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The LP side-long title track is an aptly titled excursion into metallic violence. It opens with dirty loops and junk metal rattling that are all pushed up on the low end of the frequency spectrum. The loops remain the focus, giving an awkward yet discernable rhythm with flanged stabs at irregular intervals. At full steam, the best comparison would be being within a large metal drum, filled with rocks and scrap metal, as its tumbling down a steep hill. After a lengthy study of tape hiss, the second half of the track focuses less on the physical sounds and more on tones and feedback. This also is given an ungodly bass boost that pushes it into the traditional overdriven grind of harsh noise, with an extremely subtle bit of metal percussion remaining.
The opening horn blast of "Execution Dock" is definitely jarring, a quick burst of multi-tracked trumpet abuse that quickly drops out into a ragged decaying loop of awkward brass. Personally, I’d have liked a bit more of the mutant-core jazz elements to stick around, but it does drop quickly into a stuttering analog loop. As the loop goes on, more horns enter, though much more quiet and restrained, groaning like a sick sheep. Though the horn loop decays away to allow some maxed out tape hiss and bassy percussive thuds, it never fully goes away, remaining up through the harsh noise mid section and into the final fragments of sound.
The third track, "Medusa," is exclusive to the CD and clocks in almost as long as the prior two tracks combined. At 28 minutes, it is given a lot more room to develop as a piece, starting from a barely audible hiss that slowly gets louder and louder, eventually being met with a bassier undercurrent. Static kicks in and is passed through a variety of filters and overdrives, and the old standby of water sloshing sounds appear as well. The track ends with squeaky squelches of noise and what resembles a leaf blower off in the distance. It isn’t a bad track, but it definitely does feel like a "bonus track" compared to the original Chain Shot material, which is much more varied and dynamic in its nature.
One thing that is definitely noteworthy on this album is simply the rawness and the grimy nature of the sound: everything sounds like it’s being played off cassettes that have been neglected in storage for decades. The original material is definitely what shines here, and it is definitely worthy of receiving this wider release, and while the bonus track is somewhat lacking in comparison, it is sill a bonus, and functions just fine in that capacity.
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- John Kealy
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The wavering recording gives the music an ancient, cavernous sound; the low fidelity giving the impression that this recording has been discovered under a pile of musty detritus in a derelict building. The sound is so mushy that most of the time it is hard to identify what instrument is being played. Due to this lack of definition and the limited range of tones being used, the music ends up blurring into itself and after a while my attention levels cannot help but drop; there is only so much wobbly guitar textures that one person can take.
Had Vest made this a shorter release or had been more adventurous with his sonic palette then The Correct Ritual would have been a far stronger release. The situation is not helped by the bizarre (and intentional) formatting of the cassette; the bulk of the album takes up one side of the tape but the strongest piece, the Throbbing Gristle-esque "Queened King," is split across both sides despite there being loads of room on side B to fit all of the music comfortably with a bit of shuffling. As it stands, The Correct Ritual is a sometimes alluring but ultimately confounding release.
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With more than one musician battling it out in a free improvisation setting, there is a tendency towards complete chaos and oversaturation of the sonic space. It is a testament to the patience and experience of these four players that Good Cop, Bad Cop is such a spacious and controlled listening experience. Control is not something that is usually praised in such music but all great improvisation is as much about restraint as it is about letting go. Across the five tracks that make up this album (each named after British police shows or phrases related to TV detectives), the moments where all four musicians are playing simultaneously are rare (only on the last and some of the first piece do they play as a foursome). Instead, they tend to pair up and spar with each other before swapping with another player.
On “The Bill,” Paul Hession’s drumming takes the centre stage as Otomo Yoshihide’s electric guitar squall flows like waves against his delicate clattering. It sounds dangerous, the hum of guitar feedback threatening to unleash all manner of violence against the listener like the proverbial bad cop standing silent in the corner of the interview room. It is this mix of almost friendly improv versus the menace of barely contained power makes this album work so well. The title track sees Bailey take on Tony Bevan’s saxophone and while it is a relatively timid performance by Bailey, Bevan is superb here. He sounds like he is blowing his entire life through the instrument’s reeds while Bailey is doing his best to keep things bolted down.
