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Hood Faire
Brown Bear consists of three songs of varying lengths, all of which were at least partially improvised and recorded in just one take. I am not much of a process fetishist, so that did not strike me as especially impressive in and of itself. However, McPhee’s nail-it-in-one-take artistic purity is probably responsible for much of the EP’s endearingly loose and spontaneous feel, so I appreciated it nonetheless.
The brief and mournful “Sky Burial” opens the record with gentle minor arpeggios, insistent bass notes, and a clear, clean melody, which McPhee deftly twists and dances around. The following piece takes a more minimal and static approach, but McPhee employs his arsenal of old analog effects for some unusual colors and textures. While not as lean and focused as its predecessor, it is instead packed full of captivatingly baroque passages and inventive harmonies. The piece has a bit a hallucinatory feel as well, as it quavers and glistens with heavy chorusing and expertly utilizes delay to give the central melody a ghostly after-image.
The entire second side of the record is taken up by the lengthy title track, which I initially found to be deceptively underwhelming. In fact, its first half could easily be mistaken for a variation of “Sky Burial” with the addition of a chorus pedal. Though certainly enjoyable, it caused me to wonder if McPhee had exhausted his ideas after just two songs. Thankfully, however, my pessimism was premature and ill-founded, as “Brown Bear” soon transforms into an extremely cool and completely unexpected foray into elegantly warped psychedelia. The bass line from the opening motif remains in a slowed-down form, which keeps things coherent, but a hazily repeating, thickly harmonized loop suddenly begins to lag, squirm, and lurk ominously beneath its melody. Eventually, all of the more straightforward elements of the piece fall away entirely and leave only a sublimely spacey ambient coda. It's quite a neat trick and Dean manages it quite seamlessly, resulting in the record's clear highlight.
Solo guitar albums are not generally my favorite thing due to their inherent limitations, but I enjoy Brown Bear quite a bit. This is a very promising and assured first release, as McPhee displays a rare combination of technical skill, simplicity, and subtle unpredictability. A full-length is due next spring.
Samples:
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The value of water surely precedes our recorded history and the idea of water as an essential symbol of power and transformation resonates through the ages. From Biblical tales of God using a flood to cleanse sin, to the films Oh Brother Where Art Thou (where the protagonists are saved from lynching by the damming of a valley to provide hydro-electric power) and Trouble the Water (the unbelievable documentary of the storm which tried in vain to wash away New Orleans). Water dominates our planet and our bodies. The flow from spring and stream to river and into sea is a commonly accepted metaphor for growth, death and natural paths through life. We can't survive without water, yet too much can kill us. No wonder then, that it is the symbol of baptism and immersion into a spiritual contract offering eternal life in heaven and willful abandonment of earthly imperfections.
I found it impossible to listen to this album from start to finish and instead enjoyed dipping in and out and skimming through the pictures and text over several months. Even doing so, I still haven't finished reading the entire book! I love "Babtist Shout" by Frank Jenkins of Da Costa Woltz's Southern Broadcasters, not just for its misspelled name or because it does not feature any shouting or even vocals, but also as it is banjo playing in a stop-start style different from "the neverending rolls that later became a staple of bluegrass". "Baptism At Burning Bush" by Rev. Nathan Smith's Burning Bush Sunday School Pupils is a lovely rounded piece where the unaccompanied voices trade off, echo and harmonize with one another. The liner notes state that the Rev. Smith only made eight tracks in his one week recording career. By contrast, Bill Boyd and His Cowboy Ramblers made 200 records and enjoyed plenty of success on radio. Their Western-style narrative "Sister Lucy Lee" is the most swinging piece here.
Take Me To The Water has a host of vital tracks but Washington Phillips' "Denomination Blues" fits the collection like a glove. The great man is on wonderful form listing different approaches to baptism and, as was his fundamental reason to be, chastising all to remember that Jesus is the essential ingredient behind these divergent rituals. Phillips was what was called a 'jack-leg preacher': a man without a church who would roam around and deliver sermons where he could, accompanying himself on a self-made instrument. Religious haranguing has never sounded so good.
