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I was a little perplexed when I first heard this record. Wolfarth is a percussionist who has performed solo and in groups, typically in avant garde or experimental settings and typically defying what most people would consider the role of a drummer. The first track (all of them unnamed) on this eponymous record features no clear sign of percussive work. In fact, it sort of sounds like a communication tower getting struck by an electromagnetic field and then having birds rain down on it from the sky. There's all sorts of shrieks and shrill whines, but little sign that any of this is coming from a drum set. Wolfarth tends to stay way from digital manipulation according to his website, so I was even more perplexed to hear this coming from a mostly acoustic musician. Then the second track started and I began to get more out of Wolfarth than I had expected. Sounding like a child let loose in a factory full of potential snares and cymbals, Wolfarth unleashes a fury of finger tapping rolls and unusual percussive sounds backed by the wash of sand, rain, electricity, and wind. His approach to his craft is exactly the opposite of most drumming in its most popular form. Instead of bombast and intense, nearly super-human fills, time signatures, and polyrhythms, Wolfarth makes simplicity and timbre his weapons of choice. The tapping, skipping, and gushing of sound all become hypnotic after long.
As a kid, Wolfarth is obviously unafraid to try anything, mixing and matching patterns with sounds in fun ways. As a musician, Wolfarth understands that some modes of expression are juvenile, doing more to make the music uninteresting rather than vice versa. With that in mind, Wolfarth never extends his playfulness into dull regions; this is going to be a more entertaining listen than sitting down in front of a young percussionist who has never tapped out a rhythm before. My only complaint is that, in an effort that seems have more to do with record length than composition, Wolfarth tends to stretch out some songs well past their welcome point. Where he could've ended some of the longer pieces when the percussion stopped, Wolfarth instead emphasizes some very electronic aspects of his music, letting some tones carry on incessantly, without change, for many minutes too long.
The album closes the same way it opened, with a strange collage of chime-like distortion and rumbling bells. There seems to be little percussion involved, digital processing taking place of the finger-tapping, plastic sounding percussion that dominated the middle portion of the record. I like this record quite a lot, mainly because its so playful, but also because it reminds me of how much I just like to play with sounds. Wolfarth took a very simple concept and made it intriguing, giving every inner percussionist some hope that there is something worth hearing at the ends of their hands.
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Scott Morgan's greatest ally may very well be understatement. His work sits comfortably next to many of his label mates, especially Lichens and Bird Show, both of whom utilize unusual sounds and quiet drift to highlight the beauty of their melodies and rhythms.
Kranky
Plume drifts casually, hinting at rhythms instead of pounding them out. Morgan slowly, intentionally constructs monuments of sound with everything from his laptop to xylophones and guitars. It was a little dry at first: a record that offered up plenty of lush instrumentation, but never took off with all the potential it accumulated. Repeat listens revealed a more subtle dynamism; Morgan micromanages everything he does, choosing to illuminate new instruments and phrases when he wants to let others go. His music does not shine in moments of explosive power, but radiates artistic beauty in its architecture and morphology. Morgan makes the most of what he has on every track and, much like Labradford did, he uses the smallest of sounds to his advantage. Static hisses become stereo dust storms and piano parts turn into sonorous waves worthy of the most lavish cathedrals. Despite the complexity that whispers through each of Loscil's nine songs on this album, there's a sense of overwhelming peace on the record. Each song defeats its complexity and reaches a point of complete unification.
There are not multiple instruments to be heard on this record, just the one continuous sound of Loscil's architecture. The structure and play of each track becomes the most dominant feature, replacing any need to concentrate on one sound or another. They all move about each other in a perfect dance. That isn't to say all of the songs simply meld into one another. There are quite a few standout tracks on Plume, the best of them being propelled by muted train wheels and sheets of supernatural hiss. Morgan uses more percussive sounds to his advantage later on the album, letting them serve as rooster calls on a record that is quiet and hypnotic enough to put me into a trance. Despite the varied approaches used by Morgan, the album does have a droned-out quality to it that reverberates more than it exclaims. The result is the need for an instrument like the xylophone: on "Charlie" this instrument explodes and wails like a guitar might. Remaining calm, the album suddenly shifts into a lesson on distortion and serenity and how the two are related.
