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Vive La Fantastique! Avec Actual Birds and Friends begins with "Honesty is Still My Best Policy," a song rooted in the Velvet Underground's simplicity, but reaching for a more finely produced fuzz. The suggestion is of the mid to late 1960s, with enough retrospect to make up for any of the edgy aspects of that period that didn't work or come to fruition. The bits of this album that sound like pop music are nice and clean, with all the charm that a home recording has to offer. The other parts are fairly typical exercises in tape manipulation and looping. Voices rebound, echo, wash, and repeat in often nonsensical patterns. Instead of expanding the album's reach and offering more to fans of strange music and pop alike, this inclusion of strange sounds basically severs the album from itself. The disc no longer sounds like a coherent or cohesive package and begins to sound like a random assembly of songs that didn't fit anywhere else, either.
With the first quarter of the album sounding like a competent set of songs, this is a bit of a disappointment. Krcatovich introduces the album well, and until "O Ye of Little Faith (Something I Should Not See)" begins, there's no reason to think that the album is about to sink under the weight of its own conception. From that point forward, the "experimental" end of the album begins; while there are recognizable songs on some of them, there's also a huge load of unnecessary effects, distortion, and strange instrumentation littered over Krcatovich's voice. His songs do just fine as little guitar numbers. They're catchy without needing any weird production or unusual technique thrown in for spice. It is possible to do too much to a song or a record, Actual Birds has made the mistake of doing just that. Not only do the songs become stranger and less appealing as they go, but the way Krcatovich sings begins to fall out of harmony with the music; in some places the juxtaposition is jarring and uncomfortable.
This is the first effort from an obviously ambitious musician, but some amount of temperance will be needed to take his raw talent and turn it into something worthwhile from beginning to end. As it stands, now, there are a few treats on this record, but not enough to warrant multiple listens. Tape loops and pop songs does not an experimental album make, so maybe Actual Birds should just stick to what they're best at: writing some decent hooks. That'll improve whatever their next release is a thousand fold.
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Little Trip is dripping with Americana or at least an Icelandic view of Americana. Pedal steel guitar and brass are used to excess throughout the CD. I found the whole thing cloying; it was like Radiohead doing country or something equally inappropriate. Maybe in the context of the film this music is a masterstroke but on its own it just sounds self indulgent and trite. “Go Blind” and “Little Trip to Heaven” are two pieces that appear early in the album (they are songs as opposed to the many miniature soundscapes on the album). Both are corny and highly annoying. The vocals are mawkish and false sounding; breathless exaggerations of words here intended to bring “feeling” to the lyrics instead bring out nausea in me.
I struggled to find any saving grace to Little Trip. Nearly every track is a new experience in tedium. It feels like Mugison wants to irritate me. The closest thing to good on the album is “Alone in a Hotel” which is a short piece that consists solely of trumpet and trombone. It lives up to its name, the brass sounds as lonesome as Hank Williams. It is followed by “Rush,” the only other piece that I could take. It is a simple repeating riff that speeds up and up as a screaming slide guitar howls through it. Apart from these, the rest of Little Trip is exceptionally bland.
Normally I’ve a lot of time for anything put out on Ipecac as generally Mike Patton will release something that may not be good but it will be at the very least interesting or unusual. Little Trip is anything but interesting or unusual. Instead Mugison have made an incredibly dull album that has put me off ever sitting down to watch the film for which it was composed for.
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- Matthew Jeanes
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This record was described to me a little over a year ago as "Bong-Ra's post rock project" which is just a lazy way to say that this sounds nothing like Bong-Ra and a little more like records that combine traditional instruments and sampled beats to build brooding atmospheres. Atmosphere is what the Kilimanjaro Darkjazz ensemble specializes in, and this self-titled album is is full of richly composed themes. There are a few moments when breakbeat mechanics threaten to take over from the long droning backgrounds and bits of strings and saxophones, but thankfully the record never tries to play the line between dance music and mood music.
Bong-Ra can release a new mashup breakcore record every month if he wants to, so it's nice to hear him spending time with tunes that are more of a stretch and more rooted in organically evolving textures. The record takes a few odd detours like a screaming blast of noise that envelopes the melody of one song, and some ambient passages that bridge more fully fleshed out tracks, but I imagine that down the road, this is the Bong-Ra related record I'll pull out more often than any others because it throws genre rules to the wind and winds up working in unexpected ways.
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The album both opens and closes with more loose, almost noisy bits, and while these songs aren't improv-based, they're not quite melody based either: the hook is predominantly controlled by the drummer and bassist and their intimate relationship. After over three minutes of primitive modulators imitating racing cars on "Ferrari En Feu," the grooving commences. This one's an upbeat melody with chirping guitar and effects, but it also introduces us to the rare sound of '80s synths (which show up much later), however downplayed behind the drummer and bassist who are easily in the zone. The rhythm section continues their reign through the next three songs as distorted vocals, squelchy electronics, and an abrasive guitar decorate the tunes.
