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The new album opens with "Blessed Are They Who Bash Your Children's Heads Against A Rock," a track which should attract plenty of attention. It features Rev. Wright in combination with a slippery beat allowing plenty of space for his exact meaning to be heard. Either Wright is a great orator and Dälek have followed the rhythm of his speech or the gaps between his words have been cut into a suitable beat. Either way, the track perfectly flips the phrase "blessed are the peacemakers" into something quite different. Reverend Wright runs through a list of terrorist attrocities: Europeans seizing the USA from the Native American population; the kidnapping and subjugation of African slaves for labor; and dubious US military and foreign policy actions. It is the usual tale of blood, sweat, and tears in the cause of creating and defending our shopping malls, highways, and suburbs. There's no disputing the facts, just the interpretation. Wright cleverly says "we" to invite shared responsibility and punctuates his scorching diatribe with the word "terroism".
There's no topping the power and brevity of that track but there's plenty more combustive power on Gutter Tactics. "Street Diction" combines glistening, jangling detritus with thud and doom but the vocals are sometimes less audible than I'd like. When the musical radiation cloud clears a little, it's for a namechecking solidarity with other artists. A certain irony, since, as with Burial, the sound suggests humans coping with alienation, but projects an infectious isolation. This is music to be heard while alone. I suspect that even in the booming cars and at gigs these rythyms and rhymes do not create togetherness.
"A Collection of Miserable Thoughts" is lighter than much of this album but the words are a preemptive strike for artistic independence. Not as extreme as The Residents' manifesto of pure creation but the line "wasted breath or testament to the downtrodden" lays the stance out nicely. Dälek aren't really pushing the envelope on Gutter Tactics merely refusing to back down, apologize, or quit. The cover art shows a shadowy lynching, the afoementioned mutant, and NYC's Ground Zero; clear connections between a history of brutality and (what Rev. Wright calls) "chicken's coming home to roost." Thematically, "Los Macheteros/Spear Of A Nation" broadens the grievances beyond the USA by plucking barbaric incidents from the history of South Africa's apartheid regime.
Gutter Tactics is far from being preachy and heavy handed and it's quite possible to enjoy the disc without knowing "who Medgar Evars is". But the clues by which to appreciate these pieces in an broader historical and political context are here for those who wish to explore. That said, the lyrical content is not always impressive. "We Lost Sight," for example, is a dangerously seductive track, but when it's nearly done and the beats peel away all that's being said is: "We lost sight of how to use these mics/what scripts we write/how to choose the fights." The track is choppy and spry, but I can't work out if the message is aimed at other artists or at political figures. If it's the latter, then the unrepentant figure of the recently departed G.W. Bush naturally comes to mind, as do the words of Auden.
"Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets."
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- Blessed Are They Who Bash Your Children's Heads Against A Rock
- A Collection of Miserable Thoughts Laced with Wit
- Street Diction
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The album is broken into two sets, each clocking in at nearly a half hour. The first few seconds are a seeming call to arms for the duo, as a thick drone is topped by a near sountrack-worthy big band phrase before it slinks back in favor of the taught electronic improvsations that the duo has become known for since their classic Cluster 71 was released over 30 years ago. As huge swathes of air wipe across a frozen drone line, it is immediately clear that the duo has lost none of their patience. Bell like chimes soon loop in as a rhythmic bongo-like pulse urges the work forward.
Cluster have always had a knack for working around rhythmic motifs without allowing them too strong a hold on the progression of a piece. As the pulse slinks away it is replaced by hollow, water-logged vaults of sound that glisten atop one another. Clouds of fertile gestures emerge and present themselves before slinking back, creating an unnerving environment that never becomes creepy for creepy's sake. Rather, their sound is more reminiscent of a night swim with blue whales as giant bodies of tone lazily drift by in the dark while glowing crustaceons sway in the tides. It is a beautiful space, in line with Cluster's previous work without being a mere rehash of previous material. Sampled, near dancey beats enter and exit as the sound moves toward that of saws and metallic echoes ceaselessly evolving.