Following in a fine tradition that other bands have laid out, Loscil soothes and absorbs. There's enough going on at any given second to warrant close listening, but if the record is allowed to slip into someone's subconscious, then it works a miraculous magic: dizziness and decreased blood pressure should be expected. Loscil should not be mistaken as a continuation of drone's reign in other fields of music, however. The melodies on here are memorable, the rhythms and swells of sound orchestral, not electric. A quiet, bright night in the city seems to suit this record best. It's bright flares of sound mimic the movement of light in high-rises and the flash of action on highways.
There are claustrophobic moments that remind me of moving through busy streets and other, more liberating moments that remind me of what it felt like to be on top of the Empire State Building—all the world seemed to be at my feet, glowing faintly. Although I was above the city that never slept, the noise from below seemed to be filtered away because the view so magnificent. That sense of freedom and isolation permeates each note of Plume, but with it comes a distinct sense of connectedness that vibrates in the air all around me.
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"Do Not As I Do," the latest single from Hukkelberg’s 2005 album Little Things, has everything I could hope for in a pop song: a good voice, original lyrics, and a memorable chorus.
The music is tasteful if unobtrusive, never upstaging Hukkelberg’s voice, which itself has an original set of nuances that are capable of surprise. The chorus, which is basically the same as the title, might be a somewhat trite or clichéd sentiment, but the rest of the lyrics tell a creepy story about ghosts and hauntings that belies the song’s apparently sunny surface.
As much as I liked her voice on the album cut, it’s the second song that shows her true range of expressiveness. Covering the Pixies’ "Break My Body," she turns their bittersweet rocker into a full-fledged lament, approaching the song from an unexpected emotional angle. Hukkelberg wisely infuses her interpretation with exactly what it needs to work successfully, and no more. Her combination of talent and taste makes her someone worth watching.
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Capturing the project’s playful melodic shine in smaller amounts allows for a newly realised appreciation. Instead of getting into (or out of) his ability to create ecstatic zone-out worlds it’s easier to see the intricacy and details in the construction of these pieces. These songs last long enough to suck me in, get me involved in actively enjoying / listening and then moving instantly into the next song. Since he doesn’t use any studio floor scraps there’s no musical short-changing here.
It’s the range of his musical reach within this seamless pulse that keeps this release at the top of the pile. Bower meets the expectations gleaned from his previous work and then peppers Splat! with elements that could’ve come from a fledging pop act a third of his age. It’s obvious that these steps aren’t a reaching out or an effort to catch the latest tsunami trend but a mind that moves more than just to the beat of drone. From great smudged rotating arcs of light through a garage stomp with high-end fuckery FX to a vocal slice of Fleetwood Mac’s mighty “Rhiannon” submerged in feathers of feedback. It’s tempting to go through every piece (the electro distorted stoner metal, power loops of broken bells, primary coloured rainbow splurges and flailing power cable piano thumps) to try and capture the feel of all the facets here. This is a mini-epic and a rival of any of Sunroof!s two disc releases.
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The artwork is hard to avoid; it might be bondage, it might be a scene from some porn gone horribly awry. Thrust into the foreground is a wrestling star, face twisted into a growl and painted. The text on the cover is Indian, perhaps, but might just be nonsense. The reverse side reveals recording information, band name, and participants, but doesn't acknowledge exactly when and where these recordings were made and whether or not they were part of a live performance in front of an audience, or a live improv jam in the studio. From the get go, the record seems like a bit of a mess, something to be thrown out to a bored audience that needs one more noisy fix before their next obsession can be found. The music is as messy as the packaging - a strange mix of continuous guitar noise and painfully bland noise generated by God knows what. Pedals, laptops, keyboards, feedback loops, it could be anything, but that doesn't change the fact that the sound is horribly monochromatic 90% of the time.
The use of a sax doesn't change anything, either. Its continual wailing sounds about par next to the rumbling garbage spasms that constitute the rest of the record. That's only the first track, the second one starts promisingly with all sorts of warped tones colliding with one another, but the presence of a flatulent short circuit mingles with all the other softer tones for too long. Before I can even invest some time in paying attention to one sound or another, this trio shatters what they've constructed up to that point in favor of more randomly generated tones and waves of distortion. I'm not sure if this kind of improvisation could be that difficult, much of what I hear could've been generated on a single laptop with just a guitar and a contact microphone for input. On the other hand, there are some dynamic moments on the second piece that sound somewhat enjoyable. Those enjoyable moments just don't last long enough to be enjoyed.