As mentioned, the photographs seem not-of-this-world. Indeed, a cynic might question their authenticy. I am not doing that, just searching for words to convey their magical quality. Taken from the collection of Jim Linderman, the images convey to me a sense that we are witnessing a death every bit as much as a cleansing or a rebirth. The pictures show crowds standing as if transfixed in the reverential aftermath of a disaster while the water itself exudes a magnetic attraction. In searching for the motivation of the participants I'm reminded of a quote from Jonathan Raban's book Old Glory: An American Voyage. "Once I found the body of a drowned woman. She had left a note...rambling...but it didn't actually say she intended to kill herself. It seemed she had come to the river [The Thames] without knowing what she was going to do. Perhaps she believed that the mess and tangle of her life would somehow resolve itself if she could put it in perspective beside the bleak placidity of all that drifting water. It was probable, said the coroner, that she'd thrown herself into the river without premeditation; not really meaning to commit suicide, merely trying to assuage her misery and confusion in the comforting void of the Thames. He announced his verdict: death by misadventure."
Raban is planning a solo trip down the Mississippi. He relates to the woman: "I felt I understood what had drawn the woman to the river. I wanted to lose myself too...to put myself in the grip of a powerful current which could make my choices for me, to be literally adrift. The woman had gone to the river for solace and ended up drowning in it. I was going for much the same motive, but meant to stay afloat."
The Dust to Digital label sure knows how to pull off this kind of project. In terms of musical choices and visual art, their quality control is never askew. Take Me To The Water is a magnificent example of their exemplary approach to the preservation and re-presentation of spiritual culture. It will last.
samples:
- Rev. Nathan Smith - Baptism at Burning Bush
- Washington Phillips - Denomination Blues
- Bill Boyd & his Cowboy Ramblers - Sister Lucy Lee
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Someone Good
The eight pieces comprising this album are all very much of a hushed and shimmering piece, as the languorous spell begun with “Different Sky” continues unbroken for its duration. It is very difficult to tell exactly which instruments Fukuzono is employing most of the time, as the source material is often laptopped into an amorphous, soft-focus haze. Occasionally, some sparse acoustic guitar, crackling field recordings, or fragile piano will appear, but the backbone of the album is its omnipresent bed of warm, quavering drones. That, of course, is perfectly fine by me, as the inability to distinguish individual elements serves the pervading hypnotic tranquility quite well. Unfortunately, the corresponding sacrifice is that many of the songs lack distinct personalities. While Yasuhiko’s understated amniotic soundscapes are always quite pleasant, they are also a bit bloodless and sterile and rarely leave a lingering memory behind them.
To his credit, aus seems well aware of this and has attempted to break up the album with pieces that could be considered actual songs, albeit without departing very much from his gentle, sleepy template. For this, he enlisted the dubious aid of Japanese vocalist Cokiyu. I am decidedly not a fan of her Sigur Ros-esque vocals, as they are too meek and characterless for me, merely sounding like yet another heavily processed instrument. However, they seem to have inexplicably had an invigorating effect on Fukuzono, as the vocal pieces are some of the most overtly melodic and human on the album (particularly “Little Song at Little Time,” which actually features a beat and a distinct crescendo of sorts).
The album does not truly come alive until the end, however. The penultimate track (“Remnant”) features some welcome feedback and sizzle that hint that aus is capable of something a bit deeper. Unexpectedly, he then promptly delivers that depth with the epic closer “A World of Dazzle,” which stands out (alone, sadly) as a truly stirring and beautiful piece. While still characteristically slow-moving, fragile, and melancholic, it diverges from its predecessors by delivering strong and memorable melodies, a gritty underlying crackle, subtly oscillating dissonance, digitally mangled piano, and snaking, intertwining violins that snowball in intensity and emotion resonance.
