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Robot Records
Open Air is musical moonshine; it was recorded live and out doors, by the light of the moon, presumably for a small group of friends. The entirety of the album consists of many of the elements expected from this duo: slow, low-end drones; a counterpoint of high, slightly metallic rustlings; and just a smattering of odd percussive sounds or otherwise out-of-place errata. Just a few elements and a bit patience yields an undeniably gorgeous record that scares up equal parts paranoia and reverence. When the sounds are worked up into an intensity of any sort, Heemann and Van Luijk smartly provide a lull and introduce new or slightly altered elements in order to keep the mix dynamic. There's nothing dull about their process nor the resulting music, but there's a level of predictability to this group's music that's difficult to ignore. Fans of Mirror and other like-minded groups may be able to grasp the scope of this album within their imagination and thus plot out its course before even hearing the first minute.
The album begins with a hushed drone, a sudden thud, and with the sounds of laughter or conversation evident in the background. This is the only indication that the album has any live element to it whatsoever and it lasts only seconds. Over two long tracks, In Camera builds up rumbling soundscapes and understated howls that move gently back and forth. The second song features several sections where the instrumentation employed to make all this sound is almost identifiable; I hear a Japanese flute and perhaps a pump organ winding into each other seamlessly, perhaps a detuned guitar string being teased slowly, too. Yet, the music remains alien and disconnected from the real world. By the time the record has ended Open Air, like the best drone records, has transported you somewhere else and induced amnesia. The sound stops and then all the sound in the room returns to claim dominance.
This album is being released in multiple formats with multiple additions to entice the collector: the first 88 copies of the 400 CDs pressed come with a bonus CDR of music recorded live on Dutch radio. The 105 copies of the 2xLP version feature a bonus disc with solo pieces from both Heemann and Luijk. If In Camera's output is somewhat predictable, the bonus CD containing the VPRO performance more than makes up for that fact. It begins much like the first song from Open Air but quickly establishes itself as a unique entity. Heemann and Luijk break their minimalist habits a bit and inject their frozen tones with more activity than is usual. The patient craftsmen that they are, they slowly build monstrous cascades of sound that are far more imposing than what's featured on the record proper. There are instrumental passages that sound as though Ravi Shankar might've been part of the group and, better yet, there are mammoth stretches of slightly more distorted noise that really fill out In Camera's sometimes limited sound. Hearing plucked strings and the dulcimer on this performance turned In Camera's drone work into something much, much more exciting and much more expansive. I find myself spending more time with this disc and enjoying it for its more extensive palette.
Open Air is a fine record, but I desire something extra from Heemann and Luijk. I want to be surprised and taken by the music instead of knowing what to expect, but enjoying it nonetheless. Other collaborations featuring Heemann are exemplary examples of just how pliable and exciting drone records can be; his work with Merzbow comes immediately to mind. For the time being, I'm pleased with what has become this duo's specialty, but I'm hoping to see them move into new territory in the future. If they can do it on VPRO, then surely they can do it on record.
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One of the most admirable aspects of this album is its restraint. Many of these songs date back to the late 1990s, and Simenon apparently recorded versions with full instrumentation and multiple synthesizers. At some point last year, Simenon returned to this material, but was unhappy with the previous arrangements, and decided to remake the entire album with nothing but a MiniMoog and a laptop. This was a smart decision, as this restriction instantly lends the album a strong sense of cohesiveness, a quality not often found in multi-vocalist electronic albums. The fat analog basslines, spidery synth figures, and chunky rhythms created with the Moog make the album a real treat for fans of analog soundcraft. The whole album chugs along with a sound that feels refreshingly uncalculated; a dark, playful, and mostly quiet suite of bedroom pop songs. If this album has any contemporary point of reference, I would say that it sounds much more like Matthew Dear's Asa Breed than newer works by BTB compatriots such as Meat Beat Manifesto or Massive Attack. There aren't any concessions to dubstep here.