The second half of the performance explores similarly paced material as Cluster continue to display their adept musicality, beginning in an eighties style electrobeat that creeps along as synth moves swirl about on top. Again, Moebius and Roedelius are able to move from area to area without ever losing momentum. Gestures are looped over one another only to be replaced by others. That loops will disintegrate with ease and leave nothing lacking in the overall effect reveals the capabilities of these master improvisers. Never is one area sanctioned off from its neighboring parts by any definitive marker--rather, the different areas bend through one another, morphing with organic ease.
As bells harken the demise of the beat, the second part enters into the same snaking and aimless waters that have influenced so many over the years. Yet despite the ample achievements of disciples whose work has helped shape as stylistically broad genres as noise, industrial, techno and rock, Cluster again show their work to be unique in its successful fusing of aesthetics that only later would be explored individually. Berlin 07 is an album that not only strengthens this assertion; it continues in shaping its legacy.
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It’s hard for me to not speak in hyperbole when discussing this set. Rather than focusing on esoteric artsyness (e.g. Aube) or clichéd serial killer and prostitute murders (early Whitehouse and a large proportion of US noise bands), the Incaps are just two regular guys who, after their white collar jobs are done, like to get together, crank up the homemade electronics, and have a seizure of fun behind the mics. Any Youtube search of their performances will make this painfully obvious: they dance, they wrestle, they jump around, and it all looks like a hell of a lot of fun. The best thing about the actual output from these guys is the sheer complexity of sound. As far as noise artists go, few can match their dynamic, layered sound that each subsequent listen reveals some new sound or tone that didn’t seem to be there before.
Presented here are seven of their early cassette releases, spread across ten discs: Stupid is Stupid (one studio and one live disc), Extreme Gospel Nights, Ad Nauseam (originally three cassettes: one of Fumio Kosakai solo, one of T. Mikawa solo, and a collaborative live tape), D.D.D.D., The Tongue, Cosmic Incapacitants, and I, Residuum. The Incapacitans sound is a consistent one: layer upon layer of overdriven electronic noise above which the two salarymen take turns shrieking or growling into a microphone. That’s not to say there aren’t subtle variations: a comparison of "Stupid is Stupid" and "Don’t Sleep While We Explain" from the first disc alone show this: the former is all low end crunch and occasional death metal guttural growls, while the latter is more high frequency tones, siren textures, and higher pitched shrieks.
Comparing the studio and live recordings it's quite obvious the band isn’t spending a lot of time in the studio in post-production or multitracking, but the feel between the two is distinct. The natural reverberations and different environments create a different sound in the live setting: the Stupid is Stupid live tracks allow much more of the vocals through, the chattering electronics still there and forceful, but the voices not as buried. The live disc of Ad Nauseaum is a different beast entirely: lots of static and ambient noise makes it feel more like a crunchy, grimy bootleg recording (in the best possible way).
The solo discs also show the separate parts that make the whole of the band: Mikawa's disc is all sustained metallic industrial roar, while Kosakai's is more idiosyncratic, the first track "Technodelicatessen" being a goofy pisstake on dance music that could be a lost Front 242 remix, while the closing “Into Another’s Doom’s Pain” is muffled raw power electronics and divebomb tones mixed with some bizarre vocalisms. One of the more dramatic shifts is in the latter portion of these discs. Cosmic Incapacitants is an appropriately titled release, because it filters the boys' usual din through a mess of flangers, echos, and phasers to give a distinctly 1960s sci-fi meets psychedelic substances feeling, even more so than Kosakai’s other band, C.C.C.C., ever did.