This recording, then, is about exactly what the cover demonstrated from the start: pain and confusion. Laugh all you want because I'm deciding to return to something that seems so trivial, but the inclusion of sexual bondage and laughable anger on the cover have to relate to the contents somehow. This is the result of sexual frustration, a desire to re-enact portions of various macho films and to tear down whatever walls are keeping these three musicians from releasing better music. If so little care was put into this album, then I wonder why I'm using up any amount of energy in an effort to describe all its shortcomings. I suppose I expect better, especially from O'Rourke and Moore. I know they both love noise, I get it, I've heard enough to understand that noise must rule their world. But, does it all have to sound like exploding cows of copulating moose?
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Tom Carter's interview was telling, a view from the musician's point of view that provided an insight rare in the digital era. With so many artists to pay attention to, he was capable of being both concise and informative. Though quiet at times, the band has a distinct power, one that both Tom and Christina Carter have made a conscious effort to expose. Simultaneously, the band emits a gauzy presence, both ethereal and firmly based in ideas and experiences everyone can appreciate. The band rides a line between mystical solitude and sure-footed potency. This facet of their music stands out specifically on A Vintage Burden. The band, now a duo, have stripped their music down. As Tom Carter explicated in his interview, the band has previously relied on processing and effects to mount an energetic attack on their audience. Their work on this album, however, sounds nearly acoustic in its opening moments and throughout the majority of the record.
Soft electric guitar floats through the air carelessly with Christina's beautiful, smooth, and powerful voice. Joy Shapes began somewhat caustically, sounding like the echoes of a banshee in its death throws. For the most part, that presentation stayed consistent throughout and that album still sounds haunted and illusory to me. A Vintage Burden is the opposite, a definite and moving record that has more in common with folk music than many may care to admit. Though the guitar work sounds largely improvisational, there is a more concrete structure to many of the songs, especially "Spring" and "Dormant Love." The chords sing joyously, announcing their presence undisturbed, reveling in the simplicity of the piece. If Tom Carter's words said anything to me, it is that Charalambides appreciate the power of clarity. It is clarity that wins me over on this record and singles it out as the single best collection of music I've heard from the band.
I'd hate to call this a pop record, but the first half of the album surely speaks of the duo's appreciation for song craft. They've melded their experimental and boisterous attitude with plainly stroked guitars and warped melodies that succeed more because of their directness, not because of their alienating aspects. Assuredly, Charalambides maintain a whimsical side to their work on this album, but instead of channeling it through abstract techniques and strange sounds, they simply work through songs, adding layers here and there in effective and careful ways. Every instrument finds a proper place on the record and then voices itself perfectly; the band neither understates nor overstates any of the sounds they utilize. Much of this album's appeal comes from how perfectly conceived it is. Melodies, harmonies, rhythms, and noise all weave in and out of one another like they were made to be positioned that way. Perhaps chance had more to do with some of these arrangements than I am aware of, but if that is the case then such a fact speaks volumes about how well Tom and Christina Carter play together. The circular melody that appears on the electric guitar in "Black Bed Blues" at approximately six minutes is astounding; it is a perfectly planned blend of old west cinematic flare and dusty European mystery. It sounds both familiar and foreign, a blend of American musicianship and exotic techniques that resonates perfectly with the mood A Vintage Burden establishes early on. Both "Black Bed Blues" and "Two Birds" run over 12 minutes long and together they compose more than half hour of this roughly 18 minute record. Their gravity is undeniable, their position on the record giving them a weight that suggests they are the most important pieces of this album. That they are surrounded by more conventional tunes merely suggests that the band is still experimenting with their ideas and adapting faithful techniques to new ones. To call "Two Birds" unusual, however, is to take away from the fact that some of the best guitar work I've heard from the band appears on this song. Despite its length, it resembles a song proper more than an exercise in stretching the dimensions of music. It may stretch and breathe more than conventional pop songs, but it never sounds unwelcome; constant attention is given to when and where sounds should appear and disappear and when they should peak violently or whisper reassuringly.
Power was a recurring theme in my head while listening to this record, the way that power sounds when wielded by the right hands. I suppose most anyone could make a powerful record by turning the volume up and maximizing their distortion to the point of reckless abandon, but Charalambides emphasize the power of their music by turning it down a bit and relying on more skillful factors. When a song begins, it grabs my attention immediately and refuses to let go, the weight of what it speaks manifested in the careful plucking of an acoustic guitar or the death moans of an electric six string stretching through the background. The live performances in the band's Eye episode revealed that being loud and being direct is as much about dynamics and silence as it is about being confrontational. To sum up everything I'm thinking about this record: it is the best thing Charalambides have done and it stands out as being their most direct, stripped down record to date. Their distorted, massive sound has not been replaced in the process, however. It has merely been evolved, shifted, and arranged into a new kind of beast. My heart's been stolen by A Vintage Burden and now more than ever I'm sure that Charalambides are one of the finest bands currently walking the planet. More from them could only mean more excellent and surprising music, not to mention more emotive and emotional work. Never have I heard the band sound so human and direct, but I'm happy they've decided to open themselves up on this record as it renders the music more personally touching.