The name of the album is perhaps its only major weakness, a name so generic it sounds like it was produced by drawing at random from a big hat of techno clichés. There's nothing particularly chaotic or futuristic about this album, and if it does touch on contemporary anxieties about the future—pollution, technophobia, isolation—it does so in a way that sounds personal, withdrawn. The guest vocals contribute to this atmosphere, a small selection of exclusively male vocalists all of whom take similar approaches to the material. With the exception of Jon Spencer's fiery contribution, the vocals aim for quiet intensity, soulful whispers and moody introspection. It's an album that lurks in the shadows, far away from warehouse raves and chillout lounges, in alleyways and small after-hours gatherings. As such, it may be something of a disappointment to those looking for a club banger with the bombast of "Beat Dis" or "Bug Powder Dust" (or even "Buffalo Stance"), but Simenon is aiming for something different this time around.
Listeners who have followed Simenon's production work over the past two decades will recognize shades of Depeche Mode in "Smog," in which Paul Conboy's multitracked vocal harmonies are set against a dense background of percolating synthesizer. There are some truly thick and delicious synth sounds on this record, courtesy of Moog's signature sound, of course, but also BTB's mastery of the instrument. "Butterfingers" is my favorite track on the album, a weird little electropop song that is the most instantly catchy song on the album. While the infectious rhythm and bassline are a big part of the charm, as are strange lines like "I play Tetris in my eyelids," it's also refreshing to hear David Best's vocals outside of their usual Neu!-style lockgrooves of Fujiya and Miyagi. The track is psychedelic and shimmering, but still somehow claustrophobic and disturbing. (As a side note, if you haven't seen the video for this track, by all means check it out.) "Burn the Bunker" is not nearly as bombastic as its title seems to indicate; instead, it's a quietly urgent electro track with hints of jungle drum & bass, vocals contributed by trip-hop artist Toob. The refrain of "Cheap technology and gasoline/My future don't smell like magazines," neatly encapsulates the album's unorthodox deconstruction of mass culture and technology in these pre-apocalyptic times.
"So Special" is yet another standout, an excellent song given an impossibly dense arrangement that seems all the more impressive when you remember that it's all made from one MiniMoog. In "No Bones," Conboy's vocals are cut up to mirror a sparkling synth arpeggiation, just another layer of audio detail in a melancholy, urbane pop song that benefits tremendously from its dense, atmospheric production. The tracks featuring Conboy do the majority of the emotional heavy lifting for Future Chaos, but the other contributors all bring something unique to their tracks. Mark Lanegan of Screaming Trees contributes vocals to "Black River," which sounds like an attempt to turn an alt-country song into a dark electro slow-burner. It's not an altogether convincing juxtaposition, and Lanegan sounds a bit set adrift in the dense electronics, but it's never boring for its four minute running time. The album ends with "Fuzzbox" with vocals by Jon Spencer, the only real tent-burner on the album. Spencer's bluesy punk snarls are set against Simenon's sheets of fuzzy drone, with rubbery acid basslines peeking out everywhere. It's breathlessly exciting stuff.
The album is a bit slim at only nine songs (although the double-disc special edition does contain a bonus track and seven remixes of album tracks by various producers such as Future Funk Squad and Gui Borrato), and a relatively short running time, but it packs in the quality and contains zero filler. It's not quite the album that BTB fans might have expected, and indeed it doesn't slot in easily with any of the electronic styles currently in vogue. To my mind, this is a bonus, as the music cannot be so easily dismissed as the product of this-or-that movement, as happens with so many electronic albums. Whatever the title might suggest, Future Chaos is a work of surprising restraint and control, and if it sometimes looks towards the future, the strength of the songwriting assures that the album has the potential to be timeless.
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Instead, the opening of “Strict” sets the tone that the remainder of the album will follow: A guitar tortured into a repeating shriek, a bassline that’s so overdriven that it muffles the rapid-fire drums, and screamed vocals that may or may not be actual words. The air-raid siren guitar is almost like a warning for everyone around to get the fuck out, though the chaotic sludge around makes escape impossible.
The band retreats a bit for “Intrinsic to the Execution,” which gives a little more room to breathe and a slower pace. Showing a greater ear for structure, the opening swell of distorted bass and controlled feedback, later being met with harsh screams and sustained electronic tones. Continuing the feel of slow menace, it’s almost like a metal band covering early MB or Ramleh in a garage somewhere.
The overly lo-fi recording of “Paralysis Simulacrum” sounds like it is employing a bit of the ol’ metal junk percussion here and there, but that could just be shitty drum mic’ing. This, plus the gurgling vocals and electronic pulses sound ready to break out into a full on blast of some unclean rock/noise hybrid variety, but never reaches that point, instead staying restrained and leaving the listener with a case of blue balls.