Taken together, the five pieces on Good Cop, Bad Cop add up to a tremendous album. The chopping and changing of the line up throughout makes for an hour of unexpected textures and clashes of styles; overall it is a fun approach taken by the four players and it is a surprisingly easy listen compared to how difficult free music can be. Not that it is usually a problem for me but this is one of those few improv albums you could sneak on during a party and would not get turned off after 30 seconds. I will be trying just that at a series of barbeques this year.
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Why Blackshaw named his album after a Herman Hesse novel is anyone's guess. Strong religious and romantic allusions aside, Blackshaw's music is simply and strikingly hypnotic. Its mantra-like quality is perhaps the only qualification required to share a name with Hesse's meditation on the intellectual and mystical. But, this hypnotic color is something every Blackshaw record has featured; his love for the likes of Terry Riley and Erik Satie is not hard to discern and his guitar-playing style lends itself to adjectives like "rolling" and "kaleidoscopic." He has flirted with American folk music and toed the line between classical and modern guitar performances. At a young age he has explored more musical territory than many bands do over the course of an entire career. What differentiates this album from his previous efforts is the quality of the voices added to the arrangements. Accompanying him throughout are Joolie Wood, John Contreras, and Lavinia Blackwall. Flutes, clarinets, violins, pianos, and a stellar vocal performance all support and deepen Blackshaw's already sophisticated and intense approach to composition and performance. It's as if this is the band he has always wanted with him. Together with their talents, Blackshaw sounds more spectral and colorful than ever.
"Cross," the opening song, immediately communicates that Blackshaw and company are out to impress. With all pistons firing, Blackshaw paints a dramatic, but meditative melodic picture with his guitar. His strings are seemingly caught in a never-ending upward movement, each note intent on elevating the song to a higher and more introspective level. In the background, violins and cellos radiate a steady current of calm hums and ghostly utterances. Then, with just a brief pause, the band begins to weave their disparate melodic and harmonic patterns together, further enrichening the song's lively character. Each member bends their instrument, wringing from it more emotion than was present the moment before. This pattern continues until Lavinia Blackwall adds her voice to the mix. Wordlessly, she accentuates the song's beauty with eruptions of melody and effortless soul. Her voice seems to steam off of the music, occuring as a natural result of all the activity already churning beneath it. It's a stunning way to start a record and, after hearing it for the first time, I was uncertain that anything could live up to it. Smartly, Blackshaw goes into deep meditation with both "Bled" and "Fix." His nimble fingers create a ton of sound in both cases, but both songs are less showy than "Cross" and both find Blackshaw focusing on simple and direct arrangements. The latter is a brief and lovely piano-based song fleshed out by understated and cinematic string accompaniments. "Key" bridges the gap between all the previous songs and the concluding "Arc," which is as epic as anything Blackshaw has attempted before. It's moderate pace and gentle dynamics pave the way for the epic conclusion that follows.
"Arc" begins as though it were meant to be played at a funeral. Although the tones pulled from the piano are largely major and bright, they eminate an evocative quietude that only remembrance and yearning can accompany. After a short time Blackshaw's piano erupts into glissandi, as though an epiphany hit him in mid-song. As the piano fluctuates between high and low notes, the song and all of its parts develop a crystalline texture. Each of the instruments begin to blend into one another. "Arc" eventually becomes a mass of glowing sound with different elements peaking their heads above the cascade of music that's been created. The song completely destroys all sense of time and place. Instruments bleed into one another and become disassociated from their source. Whenever a particular sound rises above the others, whether its being made by a voice, an instrument, or a combination thereof can be difficult to determine. Played at loud volumes, it's an absolutely transfixing and ecstatic piece of music capable of procuring an emotional response from the listener. After I heard it for the first time, I found myself with my jaw agape and my breath left short. Something very magical happened when these musicians came together. I can only hope it won't be the last time we see Blackshaw collaborating in such a fashion. It's hard not to talk in a superlative manner about this record; it is majestic and deserving of more accolades and praise than I can possibly write.
