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Touch & Go
TescoVee enjoyed being shocking, so there's little surprise that heparticipated in a band like this one. Blight was a quartet with thebasic punk setup: drums, bass, guitar, and mumbled, screamed, orotherwise unintelligible vocals. What I can make of their lyrics hassome political bend to it, but more or less they all focus on how fakethe world is and how everyone needs to wake the hell up. In 1982 thismight have been exciting to some kids in the middle of Lansing,Michigan, but their legacy doesn't amount to much in the scheme ofthings. Blight is big on bass, letting it stand out over the rest ofthe music, almost like an instrument of dance that is phased out andwarped just enough to make it "edgy". In fact, the contrast between thebass and the rest of the band is corny, the bass sounding like itbelongs in porn venues the world over. The guitars are sheets of noiseand feedback, with a hint of melody and rhythm. Think Joy Division's"Atrocity Exhibition" spread out over an entire album, but without aninteresting singer or a drummer who could do anything beyond using hishi-hat in the way every fifth grader is familiar with because of AC/DC.Every now and then Vee pulls out an "electronic trumpet" and bleats outa few notes here and there just to break up the monotony, but it doeslittle to save what amounts to a collection of fairly poor songs.
Evidently Blight's big claim to fame is that they opened for the Dead Kennedy's once. This already sounds like a small town story about some kids who almost were, I know, but that's about all there is to say about the live recordings that are included on this disc. The band's self-titled EP is included on the CD along with some four-track demos and their July 29th appearance that lasted a grand total of 16 or so minutes. The liner notes point out that the crowd hated the band, probably because of Vee's opening commentary and his tendency to sound a bit like a rock martyr. On top of that, the band sounds like a wall of mud with drums behind it. In a fashion that stays true to their recorded output, Blight simply pound through some noise and plodding bass parts until they reach the end and do it all over again. The bass parts that had made some of their recorded material at least tolerable is noticeably and painfully absent. In the end, Vee's moaning and screeching vocals sound contrived and the whole mess comes across has some failed experiment in noise-based rock 'n' roll. The only exception is during "The Dream is Dead," where the band suddenly comes to life with a version that sounds better live than it did in the studio. Everyone has a good day, I suppose, but in Blight's case, they had about two good minutes.
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This time around, Eitzel lays rapid thumping beats under those soft melodies. Eitzel's lyrics are always as troubled as they are poetic; like the lines "What's going to turn me into an honest man/What's going to scare the ghost out of my soul" from "Roll Away My Stone." With Eitzel, it's not always clear on the surface what's happening in the stories woven into the songs; "My Pet Rat St. Michael" begins as an owner's concern over his pet, but gradually the listener becomes aware the owner is projecting his own hopelessness onto the rodent; he is "the tired swimmer who can no longer see the shore." The title of "A Loving Tribute to My City" proves to be ironic; the little girl's vocals are blurred and barely discernible but she speaks of finding an abandoned body, and when she mentions "giant beautiful golden gates," the effect is ominous rather than hopeful. Another line from "Roll Away My Stone" sums up the overall impression of things hidden in the depths: "Your love is a bell that rings underneath the ocean."
Candy Ass's gentle melancholy makes for an enjoyable experience and looking beneath the surface of the peaceful melodies is darkly rewarding.
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The first half of Banished in Spattered Relish consists of shorter, more musical pieces. On many of these tracks, Aranos messes around with the listener by either confounding things musically or emotionally. On the opening track, for example, “Shooting Toadstools on Shinobazu Plain,” he mixes moods splendidly by using recordings of a woman’s voice: sometimes she is laughing and other times it sounds like she’s moaning uneasily. The effect is disconcerting. It reminds me a lot of Nurse With Wound’s recent Echo Poeme series but better. Many of the tracks shift in mood during their course, most of the time taking a turn for the more sinister. Aranos’ voice is fantastic on a song like “Inhaling Carpet,” where he sounds like a narrator for children’s audio books doing his rendition of the Giant (of Beanstalk fame). That kind of voice that in other situations would be almost ridiculous but at the time makes you duck under the covers.