“Mangled Earth,” at least, gives the climax desired: though the sustained guitar noise and oscillator bass line remain the dominant element for the most part, the concession to blasting spazz-core drumming towards the end is much more relieving and satisfying. The closing “Freezing Alone,” for all its noise elements, sounds more in-line with the current crop of doom metal, both on the vocal tone and thick guitar and bass distortion, though the insane rapid-fire drumming causes the pace to be a bit different than any other similar band.
There’s no real crossover appeal or severe innovation going on here. It is essentially a by-the-numbers noise and rock hybrid that, while not doing anything new, does a lot of things very well. And part of those things it does well includes destroying speakers and causing children to run in terror, which, as Martha Stewart would say, is a very good thing.
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There is a definite sense of the dramatic throughout the entire album, not only in the arrangements (including horns and strings), but in the somewhat operatic vocals of Sam Mickens that aren’t quite over the top, but close enough to the edge that it could be problematic if the lyrics weren’t so damn abstract to balance it out. The good-natured presentation of the disc is what prevents it from straying into the overly pretentious, but instead maintains a healthy absurdist sense of humor.
Both “Make Mine Marvel” and “Monster Island Czars” conjure images of spy movie tension with the thick mixes, taut rhythms and strings right out of a 1970s disco ballad. That mix of tension and lush pretense is what gives the album its overall unique feel and vibe. On tracks like “The Dancing Destroyer” the nervous energy and tense pace is almost too much, creating an aura of discomfort just from listening, like the expectation that something bad is going to happen at any time.
Others have a slightly more inviting ambience, the jazz influenced rock sound of “Death Duel Productions” still has that flair for the dramatic, but in a less tense, more inviting way. “Lamentable” and “Holliston” both lean towards more sparse production, the former based around acoustic guitar and a subtle, tasteful string section, while the latter focuses on piano and vocals, pulling it more into the world of classic R&B than anything else. Only on “Sword Cane” does the sound seem to squarely fit into traditional “rock” sounds, and even then it makes for a twitchy, nervy experience.
The Dead Science clearly have their own distinct sound that, oddly enough, isn’t out of place with their label-mates on Constellation. Post-rock might be the best way to describe their odd, abstract take on the traditional, but by augmenting it with a bit of jazz here and there, and the lush, almost cheesy 1970s pop instrumentation, an entirely different sound and sense is created. Mix in the bent towards the absurd and there’s a distinctly strange, but engaging combination there.
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As per usual, the amount of information included with this album is minimal. Aside from recording dates, titles and the barcode art of the cover (interestingly there is no commercial barcode printed on the sleeve), the only concrete piece of information is that this is part of Ikeda’s ongoing Datamatics project. However, according to Ikeda’s own site:
“test pattern is a system that converts any type of data (text, sounds, photos and movies) into barcode patterns and binary patterns of 0s and 1s. Through its application, the project aims to examine the relationship between critical points of device performance and the threshold of human perception.”
What this means is very much up to the individual. Ikeda is famously silent about what is work means or could mean, leaving it up to each member of the audience (whether live or seated in their own homes) to come to their own conclusions. My opinions on Test Pattern are still in their formative state but my take home point, should you choose to accept it, is that Ikeda is highlighting that the vast majority of information out there is not in a format that we can understand. Barcodes and binary form the basis of communication in commerce and the world at large, these are machine-readable systems that cannot be understood directly by humans. First, by taking media familiar to us (such as film, sound and pictures) and converting them to this data format, Ikeda shows that no matter how realistic these images are, they are still just the edge of what we can experience (the 1s and 0s will always be alien). Secondly, by further converting these pieces of data into sound, he rehumanises the data and allows us to engage it in another way.
Philosophical blithering aside, it sounds exceptional. The aesthetic present on 2005’s Dataplex is instantly familiar but the music here is far more composed sounding: both deliberate and rhythmic. Some moments could easily be built up into dance tracks a la Autechre but the strange nature of data pulls it away from the brink. Played at the right volume, frequencies high, low, and everywhere in between stream from the speakers. The room rattles and the body tries to respond to the complex rhythms but gets knotted and lost. Each piece becomes steadily more complex, starting with a relatively short and simple “Test Pattern #0001” and peaking with the cluster-fuck of “Test Pattern #1101.”