Fukuzono can certainly whip up an impressive slow-burning intensity when sets his mind to it, but it occurred far too seldom on Light in August, Later to make me a fan. The raw material of a formidable artist is certainly evident, but aus will need to smash quite a few more holes in his protective wall of austere perfectionism to realize that potential.
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After delving under its surface, Brocken Spectre is a complicated album. On one hand, the songs do not rely on complex arrangements or even straightforward verse and chorus structures. Matthews instead pushes in another direction entirely, taking a looser approach to song structure. Her idiosyncratic style permeates the entire album, making it first appear self-indulgent and difficult to an outsider. The album was a blur for my first few listening sessions, finding a foothold within the music was a hard task even though I am familiar with Matthews’ work in Ectogram. However, with time I have come to appreciate (although not fully understand) Matthews’ approach. Brocken Spectre is an audio parallel of automatic writing. Her flow of consciousness take on recording brings together ideas that are strange but wonderful.
The first side of this LP is both familiar and alienating; Matthews’ voice instantly recognizable but the unusual playing style and frankly surreal mix (great use of stereo separation and creation of a 3D environment with these sounds) make the songs feel more intimidating than they should be. “Anomic Recipe” and “Know Your Vessels” both have an endearingly peculiar vibe. Contrary to these pieces, the end of side A features the stunning “Tony Wilson,” which shows Matthews at her most infectious. The eastern influence making the music feel light and the presence of a distinct beat drives the song. It sticks out amongst the other songs on Brocken Spectre as Matthews deviates from the open structures she adopts on most of other pieces.
Things get weirder on side B but at this point I am firmly in Matthews’ world and can appreciate the surroundings far more easily. The clarinet on “Eve’s Drop” sounds like some unhappy creature from a fairy tale; slowly it becomes enchanted by Matthews’ singing and the beast is calmed. Elsewhere, Matthews employs the click of a Biro pen and the sound of rocks being hit together to drive “Corn Curl.” While such odd instrumentation is expected from someone who has worked with Faust in the past, her use of these and other usually non-musical sources never seem contrived. I cannot help but feel that Matthews is in love with sound.
Brocken Spectre is self-indulgent and lacks focus. Yet although these notions would normally be negative criticisms, this serves more as a warning to lazy listeners than a deterrent to all listeners. Matthews has moved away from her comfort zone and made something very personal. Not everyone will get it but sometimes not getting it is what makes an album work. In this case, I certainly do not get it but I enjoy it nonetheless.
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The four tracks that make up this album stay on a similar path, never really doing anything unexpected, but instead give a good sense of familiarity. “Behind the Mask” mixes siren like sine waves and buzzing low frequency textures that recall the best of Maurizio Bianchi’s early work, even to the point of including muffled synth leads and sickly, anemic sonic textures. Vocals appear rather abruptly, mostly angered screams that sit between power electronics ranting and black metal growls.
“Human Skin” is a bit more metallic, pushing simple guitar noodling to the forefront along with clattering electronic sounds and a battery of digital delays. The vocals continue along in the metal direction, but the guitar becomes supplanted by queasy gurgling noises and scattershot death industrial percussive rattling, the sound of synths being attacked under the cover of reverb.
“The Wolf Smiles” moves more into power electronics, mixing shimmering feedback noise and reverberated loops. The most rudimentary stuttering rhythms appear, giving it a very mechanized character. The guttural metal vocals that pop up here are more of a distraction though, because they take too much of the focus away from the hollow organic sounds and power electronics pulse.
The ending “Mirror” is where the sound goes out into left field a bit, a multifaceted and layered expanse of pure noise, with constant sweeps of sound appearing and receding. The rain of noise occasionally relents, allowing some meditative and reflective passages to shine through, but the noise is never far behind. The uneasy mood and moribund textures of this track put it alongside the best of the Cold Meat Industries label, which is quite a feat.