The latter half of the record consists of three lengthy pieces. “Interviews with the Almighty Yayu” is a soft, shimmering drone with little pops and glitches every once in a while which appear to be happy accidents from the equipment used. This fades into “Worldliness Pales Hereabouts,” where Aranos sings over a sharp violin sound. It's something that wouldn’t normally sound out of the blue, but everything in the song pans from left to right at different times. It is like an audio version of a drunken stagger or a lilting ship. I hate the term “studio as instrument,” but here it is apt as Aranos is one of those artists that does not see the recording studio as a means of making a document but as a tool separate to documentation.
Banished in Spattered Relish is a decent album. It’s not a huge step forward for him; when I first got into his music I was expecting each release to further push the limits of song. However with each release I’ve found little evolution in terms of his songwriting even though one album could contain many different styles and musical traditions. Every time a new release lands in my lap I keep expecting a metamorphosis that is never there. In saying that, he is great at what he does and no album, including this one, ever disappoints me. I’m just never surprised.
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Infairness to the band, they are extremely tight. They've obviously honedtheir playing down to a fine art. The rhythm section is powerful;Martin’s drums sound like Mike Tyson is punching the beats into them.The bass and guitar sometimes mush together into a lump of chugging butit sounds good. As I mentioned, there a lot of blues in theirmusic, with Huth’s guitar in particular erupting in many nice littlelicks. “Pray for Sound” being the highlight of the album and a goodexample of Huth’s playing, however, he seems to be stuck in a guitar rutas there’s not much variety on The Indian Tower. Most of the songs sound very similar with these guitar lines. There are a couple of tracks that steer clear of the same old riffs such as “I Learn the Hard Way,” which has some delicious fingerpicked acoustic guitar. The lyrics aren't the best I've ever heard but they fit with the music.
Pearls and Brass won’t be praised as being saviours of rock for this album. The Indian Tower is a good, if run-of-the-mill, album. There are no surprises on it but serves its purpose in stimulating rhythmic head nodding. That's about all it will stimulate.
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Susan Lawly
Despite all this, noise fans who have bothered to look beyond the old familiar accusatory barking and blistering squalls of aggravating noise may have noticed a certain level of maturity creeping into their work, along with a newfound willingness to travel outside the time-tested Whitehouse formula.
The new album Asceticists 2006 features a now streamlined line-up that no longer includes author Peter Sotos, whose contribution to 2003's Bird Seed—a cut-up assemblage of television and documentary soundbites about sex crimes and child abuse—was one of the most harrowing and brutal tracks on an already brutal album. Due to creative differences with the band (partially documented in the new Sotos collection Waitress), Sotos either quit or was fired, depending on who you believe. Pared back to the familiar duo of William Bennett and Philip Best, Whitehouse here concentrate on perfecting their formula, travelling further into the same dark, confrontational and transgressive territory they have been inhabiting for years, finding newer and ever more devastating ways to embody aggression, terror and discord. This perfection involves the introduction of a few new techniques that seem to be outside the usual bag of minimalist noise tricks, make the album's title seem disingenuous.
By calling themselves Asceticists, Bennett and Best suggest an aggressively minimalist stance, stripping back everything to its absolute essence, a strict reductionism that essentializes their aesthetic to its most potent state, willingly forgoing pleasure and creative indulgence in pursuit of something pure, or even sacred. Perhaps this is true of their ideology, or of their continued pursuit of sonic realms that alienate all but the most masochistic listeners, but it is certainly not true of their sound palette, which has actually expanded considerably in recent years. Early Whitehouse is pure sadism—plain, simple and unapologetically ugly. It would be inaccurate to suggest that Asceticists is anything other than a noise album, but the newer explorations of rhythm, stereo effects, subtle tonal shifts and atmospheric textures seems to indicate that maturity is almost subliminally creeping into the mix, problematizing the kind of blind provocation, nihilism and punk infantilism that Whitehouse is known for.