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I used to be a fairly devoted Acid Mothers Temple fan, but I stopped buying their records a few years back because they all started to sound the same to me. Occasionally, an album would stand out as particularly great (La Novia, for example), but many releases seemed like interminable half-baked jams that had swooping and burbling synths piled on to make them "trippy." Of course, Kawabata has a singular knack for twisting seemingly uninspired pseudo-krautock jams into kaleidoscopic supernovas of weirdness, so I could never completely dismiss them. Regardless, it's been a while since I've last checked in and Lord of the Underground... shows me little has changed (for better or worse).
The opening track ("Eleking the Clay") begins rather deceptively with some droning organ before launching into something that resembles a crazed Turkish folk music ensemble that has been handed electric instruments and dosed with LSD. The galloping central riff is rather intricate and cool, but the song's frenetic tempo and absurd hooting vocals make it extremely hard to take seriously. However, the song gradually becomes less and less of a ridiculous caricature of some vague ethnic folk tradition and instead becomes increasingly purposeful and impressive as Kawabata's studio tweaking steers it into a lysergic black hole. The main riff remains relatively unchanged, but all hell breaks loose around it as a spacey analog synth solo unfolds. The tempo continues to increase until even the backbone riff collapses and only a wake of sculpted chaos is left.
Unfortunately, that incandescent flameout is followed by "The Sorcerer's Stone of the Magi," which is decidedly not the band's finest hour (or best song title). Written by bassist Atsushi Tsuyama, this piece is conspicuously different from the rest of the album in being minimal, acoustic, and folky. However, it still features the Mothers' omnipresent electronic ambiance, which sounds anachronistic and tacked-on in this context. Alien8 described this track as "a gentle piece of outsider folk," and that may be so, but its formlessness and mumbled, warbling vocals consistently confounded my repeated attempts to enjoy it. It is mercifully brief though.
The final track is the album's namesake and presumed centerpiece and it covers a lot of territory over the course of its 25 minutes. It begins with some heavily reverbed guitar noodling, sitar, and wordless vocal whooping, growling, and laughing...and, of course, the inescapable trippy swooping electronics. After more than three minutes, the bass and drums finally cohere into a languid groove, which provide a solid foundation for the...ahem...lengthy kazoo solo that follows. Gradually, the drums pick up the pace a bit and the lead guitar becomes more pronounced (there's still more kazoo though). Notably, by the time the song reaches even this minimal degree of progression, roughly ten minutes have elapsed. Thankfully, the next 15 minutes is devoted to a somewhat inspired freak-out: the drums continue to speed up, the bass gets louder and busier, layers of electronics and wah-wah guitars are piled on, and Kawabata artfully mixes it all into some characteristically explosive mind-bending chaos. There are some spectacular moments lurking within the resultant maximalist maelstrom, but this track could have been an unqualified brilliant success if some liberal editing had been undertaken.
Amusingly, my first reaction to this album was exasperation and visceral hatred, but after listening to it several more times, I have decided that it is not a bad album at all when taken on its own merits. Perhaps even good, as I suspect I would've been very impressed if this had been the first AMT album I had ever heard. That said, Lord of the Underground absolutely cannot withstand close, sober scrutiny and suffers greatly from predictability and a meandering lack of focus when compared to the Mothers' previous works. Of course, Kawabata's stated artistic intention is merely to create "extreme trip music" and he has done so rather decisively here. I just wish he would surprise me a bit more often.
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- Matthew Spencer
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As part of the spilt series by the Baltimore label Wildfire Wildfire, this single gives two exciting examples of fluid electronic songcraft. By different means, both groups evoke feelings of retro-futuristic goodwill by combining digital composition with analogue musicianship.