Personally, the metal elements of this disc, especially the vocals, are more of a distraction than an asset, but that’s personal opinion. The sickly electronics definitely are the star here, and in the brief span of these four tracks, Lay recalls the likes of Brighter Death Now, Con-Dom, and early M.B., which is no easy feat. It’s not something noise fans haven’t heard before, but it’s still worth checking out.
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I was first exposed to C. Peirce’s mostly solo project (with occasional co-conspirators) on this year’s Miwak Twelve compilation, in which the track "Jailbait Rock" (also here) was best described as "rockabilly glitch metal." There it stood out as the wonderfully sore thumb amidst two discs of more traditional electronic sounds. Here, that deviation is the norm, with that sound infusing most of these tracks in various different ways, creating the cyber-hillbilly metal sound Ministry touched on with "Jesus Built My Hotrod" but never reached again, and the 1950s sleaze cheese that defined the Thrill Kill Kult before people stopped caring.
Structured in a very film-like way, the opening "Theme from the Sick Generation" begins dramatically with sweeping reverbs and massive drums, along with cliché sampled strings and Reefer Madness era dialog samples, before thrusting headlong into that industrialized rockabilly sound the band does so well. Rather than just sticking that way, it’ll just as quickly jump into jazz horns as it will scum rock. "Living In A Monochromatic World" also jumps between the two extremes, with a bass synth line that sounds like it was programmed by some shoeless hillbilly between meth and moonshine binges.
At other times, the rockabilly sound gives way to some acid damaged surf rock, like in "LSD Made a Wreck of Me," which could be the theme to an awful 1960s sitcom until it all spazzes out to 303 acid techno freakouts. The surf sound resurfaces in "Pills to Make You Fun," but it is less of the focus when compared to the cheesy keyboards and breakbeats. "My Hippy Sex Cult" takes the surf sound and throws it into more speed metal climates, making it also somewhat of a different take on the same theme.
"Bad Girls go to Hell" keeps a bit of the surf, but becomes more of a struggle between sleazy porn jazz and spy music pieces, with a modicum of glitch noise thrown in for additional flavoring. Even to mix things up a bit more, "A Side of Dirty" opens with some rather uncharacteristic acoustic guitar before going balls deep in pure funk, with drums that could destroy small children. "Dance of the Lumpenproles" is another one crossing even further into weirdness, mixing big band instrumentation with randomized noisy chaos. The closing title track is perhaps the ultimate climax of sound, mixing stiff industrial beats with harpsichord, horns, and actual strings, ending with purely symphonic territory.
While "rockabilly glitch metal" could still perhaps be the closest thing to a genre to throw this into, even that is a bit too limiting. It’s more a smattering of uncountable genres into one concise, dirty package, sort of like if I blew up my grandfather’s and my records, then taped the pieces together. Although that probably wouldn’t sound as good.
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Nuf Sed
On the round LP sticker it says “please read enclosed lyrics, they are intrinsic to the music,” yet following along with the lyric sheet is a nearly impossible task. The music itself is so disconcerting that I have to read it in a quiet room after the record is played. Here and there a recognizable word is perceived, allowing me to figure out which song is which. It is clear that there are different songs but no blank spaces have been left between them. Lurking beneath the squall of autistic drums is the near constant hum of a disconcerting organ, bleating like a sheep who knows it is about to be sacrificed. Over top of it all are shrill vocals that sound like they were mixed from a warbling tape, alternately sped up and slowed down.
One of the high points on the album is “The Worst of Toys.” It begins with aggressive belching, a thick squeal, and continues into what sounds like the drunken rant of a hillbilly who is about to dish out a beating. It is a song emblematic of their aesthetic. Another is “Salt Lump” with its noisy electronics bursting out of their angry mangled bluegrass. The rhythms are all played in disjointed time signatures. Fiddles and guitars vie and struggle against each other in a battle for supremacy of volume. The mad lyricist shouts his pitch bent derangements over the inebriated squalor. The cacophonic drumming and weird swirls of flange and vibrato form the glue that binds the proceedings together. The album ends by spiraling into a locked groove of an unintelligible phrase to further the audio nausea.