Though they introduced the first hints of rhythm some time ago—all obtuse, upended aggro-industrial splatter—the role of the "beat" seems to play an increasingly large role in Whitehouse's output, figuring in four of the seven tracks here. Taking their cue, perhaps, from the fractured, sadistic beat constructions of the Digital Hardcore acts or newer artists such as Autechre and Venetian Snares, artists who in many ways have redefined an industrial noise aesthetic that no longer has to be rooted in the squall and feedback, and can create the same confrontational ruptures using the "beat" as a weapon. Though this may have seemed at first like a concession, it's now impossible to imagine Whitehouse without this dimension, as it gives their noise an urgency and propulsion that keeps it from turning into the sort of passive, undifferentiated meditational noise offered by many artists. Merzbow has used rhythms to similar effect, although his ridiculous serialism and prolificacy makes most of his work seem curiously devoid of value and superfluous.
The same could not be said of Whitehouse, who with Asceticists 2006, seem once again to be the most vital and relevant group of their kind currently recording and performing. The lyrics on the album are familiar territory: angry vituperations delivered into a megaphone with a caustic, accusatory tone. However, it seems that with each successive album, Bennett and Best hone in with greater linguistic specificity on the object of their hatred and violent dissent. At times, these lyrics function as a kind of devastating polemic, at other times like brutal poetry. The themes of hypocrisy, moral degradation and personal destruction are given precise articulation with images of child abuse, underground sex trade, violent breaks with political currency. The track "Dans" uses the loose metaphor of dance to map out views on the performative nature of human behavior: "So okay pick a child, any child...Skinny boy arms form the cross/Heavy hand pulls down hard on unformed mini-muscle/What fucking choreography." All this amid a maelstrom of twisted metallic distortion and the digital undermining of audio cohesion.
"Language Recovery" seems to take dead aim at ex-friends, critics and enemies of the band, successively revealing layers of hypocrisy and bitter betrayals: "What kind of wronged animal are you?/Remote viewing, crystal worship/Water divising, and other esoterica...Now everything's up for sale/And it's just about marketing now, right?" "Guru" is the first indication of Whitehouse's stylistic evolution, as the track is quite dynamic, using subtle stereo effects and tonal shifts to map out a specific topography that doesn't just sound like one solid noise attack, but achieves several moment of an almost psychedelic manipulation.
Perhaps "Nzambi La Lufua" (a title which reminds me of the Susan Lawly compilation Extreme Music From Africa) is the most unexpected track on the album, a two-and-a-half minute instrumental formed of scraping harmonic textures that create a melodic progression, unheard of for Whitehouse. This clears the palette for the dark and Dionysiac "Killing Hurts Give You the Secret," another track that figures a thrilling evolution, from subterranean paranoia to triumphant nihilist revelation. "Ruthless Babysitting" seems like the sequel to Bird Seed's "Wriggle Like a Fucking Eel," a cruel and devastating primal punk scream that would be the radio single, if anyone played Whitehouse on the radio. Best screams a misogynistic rant over a machine-gun spray of head-battering rhythms that explode over a digital blur of thought-canceling audio cruelty.
Bennett and Best would probably be loathe to admit it, but Asceticists 2006, despite its misleading name, shows that their music is clearly evolving and maturing, and is both more complex and more approachable now than it has ever been. The album's slim running time and confrontational dynamism guarantees that boredom and passivity cannot persist while listening to the album. For all of the musical masochists in our midst, this album should do the trick quite nicely.
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Bpitch Control
I can say that this has spun for the loneliestof squinty morning teas to the last speed-driven Saturday night and a hundredmiles in between, those patterns like electric dominos falling inside mysternum and twitching with each eyebrow in slow approach to a sleep thatflickers. Shit is tweaked, reallyhyper-minimal, ecstatic-based though tight as drum.
Andersson works insquealing highs and rolling lows as firm as the resolve with which they’rewhittled into pulsing blasted fragments, rolled into inhuman repeat andextra-human stutter. With this, he is swinging Bpitch back into alabel of plastic anthems, no subtleties allowed; it is absolute,button-mashed, BIG electro.
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ROIR
To his defense, we read he's been damn busy: he upand left his Brooklyn home base for Paris (like any good Americanwordsmith); explored; met someone special; and finally came back tostart a family and tie up some loose ends, namely, the Father Divineproject he'd left unfinished. The record is his first for ROIR, a labelhe chose to work with based upon its history with raw, analog-soundingmusic, even more specifically, Bad Brains. And I only know this because I readthe press release, not because I listened to Father Divine, easily the most electronic/mechanical sounding record Ladd's yet to put out.