It's not until the third song, the nine-minute "Tu N'avais Qu'une Oreille" that lyrical vocals come into the mix, however the non "oooh"s are in French and beyond my comprehension. The instrumental "L'homme Avec Cœur Avec Elle" seems to have a genre crisis, as it opens up with a very Neu!-esque chugging yet halfway through completely shifts gears, with a bluesy interplay between drums and guitar, saxophone, and sped up source tapes of what could easily be birds and other assorted wildlife. The finale is a bit of a departure from the rest of the sound but hardly anything unexpected that Alexandre St-Onge would attempt. "Ce N'est Pas Les Jardins Du Luxembourg" spends a lot of time without the presence of any rhythms. It's the sound of birds and audio-manipulated laughing hyenas at daybreak up against musique concrete tone poems that glisten like the morning dew, and before long it's reminding me of the non-musical score to the film Fantastic Planet. After about four minutes, the thumping comes in, primitive and creepy, like the natives are restless and we're running through the forest trying to escape. When the beat ends we're in some surreal dream-like state, with moaning voices paired with the eerie birds and musique concrete of the song's opening.
Produced with Godspeed's Theirry Amar and mastered by guitarrorist Harris Newman, this project is a good combination of all the sources. It effectively brings the experimentalism out of the often sterile academic arena and places it in a fun rock context that has the potential to win a lot of admirers. However, a catchier name wouldn't have hurt.
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The shock of Nico's sampled voice gives an otherwordly edge to the first song "Journey," and from here the disc seems in thrall to the pace and temperature of her delivery. There are traces of the ghostliness of Alva, and (on the excellent "Snakes and Tea") of Virginia Astley's pastoral calm. Other developed pieces like "Disparu," "Four Hearts," and the graceful "Pale Dog" make the mere recording of waves as the total of "Ocean" seems worthless, although the notion of being outside is almost relief from a certain claustrophobia. Antony, (the increasingly ubiquitous) Devendra Banhart, Greg Rosgrove, and Jana Hunter join in to good effect, but Nico's 'appearance' trumps them all.
Lest we forget, La Maison de Mon Reve was a hideously seductive perfume of cartoonesque pre-war blues, twee-hop, and cold dollhouse opera. The sounds chimed and ticked in minimalist pop-folk delirium and the sisters spewed existential vomit, gloriously sweet as a childhood memory taken from someone else's photograph. Desert Doughnuts is neither as sexy, nor as sad, and may not have the shelf-life of that little gem, but it should fare better than the disposable Noah's Ark. Only one Casady sister, Sierra, is in Metallic Falcons, along with Matteah Baim.
I ignore whispers of ignorant racism and trust funds and am not at all concerned whether Metallic Falcons
or Coco Rosie are deemed 'real' or pretentious. Everyone who has nothing much to say hasn't the decency to invent their own gibberish language, like Liz Fraser. Yet, in a post-Philip K. Dick reality, what is authenticity?
I take the faint Eastern influences on Desert Doughnuts as sound, not cultural expression. The fake beards are fake, but they are, nonetheless, beards.
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I’ve always had a thing for 33 rpm 7" singles, it's probably something to do with the wilful misuse of the cheeky chappy pop format. Here Dominick Fernow aka Prurient joins Richard Dunn of F.F.H. (not to be confused with the Christian band of the same name) and Drums of Myrrh’s Joe Potts in the forced mating of black metallicisms and walls of no-fi noise.
The enraged high end drenching of guitar, noise and cymbal hammered hiss totally asphyxiates what little drum there is, leaving only treble. The furiously fingered fret loops on "Memantine/Stranger" punch through the sea like shards of glass through bed sheets. For all the venom and intensity that pours off the song, the riff remains likeable and catchy enough to pass in a more conventional piece of music.
It’s near impossible to make out the imprecations that Dunn hurls throughout "The Male Poison", but its obvious he is pissed at someone. Even the choppy riff is threatened with being quashed by the engulfing tide of power electronics roughage. Great scourgings of lashed sound make this too ugly too get close to anyways, if the flicked up embers from the riff don’t make contact, the barbwire vocals will.