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For an album that has been years in the making, Munchy the Bear wastes no time launching with three glorious songs. The happy singalong tune of "Never Live Forever" is something which could easily make any Caribou/Manitoba fan wet: it's infectious, has a moderate amount of unconventional sampling, and is heavy on the drums. Dave Doom flexes his multi-instrumental talented muscles with dulcimer playing on "All the Experiences," a somewhat tribute to George Harrison, while groovy breakbeat drums and cut up melodies come in on the instrumental "Stick Pots and the Bloody Beats," providing pulse to a fantastic echoing guitar riff.
One of the neat things about this record is in such a tiny digipack inlet, Doom has managed to give props to the people and places and thoughts that shaped ach song on the record, providing a backstory to the dense audio tapestry. He's not just giving a tracklist of somewhat obscure song titles of inside jokes.
The next few tunes remind me of the definition of "chimp rock": rock music categorically void of aspirations of pop stardom; but it hardly sounds like anything Sebadoh or The Shaggs would dream up. Doom detunes guitars, samples kids songs, and sings distorted through megaphones, but he keeps things consistently on the beat, matching them with peppy drums and happy melodies, bringing in friends to sing, play, and play. Identified instruments include bajo, piano, organs, harp, bongos, and even vocals sung into cell phone voice mail. An array of friends has even been captured in the cover, which, at first seems pretty harmless but a closer look at weapons in peoples' hands like an axe, machetes, and a shovel suggest a cast of a teenage summer camp horror flick.
Mellower moments come towards the end of the recording, interspersed with a few transitionary type bits under 60 seconds. "Beauty and Addiction" is a subdued song with subtle drums, melodica sounds, and somewhat odd samples of old films talking about nuclear war, "A Cult Following" features a chorus of people and a snappy sax, and the 10+ minute closer "Never Want to Leave" is like a roadside lullaby, as the waves recorded sound dangerously close to traffic.
With such a strong record like this finally surfacing after five years from its inception, it leads me to wonder how on earth Dave Doom will pull off anything else in the foreseeable future, but thankfully something like this is one of those records that has the potential to catch on big, give it time.
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Although I enjoy his latest album I feel I've heard it before. Almost like a continuation of The North Shore, Munk's using the same chords he's comfortable with, there are no beats, no drums, and no rhythms, just the wash of finely processed guitars with sound effects layered on top. What makes Bajamar different is that it is more patient than the other Manual albums: it has a brief intro and outro with three +10 minute pieces in the center which take their time evolving and flowing. I actually prefer this over the releases with 10 or more songs that are shorter and less developed.
"Celebration" is the first full song to appear. Snyth and vocal samples washing over a continuous guitar tinkling which would be the sound light makes when reflecting off the water. "Reminiscence," on the other hand, actually includes water recordings over more muted drones, while the stringed instruments in the 15+ minute "September Swell" echo as wind chimes and quiet percussive sounds shudder softly over. The closing "La Torche" is like a coda to "September Swell," as it starts without any defining beginning point, and while it features a more prominent, Cocteau Twins-like rhthmic guitar tune, it uses some of the same sounds carried over from "September Swell."
While these songs are nice, to be honest, I'd expect to find any one of them to play the role of an incidental piece: transitionary songs to be sandwiched in between those far more grand and involved. There isn't much challenging nor exciting enough to attract me back like moments on Ascend or Until Tomorrow had. My longing for a lead instrument reminds me, too, that the more I hear from Manual, the more I ache for another Limp recording to surface. It's clear that Jonas Munk is building brand recognition with the covers and the sound, but it's all sounding and looking alike at this point.