His trademark poet's touch is still there—if you can find, hidden asit is underneath too-busy tracks like the blaring Casiotone sirens on"Awful Raw." Actually, the "poetry" isn't so hot on that one either, asit's a tirade on the evils of TV. Not that love's not a tired subject,but at least Ladd can ruminate on lovin' without sounding ridiculous.In fact, ignore all of that, because after "Awful Raw" and twopleasant-if-irrelevant all-instrumentals (one a jam session betweenan organ and a drum kit that somehow builds into an electro-discoclimax) Father Divine suddenly turns back into "classic" Ladd: the coffee house poet doign his thing behind a soft, neo-soulgroove backdrop.
There's some spots of brilliance in betweenthe new and the old. "Black Rambo" and the "Last Sea" provespace rock and downbeat jazz can jam in peace, and "Barney's Girl" is asoulful, playful trip that packages Ladd's powerful pen with hisremarkable storytelling ability. But the crazy shift...ah! Some mightcall the inexplicable segue Mike being "creative," but it feels like ahijacking. Rather than righting the ship, it capsizes it, and thatain't pleasant.
I really like Mike Ladd, he's stillhands-down one of the finest poets in hip-hop, with soul and spiritleaking from every stanza, and he's capable of unbridled creativity inthe often-stagnant world of hip-hop (last year's Negrophilia project is a prime example). At its very best, Father Divine can claim to be of the same Zeitgeist, but it's far too scattered and messy to make a compelling case. Hopefully, Father Divinewill be looked back upon as an aberration, because if it signals thestart of a trend for Ladd or takes attention away from gems like Negrophilia, it will be criminal.
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I don't remember much about our plots, but I rememberthey were good. Our pal Steve was the editor of the features section forthe newspaper and was the enabler for our serial silliness. After aboutfour or five episodes, Noah and I ran out of either fodder or interest forour stories. The Residents had a similar fling with the subterranean in1983. The band's dalliance lasted only slighted longer than ours, andboth produces a similarly important corpus of work.
Mute
The Residents devised the Mole Trilogy around 1980 to be actually a pair oftrilogies which would both narrate and document the story of the Molepeople. The short story of the Moles is that they were forced leave theirsubterranean home because of religious superstition. They ended upmigrating to the west coast of their world and clashing with theindigenous Chub race. As The Residents scripted it, the story clumsilyunfolds to suggest resonances of various socio-political situations inAmerica and beyond, complete with a hybrid race of Moles and Chubs forminga pop group called The Big Bubble. One of the trilogies of albums wasdesigned to narrate the tales of the Moles and Chubs, while the other wasto serve as anthropological field recordings of the Mole and Chub races,documenting the culture of both civilizations. As you might surmise, thearc of this project was ambitious and it fizzled before it ever really gotrolling. The concept tour was planned but never executed and thetrilogies were aborted after half of the albums were completed. (I canpicture boxes of Mole stickers sitting in someone's San Francisco basementright now. ) Much of the enigmatic project was typical of thehyper-enigmatic Residents, but since they did manage to record three ofthe six albums from the pair of trilogies, they have been reissued withsome critical liner notes and some fancy booklet-style packaging.
The Tunes of Two Cities and The Big Bubble survive as partsone and two of the anthropological trilogy. Two Cities interlacessongs from the Moles and the Chubs predating the emigration of the Moles.The songs culled from Mole culture are full of darkness, cacophony, andreverb. Conversely, the songs culled from Chub culture tend more towardsthe outwardly poppy: more piano, brighter arrangements, and loftierfeelings. All songs are largely instrumental, though intoned chantingdoes occur on songs like "Happy Home," "God of Darkness," and "A Maze ofJigsaws." The chants sounds as though they could be incidental vocals,caused more by the stirrings of inanimate instruments than animate voices.Though I find the music of both civilizations mostly unlistenable, let'stalk about the Chubs' music first. "Serenade for Missy" is Chubic musicat its best, full of stilted guitar, horns, and strings. It's big bandmusic played by humanoids without the full complement of a human genome.There is something slow and awkward about the arrangement which gives theimpression that you are privy to a civilization just learning what it cando with music. "Smack Your Lips (Clap Your Teeth)" might mimic the doubleimperative appellation of a band like Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, but don'texpect any of the David Byrne hero worship which said band usuallyemploys. Instead, there are maddening flourishes powered by a samplerwhich repeat indefinitely. "Song of the Wild" is the strongest Chub tunebecause of its intermittent moodiness which hangs like a grey cloud on ahorizon which was undoubtedly was cut with the silhouettes of approachingMoles. Such indecision and sadness has never been isolated in suchsoulless music.