Lasse Marhaug and his PicaDisk label must be commended for the presentation of this work. All ten discs are in their own individual sleeves reproducing the original cassette artwork, or in the case of the oddly packaged Ad Nauseaum and Cosmic Incapacitants, detailed photos of the original releases, and it comes with a great 40 page booklet featuring liner notes by Mikawa and Kosakai, as well as Yoshihide Otomo and Jim Sauter of Borbetomagus, and some photos of the band at work. It’s obviously something done out of a love for the band, and it shows.
Not to sound elitist here, but this isn’t the kind of thing that will appeal to people who have heard "a Merzbow disc or two" or "that Wolf Eyes album on Sub Pop". It's aimed more at the established noise fan who knows their Masonna from their Government Alpha. But, for anyone with an inkling of interest, it's a wonderful time capsule from the Golden Age of Japanese Noise that anyone can enjoy.
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A collaboration between the aforementioned O’Malley and Tibet, along with Vincent De Roguin (Shora) and Daniel O’Sullivan (Guapo), is a bizarre mix of kraut rock influenced dark mysticism, with a healthy dose of free jazz chaos and bleak dark ambient passages. The disc’s opening barrage of amphetamine fueled free jazz dual drumming over ominous electronic drones, coupled with the occasional metallic crash or bang. The drums continue along with processed organ stabs and creepy bells before the chaos drops out entirely.
The remaining portion of the first (of four untitled) tracks is left with sweeping symbol crashes, bells and Tibet’s vocals, which are more musical and less abrasive than much of his work with Current 93, but perfectly matches the demonic bleakness of the music. The drums actually stay mostly out of the mix for the remainder of the album, rather than aggressive, the music prefers to lurk.
The second piece opens with some bangs and clatters, sharp feedback bursts, and heavily effected ambient tones, much more sparse than the opening track. However, while it lacks the chaos of the first track, it does stay menacing, growing even darker with deep synths, bells, and chanted vocals. Tibet’s traditional vocals that appear near the end are double tracked, the slightly off-kilter sequencing of them only adds to the creepiness.
Part three begins in a similar way, hard panned stuttering percussion like unseen beings closing in from all directions, but just out of sight. The buried, pained vocals complement the dramatic piano and organ flourishes, the vocals eventually being cut up into fragments that resemble swarms of locusts, eventually letting the drums swell back up into the mix.
The final track clocks in at half the length of the previous ones, and closes the album with sustained ambient tones, soft vocals, and mangled guitar and organ tones. It is a fittingly dark and menacing ending to an apocalyptic album that leans towards more of David Tibet’s flirtations with the imagery instead of Stephen O’Malley’s…rather than maximalist dark noise and chaos, it is the subtle creepiness that colored Current 93’s best work that is more characteristic of this.
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One thing that holds true for Wino after all these years is that he does not surprise his listeners. Every album by Wino’s various bands sounds roughly the same; his style has changed little since his time in Saint Vitus. Yet despite this tendency towards a standard, the quality of the music still varies wildly from release to release. For example, Wino’s last band, The Hidden Hand, started out strong and ended up fairly flaccid by the end without really evolving musically. With Punctuated Equilibrium, the musical template still has not changed (this could have been recorded 20 years ago) but the passion has returned. The riffs here are huge, the solos are like lasers and Wino’s vocals sound more energetic than they have in years.
There is a good mixture of straightforward songs like the title track (I never thought evolutionary theory would make a good song but Wino makes it work) and pieces where the band just grooves and lets Wino loose on the guitar. “Wild Blue Yonder” features some fantastic wah-wah solos from Wino’s magic fingers. “Secret Realm Devotion” combines the best of Wino’s songwriting and guitar playing (although the chorus is a bit wobbly); there is some seriously killer riffage and soloing going on here.
It's great to see Wino back firing on all cylinders; Punctuated Equilibrium is one of the best things he has put his name to in a long time (which explains why his name is now so prominently displayed). All the classic Wino ingredients are here but the music never sounds as antiquated or as worn-out as The Hidden Hand did towards the end. This is a no-nonsense, no-frills beast of a metal album, just Wino doing as he does best and it is great to hear him sounding like he is having fun again.