Outside the sheer audacity and unpredictability of their music, what I find so intriguing about the legendary San Francisco group is the sense of mystery and mythology they weave about them. Revolving around the story of a singing bull from the 1800’s who bequeathed them their entire repertoire they have made a virtue out of their inscrutability. The disturbed cartoons on the packaging of the record, peculiar lyrics, and brash songs all work together to create a numinous cohesion that has the logic of dreams, which is part of its appeal.
This vinyl only album was released in 1993.
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There are a number of pretty unique things about Surrounded by Hermits (aside from, of course, Aranos himself). For one, it is packaged in a handmade wood and burlap case. Secondly, it contains some rather unusual instrumentation, even for the experimental music genre. For example, the droning opening segment (“Yaoowaah”) is played on a bowed gong filtered through a wah-wah pedal. Aranos’s beautifully sad violin playing, on the other hand, appears quite seldom. That was a bit disappointing for me, but it is an admittedly pretty ballsy move for him to avoid relying on his greatest strength and instead attempt to carry the melodic weight of an album with seashells and gongs. Also, of course, it should be noted that this album follows a singularly warped and confounding trajectory. Aranos did not take the easy road anywhere on this album.
Surrounded by Hermits is essentially one very long piece split into 16 separate tracks that uninterruptedly segue into one another. Many of the segments are quite brief and very few constitute distinct songs, so the transitions are generally quite seamless. The first half of the album takes quite a subdued and somewhat meditative tone, as the opening gong piece is followed by a series of interludes populated with somber pianos, mournful conch shell moans, chittering insectoid noises, queasy microtonally shifting drones, discordant flugelhorns, and beds of whooshing and whirring electronics. This early eccentric ambience does little to hint at some of the material that appears later in the album.
As alluded to above, of course, things gradually take a turn towards the very weird (even by avant-garde standards). I suppose the bottom officially begins to drop out with the commencement of the eighth segment, “Some Feeling.” While it marks the first appearance of both relatively conventional musicality and Aranos’s gypsy-tinged violin playing, it is also frequently disrupted by loud sighs and recordings of a Shakespeare rehearsal overlapped to the point of incomprehensibility. Things return to deceptive tameness for a little while afterwards though. In fact, the lurching strings of “Wwroomah” are actually somewhat beautiful before they are electronically splintered and enveloped in rumbling. However, that piece transitions into the lunatic cabaret of “Mekanik Mik,” which is followed by more disjointed Shakespearean chaos, then the absolutely ridiculous, improbable, and crazy drum machine funk of “Tudumtudam.”
It is surprising that the album continues after that frenzied, noisy, genre mash-up, but it does somehow. In fact, Surrounded by Hermits' brief denouement actually yields one of its clear highlights, the fiery violin showcase of “Ooaahh/Loadooda,” before drawing to a hushed close with the lengthy piano dirge of “Plinkplonk.”
Hermits is certainly a worthy addition to Aranos’s already rather aberrant and uncompromising back catalog, but it probably is not a good starting place for those new to his work. This is definitely an unabashedly self-indulgent and deranged album, but it is also quite a wild and fiercely iconoclastic one.
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“Razed Then Raised Again” begins like a storm in the distance; a rumbling power looming over the horizon. After a few minutes, the storm finally hits and Corsano’s beautiful and erratic drumming feels like hailstones being blown around. Edwards’ bass is the gale, forcing the drums around corners and down side streets; this is truly elemental music. By the end of the piece, it actually sounds like the duo are trying to push their way into the microphones and out of my speakers to bring this music directly to me. The title track continues this commanding style of performance and the duo sound like Albert Ayler’s backing band at their most free (throughout this piece I can imagine the ghost of Ayler jamming along, unheard but his presence felt).