The Mole sounds are largely grim. "A Maze of Jigsaws" starts out withsome deflating squawks and makes me want to listen to AZ's Music forScattered Brains and embrace it more. The circus noises give way adark and spiraling death drone, ironically easier to listen to than thefirst half of the song. The other five songs are a deliberate descentinto further Mole mayhem. If the Chubs' songs were the Apollonian birthof musical forms, than the Moles' songs are most certainly the Dionysiacdestruction of these forms. Encased in the Mole music is totalobliteration of musical order and learning. Instead of music for theconnoisseur, you have music for the dreary and depressed masses; theworking man's soundtrack. Stay far away if you want avoid sunken-couchalcoholism by the end of the working day. But if you must listen, atleast try to envision these songs as the soundtrack to an episode ofDoctor Who, Pertwee-era.
The most impressive thing about The Big Bubble was ostensibly itsoriginal gatefold packaging. I won^Rt even pretend to understand the forceof the meta-referential retardation which went on with the originalrelease, but the liner notes with the reissue attempt to shed the variouslayers of the artsy onion created by the Residents. As for the music,recall that this is supposed to be a document of the pop super-groupformed by hybrid Moles and Chubs. The songs are cavernous, sometimesplayful, and constantly unintelligible. All in all, this is a far betterlisten than the field recordings from The Tunes of Two Cities.Listen to "Hop a Little" and try not to imagine the horrible dungeontorture scenes replete with salt and razor wire which I conjured in myhead. The song is like a passion play between torturer and prisoner; themusic is frighteningly convincing as stunning dialog. "Cry for the Fire"actually strives for the anthemic and nearly reaches it. By this point,the songs are threatening to be understood instead of simply being aragout of nonsense and fabricated language. A few more songs and you cometo the end of the album. Suddenly, the band has evolved into a truer popband than when they began. As with the earlier anthropological album, youas the listener are witness to the evolution of music theory. This one ismore rewarding than the previous, though.
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Mark of the Mole theoretically tells the story of the Mole peopleas they emigrate from their home to the land of the Chubs. Besides PennJillette's ominous weather report in the beginning of "Voices of the Air,"nothing feels particularly narrative about the album. It would be likeinterpolating the plot details of "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory"by analyzing the lyrics of the various ditties and numbers from the film.If you can glean anything from the Oompa Loompa song, you are a betterreader than I. As such, most of the Mole saga has to be extrapolated fromthe liner notes. The musical soundtrack to the story is plodding,shattered, and caustic. It certainly feels like a score to somethingvisual, but I find it difficult to conjure a strict film in my head whenall I have are images without plot. The accompanying disc,Intermission, is solelyinstrumental music and simply reinforces the images without furthering theplot.That said, the images are sharply defined and dripping with grimy realism."Migration" has a sublime aptitudefor detailing the long march of the Moles' forced emigration. Tolkeincould have used such music for Frodo and Sam. "Another Land" is allbubbly and has fuzzy narrative soaking in the background. If I listenedmore closely, I could probably discern more of the plot for which I amsearching. But that is the peril of a soundtrack, destined from birth tobecome background bedding for moving pictures and rarely to stand on itsown. The Residents have created a well-crafted soundtrack for the Molemovie in their heads. Unfortunately, their ambition outpaced theirexecution and they never did finish the production. What you're left withis an anthropological artifact of its own: the fossil of an art-rock bandwhose concept child was aborted mid-term. It is hardly one of a kind.