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To the extent that most strange recording techniques have become familiarized and assimilated into common nomenclature, there isn't much new that Kowalsky can offer. Flatulence and sexual intercourse have both been utilized as sources for musical material, mathematics and deliberate chance have both had their say in the arrangement and construction of many musical pieces, and musicians have traveled to many remote locations in order to inject their work with the spirit of whatever locale they happened to like that year; truly innovative recording techniques are either difficult to come by or too difficult to understand for the every day listener. Thus Kowalsky's interesting recording techniques might fail to draw listeners in the same way that Nurse with Wound's or Coil's rather well-known and strange procedures have. All we're left with is Kowalsky's arid compositions, stretching out over 45 minutes and seven tracks. As far as drone goes, there's almost no distinction between Kowalsky's work and many other great drone composers; Kowalsky's work actually pretends to move less than a piece from someone like Colin Potter. Kowalsky simply introduces sounds at the beginning of each piece and then adds to them, failing to provide any sense of progression in the original tones. Thus, as a piece moves forward by way of layering, it also retains some sense of rest or inactivity. When the sounds are interesting and intriguing in and of themselves (like they are on "Coral Gables"), the effect is soothing and joyful. At times I never wanted that particular track to stop. When the music is slow going and sounds reminiscent of drab laboratories, then the desire to press the skip button on the CD player is all-consuming.
So, as the album progresses, there is a frustrating oscillation between captivation and sheer boredom. Listening to a composer like Keith Fullerton Whitman or Carl Stone typically involves constant hypnosis; their music is simultaneously academic and entertaining. On the other hand, listening to a poor album from any number of noise makers instigates an instant case of dry mouth without the desired high. Kowalsky falls flatly in the middle of these two extremes. Four of the seven tracks leave an impression on me, bewilderingly denying their length because of the beauty with which they resonate. The remaining tracks nearly ruin the album, especially because two of them are present on the first half of Through the Cardial Window.
This is, then, an imperfect record with qualities to be enjoyed and appreciated. Expect nothing more than drone-like material; patterns, ideas, and tones stretched out over eternity, with only the slightest hint of action. The entire record has an airy quality that places it in the firmament, with few terrestrial characteristics to ruin that notion. This album floats more than it grinds and it behaves predictably, with few surprises to be found anywhere. Perhaps this is simply what a normal, average drone record sounds like or perhaps this is the effort of a composer who wasn't quite sure how to move from one idea to the next. Whatever the case may be, it's difficult to fully endorse this record as anything more than decent. A little extra movement and a more definite attitude towards progression would've made this record far more exciting. Right now, I have it on in the background and am completely happy with ignoring the majority of it while watching the rain. This is ambient music in the truest sense, made for background play with nothing shocking or impressive enough to interrupt a calm space.
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This collection reminds me of the No Watches.No Maps compilation released by Fat Cat back in 2001: it featured very good songs by acts who were rejected by the label for record deals. (It’s too bad in some cases as Fat Cat has since released a lot worse recordings by artists they did sign.) Many of these women had been known to send demos to folk-friendly independent and major labels, but none were ever picked up and very few continued to record much after their album noted here.
The production is simple, the instrumentation is small, and most often is only a voice accompanied by either a single guitar or single piano. The “MSG of sound recording” (delay on the voice) is all over this record, but it adds a certain creepy, haunting aesthetic to what was probably not intentional. Matching the eeriness of the music is the fates that seem to follow the artists. Jennie Perl’s “Maybe In Another Year” is one of those striking numbers, featuring only a tinkling piano behind the 16 year old’s voice, Perl’s current whereabouts are currently unknown. The following “Dedication” by Mary Perrin is another spooky one: a strong acoustic guitar gem, her vocal melody is almost Braizlian, it’s no wonder Perrin moved from her little town of Peoria Illinois to Los Angeles to pursue her music biz dreams (she died in 2003 in her sleep at 53). Ginny Reilly and David Maloney sound uncomfortably close to a precursor for Mazzy Star and Hope Sandoval solo material with their song “Wildman,” the duo, however, went on to record seven albums and known to still pair up and record together irregularly.
The inclusion of album covers is a fantastic addition, especially examples like Caroline Peyton’s cover for her album Mock Up, which was apparently done by the pressing plant’s janitor and Marj Snyder’s Let the Son Shine, which was allegedly designed to represent creation (with Marj oddly in the center). A lot of the artists here are young and primarily faith-based, like Becky Severson’s 59-second “A Special Path,” based on Jeremiah 6:16, which was the last recording she made (at the young age of 19); Judy Kelly’s “Window,” written for a friend’s wedding, and Linda Rich, who was discovered at a Inter-Varsity Missionary Conference in Urbana, Illinois.
Remastered again by Jeff Lipton, only a couple recordings suffer from degeneration, but for the most part the fidelity is strong and vivid. The arrangement is well done and not overdone, and at 47 minutes, it makes for a fantastic listen start to finish.
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