 
For a band, nothing can be more fruitful, or more dangerous, than attempting reinvention with every release. While constant change can be a sign that a group lacks basic aesthetic principals, there are a few that can maintain a distinct personality through every genre they work in. From the drum-less punk of their debut Freckle Wars to the shimmering guitar-scapes of last year's Way, Ecstatic Sunshine has become one of those groups. Now playing solo under that moniker, group founder Matthew Papich has used the recent shakedown to concentrate on guitar and electronics in equal measure. Even when his instrument is heavily processed, Papich's guitar tone has a bright, crystalline clarity. On "Easy is Right" he plays a simple, echoing riff that serves as base for obtuse, seemingly random synth tones. The bright, taffy like globs of sound push themselves into the foreground, threatening to but never burying the underlying guitar. The song drifts pleasantly along, undulating in pitch until the each sound element is gradually unraveled.
On the flip-side, "Take Turns" by Lucky Dragons is much more muted and organic. The song begins with a simple melody plucked out on a thumb piano. After a few measures, the notes quickly pile on top of each other, snowballing into pentatonic, gamelan like arrangements. Shakers, mouth trumpet, and muted voices join in the chatter. The song feels like some animistic rain-chant, but it never becomes raucous or loose. Each instrument stays firmly rooted in its pre-programmed position. What’s exceptional is that were it not for the artificial precision of the playing, you would never know the song was constructed electronically.
What unites the two songs is creative use of electronic instrumentation. Rather than letting their working methods determine the aesthetics of their music, the two artists use their tools in unexpected ways. Solo guitar music can be overly sober and technical, but Ecstatic Sunshine makes it bright and relaxed. Lucky Dragons so successfully blend native instruments that the whole process sounds natural. Though this single is a brief entry in each band’s catalogue, it neatly condenses what is appealing in both.
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Green Tape /olFactory /Lost Treasures of the Underworld /Tanzprocesz
Gang Wizard is a band with ever-shifting membership, but they can reliably be depended upon to feature dissonant guitars, abrasive electronics, some guy shouting and ranting, and a drummer. They cannot, however, be depended upon for unimaginative conceits like structure, rhythm, melody, or coherence. In the past, they've been favorably compared to Throbbing Gristle, Dead C, and "the next logical extension of Black Flag" and for good reason: Gang Wizard exhibit a feral and unhinged nihilism that bring some much needed danger and unpredictability to the experimental music scene. They also show a knack for impressively ambitious album titles (and for managing to get four separate record labels to band together to release an abrasive noise album).
"Whoever Invents" commences the proceedings with dissonant guitar scratching coupled with deep electronic oscillations. A ride cymbal keeps time as squalls of rumbling noise build to an escalating unholy din until the tension finally subsides into an almost calm spoken word interlude. Of course, that calm is ephemeral, as the vocals gradually become more maniacal and cathartic as electronics whir and buzz around them. Eventually, form and nuance is disposed of entirely and the track culminates in a spastic freak-out.
"Bad Teacher" begins with electronic bleeps and blurts, seemingly random guitar squonks, and some vocal caterwauling. It all seems very arbitrary, but the free-form drumming and thick low-end oscillations give it a visceral inertia that ultimately coheres into a groove of sorts. As with he first track, there is eventually an oasis of calm amidst the ugly maelstrom: the guitars drop out and leave only queasy organ and some rambling incoherent vocals. Gradually, a gathering storm of electronic squiggles and pulses forms around the meandering wreckage while the low-end rumbles rise and plunge. The atmosphere becomes increasingly disquieting before fading out in a surprisingly intentional-sounding and dignified fashion.
The second side of the album consists solely of one amazing lengthy piece ("Why Pharaoh Hanged the Baker") which begins with a great deal of throbbing, rumbling, chittering, and squelching. That doesn't change much for a while, but it certainly becomes more intense and could reasonably be described as "power electronics". A stomping kick drum eventually blunders into the sound blizzard, as do some distant distorted vocals. Eventually, the chaos ebbs into a surprisingly restrained and otherworldly interlude before the drummer gets a bit more ambitious and some odd mantric vocals spur a renewed swell in intensity. By the time it ultimately fades out with some gurgling white noise and a two-note drone, it seems as though the band knows exactly what it is doing.