The second side of the LP has Edwards and Corsano shift the focus of their music completely. The slow burning “The Master without Hammer” carries a threatening undertone to it. Eventually avalanching into a freefalling and dangerous tumult of percussion and double bass, “The Master without Hammer” is the monster at the heart of Tsktsking, it is absolutely stunning. Amazingly, Edwards and Corsano have not peaked yet and save the best for last with the thrilling, cathartic voyage through the rhythm section that is “To the Nines.” Again, they summon up the spirits of free jazz past and set out to exorcise and exercise them, running at breakneck speeds across their respective instruments.
As usual for Dancing Wayang, Tsktsking is beautifully packaged in a screenprinted sleeve that looks like it came from some classic '60s jazz label’s design studio. Also included are a set of liner notes by Evan Parker where he gives an entertaining account of how these two guys met. Taken altogether, this is a terrific album lovingly presented in a way that reflects the quality of the music found between the grooves. I cannot get enough of Tsktsking, both Edwards and Corsano show that improvisation is as potent as ever in its power to pull new and exciting music from the ether.
This release is currently vinyl only so unfortunately no sound samples at this point in time, apologies!
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Criminal’s Return is cleverly frontloaded with the extremely impressive “From Now On,” which boasts elegantly melancholy piano and a heavy, majestic organ crescendo that any ‘70s prog band would’ve been thrilled to have on their album. The rest of the album never quite hits that level again, but that opening proved very effective at sucking me into the album in hopes of hearing more such gems. That is not to say the rest of the album is a disappointment; far from it, in fact. Nearly every song contains at least one cool idea or memorable part, but all the elements never quite cohere as perfectly again.
Amos is a surprisingly adept multi-instrumentalist, given his day job as a percussionist. While the drumming here is quite good, it is not especially flashy (though Amos locks into some excellent swaggering, laidback grooves). Instead, Amos saves the pyrotechnics for his guitar playing, peppering the album with cool dual-guitar harmonizing and dramatic arena rock-worthy riffs (the instrumental “Arranged Release” is especially packed with six-string heroics, though the slide guitar in “Thorns” is also pretty inspired). He’s also quite an impressive songwriter and arranger, as most of the songs are uncluttered, hook-y, and unfold in a coherent and dynamically satisfying fashion.
There are some weak spots, however: Emil’s downcast, understated vocals and the album’s lack of stylistic focus. Amos’ vocals are definitely not bad by any means, but they are too deadpan to effectively carry the strong songs beneath them (as vocals inevitably become the focal point whenever they appear). It’s pretty frustrating actually, because his vocal melodies are usually quite good and he even pulls off some America-esque multipart harmonies in places. As for the album’s focus, Criminal’s Return is a bit too varied and overt in displaying its influences. While a lot of the album is steeped in classic/prog rock, there are also some clear nods to Will Oldham, Elliot Smith, post-rock, Sebadoh, and analog synth space music (as in “Criminal’s Return Pt. II”).
Of course, part of that schizophrenia might be due to the fact that there are recordings from 2005-2009 included here (though Amos has a history of confounding disparities, such as including a Daniel Johnston/Jad Fair cover on an album named after an Oswald Spengler book). Unexpectedly, the three songs from 2005 are probably the album’s best (and they notably feature the last violin recordings of vanished Grails member Timothy Horner to boot). I’m certainly curious as to why it took Amos three albums to get around to releasing them. Criminal's Return seems like it may be intended as some sort of (very) loose "revenge fantasy" concept album, so maybe this is just the first time they fit somewhere thematically. It seems doubtful though.
