,” I suppose (but one that only appears after a trip through hell).
Above the Sky is an album that is malevolently alive, as every single sound is active and holds the potential to morph into either something deeply ugly or an unexpected oasis of calm. It is a constantly and mysteriously shifting sonic terrain that seethes with implied menace. Repeat listens will certainly lessen the impact of the twists and surprises, but there is so much to absorb and appreciate that it won’t matter. This is a brilliant and nightmarish masterpiece from start to finish.
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Hungry Shells documents the meeting of two remarkable avant garde spirits. In 2018, Pekka Airaksinen presented Ka Baird with Buddhist parables that had been revealed to him in a mediative state. The result is a glorious recording, as the collaboration dissolves their individual states, their voices, flutes, and synths, into an organic harmonic discord.
In the history of both these artists are signs which led here. From 1967-70 Airaksinen composed as a member of infamous performance group The Sperm, who fell foul of Finnish obscenity laws. After devoting his 1970s to Buddhism, Airaksinen returned in the '80s with a system for translating the names of Buddhas into mathematical forms and then into musical compositions. Ka Baird, under her own name and as an integral part of Spires That In The Sunset Rise, always makes an intriguingly cathartic and genuinely skillful racket. Like a whirling dervish tramp emerging unscathed after an instinctive blindfold dash through a forest of rocks and bogs, she has incredibly never put a foot wrong. Baird's signpost is perhaps STITSR’s concept album Mirror Cave based on a blend of Italo Calvino’s (very) short story ‘Sword of the Sun’ and Shinkichi Takahashi’s After-Images: Zen Poems. The lyrics of "Hungry Shells" also bear a resemblance to elements in that Calvino story.
Araksinen has said "I think making art must be some form of madness." The album starts with "Big Stone Small Stone," a calm piece of spoken word floating amidst cascading piano notes and buzzes and bleeps which are frantic to the point of relaxation. "Syzygy" picks up the pace in a relentless flowing river of Baird’s singing, blip and boom percussive beats and synthesized flute. Should anyone be balking at the mention of flute, here is a—hopefully unnecessary—reminder that Florian Schneider’s flute powered some of Krafwerk’s finest recordings
Elsewhere the music resembles morse codesque throbs, occasional synthesized muted car horn blares, breath rhythms, a radio being tuned quickly across twelve stations, and metallic twanging the likes of which I have not heard since seeing the Gas Tank Orchestra perform live in New Orleans. "Grey Body" has sound fragments perhaps not unlike an Arabic market, then swells with what seemed like the dwarf from Twin Peaks talking backwards, but reveals as Airaksinen revisiting Baird’s "big stone small stone" recital from the first track. It ends in a storm of creaking, swirling, synth gusts snorting like the breath of a demon… before Airaksinen says the very Zen words "not very special."
The warbling, weaving "Roseclouds" is a blended voice duet with babbling synth-flute and chants such as "fragrance filled the earth" over popcorn beats. The peak track is "Variable Star," with a buzzing, quivering, intro and outro, bone-rattling percussion, and narcoleptic vocals. In a way this bleeds into the title track, which ends the record. Almost a mini concept album in itself, this longer piece plunges into darker fluid tones like a underwater organ played backwards as Baird narrates a poetic tale of transformation, with shells gobbling pearls, retreating undersea and suns melted together shining underwater; all reminding me of Hendrix fleeing a dying planet in a futuristic mini-sub during "1983 A Merman I Should Turn to Be."
Pekka Airaksinen passed away on May 6. The Wire magazine ran a great photograph of him which resembles the picture of Geronimo on Roy Harper’s Lifemask album. For this review I spent time, like a demented peasant gathering crops before the storm, with the Spires That In The Sunset Rise back catalog. Their music is a startling combination of technique and belief, dark and weird clock stopping sounds, strangely healing time-reversing incantations, cathartic frenzy, breathless waves of heady operatic gibberish and wildly bent, looped, layered, and reversed flute, and should not be missed. I may just develop an unhealthy obsession and review all their albums in order.
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Early MB albums such as Aktivitat and Symphony for a Genocide are ranked as high water marks in the early industrial, noise, and power electronics genres, and for good reason. While his early sound was intentionally mired in a lo-fi analog murkiness, it worked. While contemporaries such as SPK and Whitehouse were using their work to push the boundaries of volume and extremity, MB was far more restrained and dour, but in a way that worked. It was very depressive and dark, but never falling into clichéd territory.