In a career of consistent high quality, Test Pattern sticks out as being one of the more viscerally satisfying releases. Ikeda has cooked up a storm here but seeing that this part of the Datamatics project also exists as a live multimedia experience, I cannot help but feel that I am only seeing the tip of the iceberg. Considering the high power and resolution of modern home audiovisual equipment, I am surprised Ikeda has not explored the area of DVD further than he has. That being said, as long as he keeps releasing audio CDs like this, I’m not going to complain.
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Julie Doiron is Phil Elverum's favorite singer. He acknowledges that it was her work with Eric's Trip which first inspired him to make music and that the chance to work with her during a week-long session is the culmination of a dream. Consequently, he ensures that her singing has ample space in which to shine. The only adornments on Lost Wisdom are two guitars, a vibraphone, and his voice, all of which frame her voice perfectly. Elverum's intimate songs (as The Microphones and as Mount Eerie) live or die by the power of his words. He makes sure they are not buried under other instruments and his voice carries a depth of feeling without straining to convey emotion.
Several of these songs were written during a winter in Norway a few years ago and they were recorded swiftly to a reel-to-reel tape machine. Maybe those are two reasons why, despite lyrics with both weighty and fragile concerns, the music never loses a sense of confident clarity and a natural feeling of lightness. Strangely, the only time this is threatened is on "If We Knew..." when Doiron accompanies herself (with double-tracked vocals) and a little contrast seems to be lost. For some reason Lost Wisdom recalls a time when people tried (unsuccessfully) to convince me that Leonard Cohen's first two albums were depressing. The arrangements and melodies are simple, the playing is quiet and slow, but there is an openess and intensity here which ensure that the music never becomes stodgy or pretentious. This is arguably the best of Elverum's releases to date. For me, "With My Hands Out" is the standout track but these things often have a way of revealing themselves slowly. Most assuredly, there isn't a dull piece here.
I like that the songs are not hidden beneath layers of sound or behide obstuse phrases. Instead, they rest on themes of love, meaning and suffering amid recognition of impermanence and mortality. The opening lines to "O My Heart" suggest that Elverum is wise enough to know that none of this can be forced:
- "What I find will be found easily and only when I'm not looking for it
Without looking for the morning in the sunset"
Somewhat against the grain, Phil Elverum is making worthwhile artifacts even as recorded music is increasingly presented as a virtually invisible construct of the digital age. Lost Wisdom is available in October as a CD or on white vinyl with a massive poster. In November another Mount Eerie release, Dawn, will follow, containing music from the same 2002/2003 winter. Dawn will be out as both a white vinyl LP with a booklet of self portraits, and also as a CD bound in "wood" paper, with 16 photo cards, and a 144 page hardcover book of Elverum's journals of the period.
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Artist: Merzbow
Title: Anicca
Catalogue No: CSR107CD
Barcode: 8 2356647102 8
Format: CD in jewelcase
Genre: Japanese Noise / Free Improv
Buy CD | Download
The first track on Merzbow's latest opus was recorded at Tin Pan Alley studios, London, on 20th April 2008 - the day after his momentous performance at ULU. Akita created an astounding and very unique 20-minute track, playing freestyle drums over his trademark noise. The final 2 tracks were created at Munemi House in Tokyo.
Another fine example of why Merzbow is the undisputed King of Japanese Noise! 58 minutes in total.
Tracks: 1. 'Anicca Part. 1' (18:22) | 2. 'Anicca Part. 2' (21:41) | 3. 'Anicca Part. 3' (17:18)
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The word ‘secret’ in this context is not meant to signify hidden, rather it is meant to highlight less common, as well as new and emergent, rhythms. Indeed, these species of rhythms inhabit the digital grooves of this CD in abundance. Here on Secret Rhythms 3 the emphasis is placed on creating a tapestry of exotic panoramas, from jazz and dub to calypso and late night ambience. While doing so, the musicians play off each other, sparking off new ideas and elaborating new textures continuously. Rhythms shift and swirl endlessly, appearing out of nowhere and then disappearing, only to reappear in some mutated form later on. Instrumentation encompasses both the acoustic and the electronic forms, as well as the electric. Sounds melt in and out of vision, sliding in to take their turn and then once more receding when others demand their time in the spotlight. What results is pure liquid musicianship, a scintillating marriage of percussion and sound, a blend of the exotic, the colourful, the laidback, and the urgent.