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Blossoming Noise
This isn't the greatest noise album ever. Its aesthetics are beyond me, a mashing of two approaches that don't necessarily compliment each other, but they don't sound out of place when sat side by side. They simply exist together. One approach is the sound made by recording someone choking, throat noises that have brought me onto the verge of gagging. The other is Kazumoto Endo taking all manner of metallic, percussive, and otherwise dissonant sounds and throwing them through the garbage disposal, passing it all down the lower intestine, into the nightmare biology of Shinya Tsukamoto, and out through the child grinder from the movie version of Pink Floyd's The Wall. There's soft moments (the sound of chewing as heard by a defective hearing aid, for instance) and there are intense, brutal moments where I keep envisioning cyborg martial artists being thrown into walls and bleeding out terrible, black ooze before emitting robotic sounds that signal self destruction and an assured end for both parties. It's all quite graphic, something Endo must be familiar with evoking to produce it all so vividly.
The results may very among users, but the effects are similar nonetheless. These approaches never occupy the same space for long. In fact, Endo and Yau seem intent on leaving the two separate. Phrases of vocal noise and machine noise are cast against one another, one going quiet so that the other may be heard. At first this is disorienting, a feat of nonsense that threatens the very notion of a collaboration between to artists. The most obvious draw for noise fans will be Endo's work; there are several places on the disc where his noise stands out, commanding more time than Yau's guttural spats with self abuse. His noise is more impressive than ever, making some of his Killer Bug material sound amateur.
Getting to the point, however, involves explaining how this record changed anything for me. At first, I was entirely put off by how these two noise sources were blended together. It's as though someone who was good with noise decided to get some guy choking on tape and then decided to add it to a mix of already intense sound. After reading Yau's website and thinking about action concrète and what a term like that might mean, this record really opened up for me. Not that I didn't enjoy Endo's half of the job, but Yau's vocal grunts were just too much, often making me feel as though I was going to throw up on a few occasions. He describes his work, however, as being physical, directly relatable to an audience because of its immediacy. For once an artist's description of his work is entirely fitting. There's no room for contemplating what such a statement might mean, Yau is as physical a performer as there can be. I imagine, in several places, that he must be shoving his fist into his throat.
Not only is this a visceral and powerful image, it's a good way of catching attention and delivering a truly physical, powerful performance. By the time the album finished the first time, Yau's part in this album was obvious, despite As far as I'm concerned, these two have tapped into the very essence of what an "action" performance should be. They have transcended all the bodily violence often associated with something like a Whitehouse appearance and substituted the more interesting and more satisfying sonic violence that many claim to harness, but few ever execute as well as their hype suggests. Yau and Endo's noise doesn't suggest violence, their noise embodies it and utilizes it to perfection. It may have taken them over five years to get this just the way they wanted (this project began in 1998), but Endo and Yau have practically rewritten the noise rules, sounding more unique and exciting than anyone else playing the same game.
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There is an almost unhealthy mix of songs on this album, I say this because while I think it’s great to hear a band who can change styles at a whim but equally it feels like Space Needle were wandering the musical landscape trying to find a unique sound. Unfortunately the liner notes for Recordings 1994-1997 don’t specify when each individual song was recorded so it’s impossible to tell from this document alone whether the change in styles was a progression or pure randomness. What the liner notes do make a big deal out of is how unlike their contemporaries Space Needle were. I think this is a gross exaggeration. Yes there are moments that made me think that they sounded like they knew what was to come in the new millennium. Most of the time they sound more like a band coming from the same area as their contemporaries but didn’t get the break.
Songs like “Sun Don’t Love Me” and “Old Spice” made me forget I was listening to a band that wasn’t The Flaming Lips. Right down to the voice these songs sounded exactly like what The Flaming Lips were putting out around that time. That being said, the songs are extremely good, “Sun Don’t Love Me” being a song that I’m likely to include in every mix CD I do for the foreseeable future. Equally there are songs that sound strikingly similar to Low and My Bloody Valentine. I’m not suggesting in any way that Space Needle are ripping anyone off or were part of a scene but I reject the validity of the hype surrounding them. There are plenty of solid songs like “One Kind of Lullaby” and “Never Lonely Alone” that although not ground breaking, they are highly enjoyable and well written.
However there are some tracks that stick out as being original. “Scientific Mapp” is a noisy affair that sounds like it was recorded yesterday. “(Untitled Duet)” and the opening track “Eyes to the World” both sound more modern than they are but not exactly mind blowing. As with the rest of the album, the songs are good but don’t like up to all that I read about them over the last month or two.
Space Needle are not the new Velvet Underground, they are not going to be appreciated by newer audiences in any astonishing way. What Recordings 1994-1997 shows is a good American indie band with a slightly experimental edge that could have gone further than they did. It’s nice to see an album like this and be exposed to a band I otherwise would never have heard of but I don’t feel like my life is any better for it.