The first two tracks on here really had my hopes lowered for this being an album worthy of being filed next to the two ArcheoMB box sets on my shelf. "Ortni" is reverb battered drone, with deep tremoloed scrapes, almost strings-like, met with some rudimentary layering and variation. "The Inflammatory Sesor" follows a similar pattern, switching the strings for church organ like textures that are a bit more compelling, but the texture is also just a bit too bland. While it wasn’t along the lines of Yanni, I was feeling this like a rejected Cold Meat Industries demo tape circa 1996.
Once "Oigada" hit its stride, a bit of the old Bianchi began to shine through. The overtly flanged rudimentary rhythms and complex layering, matched with sci-fi like beeps and tones in the background channeled that old school industrial style he was pioneering some 25-plus years ago. The best part is, it never sounds like an imitator, it just sounds like MB, even without the protection of analog fuzziness.
"Ogral" pushes deep mournful tones into slow reverb, which swells in volume to reach a stride that is purely harsh electronic noise, but done sparingly as to not become too contrived. "Evarg" sounds as if it’s based upon decaying tape recordings of symphonic music, all leaning into the higher frequency end of the spectrum. Like the track before, it isn’t shy about pushing into grinding harsh noise territory, but never excessively so.
The closing "The Plain Elanif" is a fitting coda for the album: music-tinged tones swirl up to the surface, but are kept in an industrial swamp. Perhaps this is where the “converted” MB shows up: while the music is superficially just as bleak and depressive as the best of his early work, there’s an underline sense of hope and positivity that shines through. Never annoying or new-agey, it just feels like a stream of light piercing through the otherwise hopeless track. It is a pleasant conclusion for a surprise of an album.
After the first two pieces on here, I thought my instinct was wrong in seeking this disc out. It wasn’t John Tesh goes isolationist, but it was just too overwrought. Once it hits its stride though, the album does demonstrate its pedigree and shows that, regardless of his personal life, MB still can compose an appropriately dour industrial symphony worthy of his past discography.
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"Untitled No. 1" opens the album with heavy cavernous guitar feedback and tribal drumming echoing from the deepest parts of the sea, locking into a repetition that never stagnates. The drums speed up into more intricate, chaotic patterns before the entire mix collapses under the weight of itself, devolving into a primordial muck of sound. "We Dream the Seashore" almost literally uses its title as a jumping off point, with pegged out field recordings creating a noise bed that crashing waves of noise and jackhammer rattling and junky percussion sales upon, the full proceedings sounding a junk metal noise band freaking out by the sea.
Sandwiched in the middle of the album are a series of tracks that show a hint of 1960s psychedelic rock shining through. "Cephalopedie" features swirling rock guitars with mutated gamelan percussion and far eastern strings, resembling that era’s penchant for mixing eastern and western sounds, but with an entire doomsday cult’s stash of LSD. The title track uses a similar sonic clash, but with swirling tablas and a noisy bed of electronics, like the MC5 playing through a busted PA in the middle of Riyadh, with occasional intrusion of Xenakis and his noisy compositions. For all its chaos, the end hides beautiful melodies amidst the darkness.
The massive "Another Kind of Blue" combines tribal tabla playing and junk percussion at the opening, treating all of it with dubbed out echoes that would make Lee Perry even madder than he already is before launching into full on noise territory via waves of feedback and guitar squalls. Once the noise retreats, what remains is anemic guitar and tortured psychedelic rock, later met by shortwave radio loops of lost vocal transmissions. The entire track then goes into sharp, banging metallic rock before falling apart at the end.
"Bbroke" continues the more obtuse side of Rex’s sound, with a muffled, aquatic guitar squeal that channels the best of black metal with massive sustain, but is actually one of the most sparse tracks here, allowing the ugly guitar to stand on its own. The closing "Untitled No. 2" takes clattering metal percussion but puts it alongside warm, fuzzy organ drone and other unidentifiable elements that are somewhat musical, creating an inviting closer to the album that is the perfect metaphor for returning to the surface after a deep, frightening dive.
The aquatic imagery in both the band and album names comes through in the sound, as it all has that dark, murky quality of a deep sea dive. The tracks are dark and obscured, with only the most minimal of light shining through to show unknown creatures and organisms. Architeuthis Rex has a very unique sound and concept that I definitely want to hear more of in the future.
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