Despite its relatively minor flaws, Criminal’s Return shows that Holy Sons is as serious a project as anything else Amos has been involved with. It may be lo-fi and a bit unfocused, but it is also teeming with great ideas and good songs that would not quite fit on Om or Grails albums. There are some guitar parts on this album that are awesome and iconic in an unselfconscious and unironic way that is rarely, if ever, found in indie rock circles (perhaps Doug Martsch needs to start watching his back). Unless Om ends up swallowing all of his time, Amos seems well on course for recording a monster of album someday. Of course, perhaps he secretly already has.
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WorldDom/Free Love Records
Dubbed "psychobilly concrete" by Simon Reynolds in 1987 after witnessing what he claimed was "the most exciting show ever seen," World Domination Enterprises matched a tight rhythm section with the sound of guitars damaged and distorted almost beyond recognition and the angry vocals of Keith Dobson. They wasted no time: the original 14-song LP doesn't even amount to 40 minutes.
After various incarnations of Dobson's band The 012, Keith, along with Steve Jameson on bass and Digger Metters on drums renamed themselves World Domination Enterprises and in 1985 recorded the single "Asbestos Lead Asbestos." It won praise from John Peel and, subsequently, the band hooked up with Product Inc. for a couple more singles: "Catalogue Clothes" (1986) and "Hotsy Girl" (1987). Lets Play Domination didn't surface until 1988 and although it contains two of the previously released singles and three cover tunes it holds together damn well.
I'll admit I didn't track down the album until after Meat Beat Manifesto covered "Asbestos Lead Asbestos" in 1996. It was one of those slow burners that became more rewarding as time went on. At first, I didn't appreciate the album very much, but over the following few years, as bands like Neptune and Sightings started to surface, Lets Play Domination started sounding better and better.
Side one opens with the thud of what could be a speaker blowing, and then the pulsing bass of "Message For You People" begins, almost immediately joined by drums and blistering guitar noise. Neither the context nor the content can be called pretty. The term "ghetto punk" gets tossed around with respect to WDE and it's no shocker considering songs like "Ghetto Queen" and "Blu Money," where Dobson sings the refrain of "I blew money that I coulda bought drugs with." Also on side one is their sneery hit "Hotsy Town" and their beat boxy cover of LL Cool J's "I Can't Live Without My Radio." Side two is more downtempo, opening with the groovy, classic "happy fun tune" of "Asbestos Lead Asbestos." It also features their brilliant cover of U-Roy's "Jah Jah Call You." "The Bullit Man" and "The Stack Blew Jack" are placed next to each other, possibly intentionally, as they follow the same exact start/stop blueprint and melody scheme. The LP closes with their bouncy, shouty, and brief version of Lipps Inc.'s "Funkytown."
Shortly after Let's Play Domination came out, Mute dissolved Product Inc. (which also had releases by Swans, Pussy Galore, and the Bambi Slam) claiming that they would no longer deal with "guitar bands." It's ironic that in the same year WDE finally self-issues Lets Play Domination on CD, Mute releases A Place To Bury Strangers. World Domination Enterprises continued for only another couple of singles and EPs before dissolving in 1990, when Digger Metters quit the music business to pursue a religious path.
On this CD edition, bonus tracks from singles are added. The A side "Catalog Clothes" appears with "Hotsy Girl" and "I Can't Live Without My Radio" (both of which appear in different forms earlier on the disc) along with "The Company News" and the previously unreleased "Do Do Go Go." Including them on this disc was a poor decision as it doesn't make for a great listen. This release would have been much better served by a 2xCD set with the full original album on disc one and a second disc for A sides coupled with their B-sides, collected with the remixes and live recordings which appeared on the EP Love from Lead City.
I have a major problem with the remastering job on the disc, too. Either my original LP doesn't sound right or the EQ here has been severely tampered with, resulting in a disorienting high end cut. It is rectified however when I turn treble all the way up to the max during playback. But, for those with computers and portable devices that can't control such factors, the sound simply won't be the same.
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