This release is vanishing quickly, although Deathbomb Arc (run by band member Brian Miller) seems to be a consistent repository for the endless and multifarious Gang Wizard oeuvre. Regardless, you can rest assured that there are scores of other ones out there of varying quality and half-assedness (Thurston Moore put one out on Ecstatic Peace, while another one was recorded in the bathroom of a club). However, it seems unlikely that a mere recording can hope to approximate what Gang Wizard must be like live: they sound far more like a fire or an earthquake than a band.
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Shortwave radios are easy to find and relatively affordable. They emit whole slews of interesting sounds, all with an element of indeterminacy: it is hard to know what will be picked up by the antenna, giving the process of using one musically a nebulous mysticism. Scanning the dial turns up bits of Morse code, the rapid pulse of telemetry, fragments of newspeak rendered in foreign languages, muzak broadcast from halfway across the world. No wonder it has had and continues to have so much appeal for musicians.
The songs Basinksi has crafted on this album make for some of his most brilliant and memorable excursions. Listening, I picture him as an explorer of invisible worlds. From the comfort of his terrestrial abode he scries the airwaves amidst endless spools of tape as shrill alien sounds emanate from the radio. The disc is bathed in a resplendent otherworldly glow, emerging from the warm static of buzzing transistors and delicate white noise. The five pieces are very somber, very soothing and calming to the enervated mind. The disc is sequenced in a way that shows a gradual refinement, as if at a certain moment, the élan vital behind what he was trying to capture made itself manifest through the ether and the reel to reel, happily recording, was able to capture it.
“Evening Scars” opens the album with a lush orchestral phrase. Joined by the warbling oscillation of the radio receiver caught fluttering between stations; the two sounds intertwine around each other in a fine tuned balance. This is the perfect noise for washing the body with after a tiring day of work. The slight fades between songs are nearly imperceptible, even though clearly demarcated. Like the steps of a spiral staircase, each song elevates the mind to a new level of musical ecstasis. Thus “Cobalt Pools” flows seamlessly into “Fringe Area,” a dark and icy piece that captures the vicissitudes often accompanying contact with praeterhuman intelligence. Which is what I feel Basinski is doing in these songs: reaching beyond the void of space and time, listening for signs of nonhuman life, and making contact. Whenever this album is played, it is as if some subtle, metaphysical information is being imparted. As such, “On a Frontier of Wires” is the most profound revelation contained. Veiled female voices whisper in lulling sibilants from behind the magnetic cacophony. And like his Disintegration Loops, the voice gradually fades, decomposes, and falls apart. A recurrent series of notes, like a detuned angelic horn, rings its siren call throughout the near 24 minutes of the song. As with all great exercises in minimalist repetition, it never loses its welcome, and becomes familiar as a well loved mantra. “Particle Showers,” which was not released on the original LP version, makes for a nice come down from the bliss that was felt on the previous tracks.
These experiments formed the basis for the working methods Basinksi would later exploit on his 90 minute shortwave magnum opus, The River, and showcase the musical studies that would make it possible. Nothing short of masterworks themselves, these studies are testament to a bright musical mind.
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Flingco Sound
More than anything else, Interbellum's music reminds me of a sonata for piano and cello. It is essentially one long piece divided into distinct movements, all of which center around the 21 minute song, "The Life and Death of Anne Zimmerman." Each of the seven pieces move in a natural way and develop out of one another effortlessly. They are characterized by deep moments of silence and dense stretches of sound, all of which express a yearning for something just out of reach. Just minutes into the album a great sense of loneliness emerges from the music, which develops into a romantic image of a life lived in solitude. Whether or not it was the band's intent to develop such an image isn't clear, but the cinematic development of the record is perfectly suited for such a narrative.