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Waldron’s contribution has been “extracted and distilled” from his classic Perekluchenie album. This collage style of music can be difficult to do effectively within the constraints of a 7” (especially when there is only one side available to the artists) but “Dented Switchery (Wretched Density Mix)” works well in this format. The paranoid sounding stringed instrument morphing into a rasping drone, like a rusty gate that needs oiling, “Dented Switchery” is one of Walrdon’s more unnerving pieces.
Boyd’s “Compare Me to a Shadow” is definitely the star of this pair of tracks. At first, I thought my record player was broken (well, more broken than it already is) but the scratchy rhythm blossomed into a dusty beauty. The piece begins quietly, static-like pulses and what sounds like a recording of distant traffic. Towards the end, strange glissandos stream through the piece like shuttles from another dimension.
There is also an art edition limited to 100 copies available which features signed and numbered prints from Waldron and Boyd. Waldron has included a drawing of one of his mysterious and unsettling chimeric beasts whereas Boyd contributes a stark and baffling image of an egg in a cage. I feel these prints are worth the extra money but, in these cash-strapped times, I do not feel that they substantially add to the listening experience. That being said, the listening experience is wonderful and the 7” is more than enough value for money on its own.
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The rough-edged rendition of the American national anthem was a staple of their recent live shows, a bizarre interlude amidst the usual heavy as lead songs. It worked on stage but played on its own it falls flat on its face. The flip side to this single is a cover of my favourite Kiss song, “Detroit Rock City.” The influence of Kiss on the Melvins is legendary; they have covered Stanley et al. numerous times previously and one only has to look at the three solo EPs put out by the Melvins to see that these guys are obsessed. Despite all this, “Detroit Rock City” is a pedestrian attempt at the song. The guitar solos are too clinical, neither Buzz Osbourne nor guest guitarist Adam Jones (of Tool) sound like they are giving it their all.
This is a mediocre release from a group who are capable of much better. This single is purely of novelty value only; yet novelty value is highly prized amongst Melvins fans so no doubt this single will sell out for that reason alone. However, I will not be spinning this often.
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On the whole, Wino could easily be lumped in with the post-Nirvana noise rock contingent that was represented by most of the Amphetamine Reptile label in the early to mid 1990s. The music is loud, crass, angry, and sloppy, all of which are very positive qualities. In addition, most of the pieces do have that certain guitar sound that many of the records of this era had, for better or worse. It’s not my favorite sound, but there is a certain nostalgia factor attached to it.
Many of the tracks, most notably "Red Wings" and "My House," feature that stop/start rhythm between screamed vocals and noisy guitar, co-opted from Big Black by way of Helmet. The similarly structured, but slower pace and more violent sound of "Heaven" resembles what Godflesh could have sounded like if they had gone more grunge rather than electronic/industrial in their career. "Glass Blower" also has a clearer reference point: the guitar tone is in league with Dinosaur Jr., but with heavily delayed and screamed vocals throughout.
The songs that step outside of this model are the ones that shine through. "Dutch Oven" and "Winner Takes Nothing" both clock in as sub-two minute rapid fire near hardcore punk blasts. The instrumental "Attack Utopia" has a slightly twisted surf guitar line and a slower, sludgy middle section. "Eon" is cheap keyboards, electronic drums and chimes with silly spoken word. The most bizarre is "Desperation," a track opening with chimes and bells, a bit of sax, and eventually becomes a mutant hybrid between metal and jazz, a fusion that Kevin Martin pioneered in God, though here more stripped down in comparison.
It is great in theory to have the entire band’s discography compiled, but the problem is there is simply not that much variety between songs. They’re great for sloppy, aggressive hate rock, but the songwriting here isn’t exceptional, so most of the songs neither caught my attention via catchy choruses, nor did they work in a cathartic, anger release way that their influences Swans and Big Black could have done. There’s some good moments in here, but there’s also a good deal of filler.