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- Gary Suarez
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With highly-touted Boka and Hotflush releases, as well as more than a few sought-after dubs, being caned by all the premier scene DJs, Distance's debut for Mike Paradinas' potent imprint proves he's got what it takes to break out from relative obscurity. The synth heavy A side "Traffic" is some sort of primal dancefloor monstrosity, growling and nashing its teeth within the first 30 seconds, and rarely letting up throughout its duration. This relentless storm will demand rewind after rewind, as I imagine it already has at countless South London parties. On the flipside, the more subdued yet far from tame "Cyclops" creeps along a bit with atonal bleeps, ghostly moans, echoing snare hits, and gut-rumbling bass. Those in the know have probably familiarized themselves with both of these killer cuts thanks to their appearance during Distance's fierce set during January's near-infamous Dubstep Wars episode on the Breezeblock radio program. Now, eager fans can get their paws on a copy of their own.
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Joy is abundant the minute Redfearn begins to play the accordion, the second the first song starts. A playful attitude, highlighted by the motion of his sound, bounces from second to second and is supported in the form of singing violins and the pitter patter of drummer keeping time in the background. Vocal harmonies begin to weave with the pulse and sway of the other musicians as they dance about each other in circles - it's a magnificent way to open a record, a complex and catchy introduction to a band I'm now firmly addicted to. Fortunately the rest of the album doesn't disappoint. Redfearn and the Eyesores play with their sound, modulating it enough to evoke cartoon images of French sailors one moment and tormented, hungry thieves the next. They stay sweetly listenable the entire time, using their progressive influences to pepper already exquisite song writing.
Though the songs are obvious and immediate, there exists an air of surrealism all over the disc. The accordion is, at times, turned into an electric instrument, sounding like a guitar about to gasp its last breath; the drums escalate from light percussive spices to all out assaults of bombastic flare and titanic rhythms. The lyrics, where they exist, run the gamut from bloody details and awkward sexuality to mechanical, cold, stiff displays and demented takes on what an adjective can do for a word. Everything swims on the edge of the void, awaiting the tiniest push to send everything spiraling into obscurity. Redfearn and company are smarter than that, constantly swimming against the current and fusing the strange with the recognizable in a seamless fashion.
There's a lot to love about this record, but first and foremost is how musically accomplished it is. This band plays together so well it's scary. They obviously communicate very well, but on top of that are the songs themselves. There are memorable melodies all over this record, but the band is also obsessed with more obscure, surreal music and they integrate that side of their creativity into the music without forgetting about and obscuring the songs. The strings on this record sound so bright and alive next to their accompaniments, each instrument highlighting the one next to it. It's a miracle this band hasn't seen more press. They certainly deserve it, their ability to merge two distinct worlds of music into one is reason enough to check the band out. I keep coming back to this record for its exotic sound and wonderful melodies, though. No matter how much some of the album sounds like the child of a progressive rock band and Turkish mystics, the arrangements and the band's ability to play with tension and release are the most exciting and the most inviting and rewarding parts of an album that seems to have an endless supply of ideas to offer.
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Ecdysis (which is the periodic shedding of an exoskeleton during the growth of an insect) is a good album but is let down by a couple of problems. One is Daniloski’s patchy use of effects: he uses some effects with mixed results. The pitchshifer on “Thinning the Herd” sounds awful, like someone who has just bought an effects pedal but hasn’t had the time to work on getting a good, original sound out of it. The use of this particular effect disguises what could be much more interesting music. However, there are far more places on the album where the guitar does sound fantastic, the use of Ebow and echo effect on “The Place where there is no Darkness” gives a cavernous vibe to the track.
While there are a couple of very good songs on Ecdysis, overall it is let down by too much meandering. Many of the songs could be shortened without losing any of their impact and the last two tunes did nothing for me at all. This leads to the second problem I had with the album: it seemed that all of the songs followed a similar structure of loop one piece of ambient noise/guitar, play low end riffs, twiddle about on the higher notes and finally adding the odd noise or two. Sometimes it works well, other times it doesn’t and comes across as formulaic.
When it works the result is “My House.” On this song there is a plodding drum machine and indecipherable vocals with a slow, fuzzed out riff in the background. Every now and then a sitar appears to completely shake up the song. The pitchshifter returns on this track but suits the music more here. It's followed by “Drag the Carcass,” which is just as good but a shift in mood. Daniloski loops some bass heavy feedback and plays an almost Eastern sounding set of scales over it. A vocal recording of a preacher fades in. The vocal is chanting in a completely different timing which creates a dizzying effect. As the preacher gets more worked up, Daniloski steps up his guitar playing and the intensity of the piece becomes palpable.
The parts I did like of Ecdysis unfortunately were outnumbered by parts that I found frustrating and tedious to listen to. This is music that I would normally like but something was just lacking.
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