Lonberg's cello performance is marked by long, sensuous notes and hints of melodrama. When he draws his bow across the strings the sound is like a breeze coming out of the speakers on a hot day. It is gentle and light, but very pleasing. Burke's piano technique is, on the other hand, punchy and full of weight. He does not provide rhythm or a tonal center so much as he dots the I's and crosses the T's. His playing lends something of an ambient tone to the music. He often keeps his foot on the sustain pedal of his piano, allowing the chords to ring out almost undetected in the background. When silence or near-silence falls on some of the songs, those notes can be heard humming softly in the background. The tastefully employed samples found throughout the record further emphasize the ambient dimensions of the record. While many of the samples feature distorted or distant conversation, some songs benefit from atmospheric effects and light distortion. Both "Mansfield, Louisiana" and "6EQUJ5" feature essential, non-traditional sounds. While the cello and piano melodies anchor every song, neither of these pieces would be the same if it weren't for the bits of sound effects and buzz that accompany them.
Calling this a glitch-chamber hybrid is probably a little too misleading, though elements of both are obviously present. Anyone expecting Kid 606 meets Brahms is going to be severely disappointed. It is, however, a highly impressionistic record that utilizes modern techniques in small doses for maxium effect. The album's freeform aesthetic also happens to be its biggest flaw. The record develops naturally and smoothly, something that fits its demeanor perfectly, but as a result there are portions of the record that drag on a little too long. "The Life and Death of Anne Zimmerman," while very pretty, could've benefitted from some editing. It's epic scope is impressive, but the lack of instrumental diversity makes it a bit tedious at times. Were the album to have a little more propulsion behind it, it would be far easier to pick up and enjoy. As it stands, listening to Over All of Spain... requires a little bit of patience; once its logic settles in, it becomes easier to appreciate all its little nuances. It isn't likely to register on many ultra-hip radars because it's almost completely divorced from all the stylings that make for an ultra-popular record. But, that's just one of Interbellum's strengths. Over All of Spain... is 100% unique and free from any preoccupations with familiar techniques or tired fads. Based on this record alone, Interbellum is a project like few others I can name.
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Likely at once Riggs' sparest and most difficult outing, this disc presents five untitled tracks of solo electric guitar improvisations marked by spacious, often nearly imperceptible treatments of the guitar through techniques far beyond usual strum and pick tactics. The opening, for example, is a seven-plus minute piece whose entire sonic output is stretched out among the time period with distinct and sudden blurts of scrape and grate that dissipate back into the white silence as quickly as they appear. Think John Cage meets Derek Bailey, or Alan Licht covering Morton Feldman.
From the beginning then, there is an emphasis on the spaces between the sounds as much as the sounds themselves, or, perhaps better put in this context, the holes are as numerous as the punches making them. Comparatively the second track, opening with a chalk on metal screeching, is downright loud, flitting about between what sounds like tinkling glasses and straws sucking caramel. Nary a recognizable guitar tone rears its head.
The same can be said throughout. The buzzing sound of a bug imitating a dentist drill lurches throughout the third track, as a grating tone pitch shifts back and forth beneath, eventually making its way to the head and lodging itself there, left to brew menacingly before breathy bowed drones wind and crack themselves into a heaping alien landscape. This is some extremely advanced and entirely organic improvisation that truly manages to carve out new approaches to sound-as-sound.
Perhaps most harrowing is the fourth track which, following the previous two, consists of 15 minutes of muffled stutters buried beneath vast crevices of emptiness. Christopher is willing to go as long as he needs to in order to make every sound count, and the result is as spare as they come. Sounds come and go throughout, but they are far from the norm. The closing fifth track sounds like a tea kettle whistle in a cavern, with static white noise writhing below the chirping bowed high end before bending like a rubber band into a frenetic release of tension whose quick cut-off leaves the album's end as mysterious as its beginning.
Christopher Riggs is a guy who deserves some attention. Anyone who has heard his playing with Hall and Morris knows that the guy has chops, but it is this stuff that really pushes the boundaries. Seemingly coming from a stance aligned more with the classically-based sound experimentalists of the twentieth century than the noise practitioners he often plays with, Riggs nevertheless walks the borders with aplomb, at once translating both sides into one another until any cultural delineation disappears and the sounds are left to do as they will. Beautiful, original and fully realized, this is work well worth grabbing before its 18 copies are gone forever.
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