“Morning has Broken” exemplifies the combination of almost shapeless melodies draped over a solid rhythmic framework so typical of the pieces on this album. Liebezeit’s drumwork, while not overly complex in nature, nevertheless pins the wings of this exotic creature to the canvas, so to speak, imparting a kind of amorphous structure to what would otherwise be a somewhat elusive beast. A constant and languorous Latin-style beat, aided and abetted by a syncopated guitar rhythm, creates a girder framework around which e-bowed guitar flies and swoops gracefully. “Gegenwart” follows a similar path, where a deceptively simple drumbeat masks a startling complexity augmented by saxophone running in quicksilver manner and set against more of that fluid background. While separately they appear to be just random elements, together they form a complex network of sonic threads and in turn helping to delineate a detailed picture.
“Trittbrettfahrer” ups the ante and the urgency with a funk/calypso number, even going so far as to include faux steel-drum tones dancing around the clipped guitar funk-rhythm. Even though its heartbeat originated in the Caribbean, this treatment rips it out and transplants it into a European context. Keeping with the funkiness, “Entsafter” pulls us back onto the dance-floor before having a chance to sit down. Chopped acoustic six-string motors behind some over-driven wah-wahed guitar, the pulse just tempting, nay driving, the whole body to move in sympathy. It’s infectious, seeping into and affecting every part of the human frame, until it is nigh on impossible to deny.
One of the most satisfying aspects about this for me was the breadth of atmospheres and moods portrayed. Just like an old master painting, satisfaction derives from observing the mastery with which the artist has created his vision and the way he marshals his media and tools to that end. Both Friedman and Liebezeit combined have a huge palette from which to work and on this outing they set about creating the right textures and hues to capture those moods and atmospheres. With a sureness and a deft touch born of long involvement with, and immersion in, music, it is immediately apparent that with just a few light strokes here and some broad strokes there they manage to conjure up the most magical of musical vistas.
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The covers, a mix of instrumental and vocal songs, come from a number of sources, including Israeli film soundtracks, Balkan dances, a traditional Turkish song, and others. While I'm not personally familiar with most of the originals, the group adds so much of their infectious personality to them that it's hard to determine the cultures from which they come. In Boom Pam's hands, Dick Dale's pleasant head rush "The Wedge" and "Ay Carmela," from the Israeli film Comrade, could have been written by the same person.
I already mentioned the tuba, which memorably fills the role of a bass, but the other players are equally talented. The success of "Ani Rotse Lazuz" relies on its heavy beat while banjo and guitar have some great interplay in "Shayeret Harohvim." The guitar even gets surprisingly abrasive for a large portion of "Krai Dunvasko." The album finishes somewhat anticlimactically with a long stretch of instrumentals before the vocal version of "Aye, Carmela" finishes it on a high note. Apart from the slow section, the band plays with tremendous energy, lending credence to their reputation as a fantastic live band.
Puerto Rican Nights is hardly a typical covers album. Not only are the songs themselves far from usual fare, but the band's exuberant interpretations makes for an original and unexpectedly enjoyable experience.
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The album works so well because the memorable contributions far outweigh the forgettable ones. Jah Dan leads things off with the dark and appropriately bass-heavy "Chasing the Paper," decrying materialism and greed. Similarly, No Surrender aims for justice on "Run Down." Yet not every song is about social protest. Yo Majesty's unabashed lust is evident on the glorious "Pony Girl," while Karen Gibson Roc talks about God as a woman and springing from Her chest on "Spirit Made Flesh."
One of the odder tracks is "La Vie Senvolet," which features Judith Juileratt speaking French over an airy, percolating background. With rhythms but no real beats, it is a mostly atmospheric track with little development. It's not bad, but feels a little out of place compared to the other songs because of its lightness and soft vocal delivery.
Yet even more bizarre is the cover of Suicide's "Cheree" featuring Michael Stipe. To his credit, Stipe does an admirable job at interpreting the lyrics. The strangest part is actually the arrangement, which features various strings, harp, and even a glockenspiel. To be fair, the song sounds great, but the huge orchestration is at odds with all of the tracks preceding it.
Despite a couple of minor missteps, good beats and a variety of strong performances keep the album afloat. Its deep guest list coupled with its strong production make Anarchy & Alchemy a compelling listen.
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