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The opening three tracks of this album lean more towards the dancefloor/techno end of the band's sound. The sprawling "Skydive From Venus" leans more on the ambient side of ambient techno, burying the beats low in the mix and focusing on analog synth funk squelches and classic electro basslines. "Crystal" and "ChiTown Shuffle" take similar approaches, the former slathered in reverb while the latter has a genital vibrating bass thump, but both are techno with lots of processing and sound effects. The best thing is that, even these dance floor focused tracks are nuanced in their construction: sure, there’s the simple thump percussion, but the layers of synth and effects make them worthwhile off the dance floor.
Most of the tracks are tinged with it anyway, but "Rollin’ Paper & Bush" and the unlisted demo mix of "Rebal Music" are overt funk in the classic sense. Here the connection with George Clinton’s crew becomes most clear, both of the tracks mix the DGP’s standard electro/techno sound with unadulterated funk and rock that would even make Prince proud. It is in both of these that the vocals are attempts at social commentary, but here they don’t show quite the narrative proficiency of Mr. Clinton. Here it is ham-handed and overwrought…and mocking G.W. Bush started being a cliché somewhere around 2003 or 2004, but at least here the music overshadows the lyrics.
Yes, the vocals are best left to the silly songs, which straddle the line between sophomoric and absurdly brilliant. "Earth Hoes" sounds like a follow up to "Sandwiches," using the same pitch shifted vocals of that track over a stripped down minimal electro track with hints of Miami Bass ass shaking beats. "Butt Market" has a similar vibe: dirty electro synth, samples, and even a guitar solo, all with vocals discussing going to the vendor of buttocks. "Dirty ‘Ole Man" keeps the electro, but adds in cheesy Casio synth leads, operatic vocal samples, and snippets of Redd Foxx standup comedy. In short, it’s awesome.
My personal preference here is more on the electro tracks. Even though the DGP’s take a more diverse and calculated approach to dance and house music, I always love the old school synths and stiff beats. The vocal tracks are among my favorite simply because they exhibit the full range of style here, there’s electro synth, drum machine beats, absurdist lyrics, and a whole lot of funk. But with the exception of the forced social commentary and lame skits, the tracks here are great.
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A grotesque pile of meat adorns the cover to Luasa Raelon's latest album. This lifeless arrangement of tissue communicates perfectly the various tones and distorted synthetic sounds that populate much of The House of Flesh. Piled one on top of the other, Reed's machines generate a buzzing mass of atonal filth infused with frigid details. Glacial slabs of sound creak and grate against each other producing an air of emptiness; one would expect some substance beneath their surface, but Reed annihilates anything deeper than the superficial breeze of synthesized sine waves. The music is abrupt and clinical, sometimes sounding incomplete or sterile. This compositional approach is, at times, frustrating, but it produces genuinely desolate music of a frightening quality. Whether or not it is enjoyable is a different question, however, and I'm suspicious of Reed's intent on this record.
The album is divided into nine distinct cuts. These pieces begin and end as individual songs, but I am inclined to believe that each one was cut from the same extended and unedited work. There are pieces on the record that feature more distinct qualities than others, but none of them play host to any of the defining characteristics that typically set one song or piece apart from another. Songs like "Welcome to the House" and "These Rooms Are Alive" are distinct enough as movements but do not sound to me like whole entities in and of themselves. This amplifies the fragmented, detached nature of the album, but simultaneously disturbs its sometimes pleasant continuity. Among these dead noises there are blissful moments, but perhaps Reed aimed to avoid such pleasantries. Unexpected silences and sudden fades often end these songs, lending credence to the idea that the sequencing was designed to make an uncomfortable record all the more awkward. The House of Flesh can be listened to and appreciated, but that does not make it a pleasant or enjoyable album. It is an odd and unquiet record that squirms with a nervous and unsettling energy and obviates certain customs to which it pretends adherence. Even for Reed this is a strange and inexplicable recording.
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