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By its very nature its unsurprising that most instrumental beat-driven music seems to be kicking its heels, waiting for an MC to jump aboard the track to bring it to life. Shying away from ‘smart’ breaks and crate dust covered samples this debut concentrates instead on song structures and melodies.
The precision and specificity of the production here rivals many more accomplished artists using similar elements. This is a showcase for a producer spreading his wings and staking his claim for Scottish hip-hop.
Midway between the grime and lights of Scotland’s twin capitals sits the decidedly uncool town of Wishaw. Mark Scanlon’s (the brain behind Kobra Audio Labs) hometown may about to receive its first lifeblood transfusion though. Initial perceptions may be that rural Wishaw does not sit well with a soundtrack of cut up samples and kinetic beats. But there is a sometimes hopeful and sometimes weary home-grown heart here that means this doesn’t sound like it’s imported from, or suited for, some urban streetscape.
Each of the eight songs refuse to take a definitive or easily mapped route as each song bucks and rights itself away from rolling down well worn paths. This is no simulacrum of other artists synonymous with the genre. Taking the slower course, "El Cordobés" begins the album slowly, relying on a delicately swaggering atmosphere and converging elements which build layer upon layer. Twinges of sitar form a warm night sky undercurrent for the combination of an almost oriental melody and intrusive snipped harmonica.
The midnight drive of "Down to the Dozens" shows he’s equally as practiced at marshalling the funk as he is at managing melodies. An incongruent riff built from the plinking of some electronic box rides tight jazzy beats without a seatbelt. A perfectly well placed Heathers sample punctuates the song that’s peppered with surging horn parts, chopped strings and a loop built from dabs of wah wah.
There are so great little moments scattered within these songs which improve the sense that these are the ideas are deliberate and not scattered lucky accidents. Its an impressive introduction that moves from the Mysteron whine and ball bearing beat of "Specterville" to the sunken woozy unsettling air of "We Have the Strength but we Don't Have the Will" with its water soaked clock sound. Hopefully Scanlon will keep to this crooked path and avoid any trips to the big city lights.
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Ace Fu
Mother’s Daughter and Other Songs is finally getting a statesiderelease courtesy of Ace Fu, and I’m glad because up until now, I’dnever heard of Tunng. I reckon the same is true for many folks on theseshores, but that should all change soon because Tunng taps into one ofthose inevitable sounds of the moment: electronic-tinged folk. Foryears, laptoppers have been contently twiddling away making non-songswith equipment that excels with experimentation and diversion. Recently,though, those same tools capable of so many distracting tangents havebeen used to add a fresh edge to tried-and-true songwriting.
Tunngis perhaps the best example of the balance between electronic tweakingand simple singing and strumming. The songs here are full of hooks andthey are perfectly built around traditional melodies and capablesinging, but the added layer of electronic beats, effects, andmanipulations make the songs something else altogether. I could easilyimagine hearing this record without all of the digital bits and notthinking much of it, but because those pieces make up part of thepuzzle of Tunng, the songs become impossible to ignore. And because thetwo sides of the Tunng’s sound are brilliantly dancing together ratherthan stepping on each others’ toes, none of it ever feels like agimmick or a tack-on.
I’ve never been a huge fan of folk music,probably because it seemed ancient and irrelevant to me during thoseyears when I was finding things that I liked on my own. It was alreadyolder and fussier than the music my parents liked, even, so I neverdeveloped a taste. On any night in any town, I can walk into a coffeeshop or bookstore or small club and probably find someone plowingthrough heartfelt songs with a stool and a guitar, and the sheeromnipresence of that tradition tends to turn me off. Thankfully throughartists like Tunng, I’m learning that there’s a fresher approach tothose songs that can lure in cynical technophiles with a glitch, andhold us with a song. This is a great, great record, and I can onlyguess that we are about to hear a lot more like it.
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On paper, this sounds like just another retro band but Glissandro 70 are more than that. They have recycled hackneyed ideas and put together a wonderful collage of sounds that feels like something new.
The majority of songs on the album consist of short musical phrases,normally a cheery guitar line in an odd meter, accompanied by layers ofrepeated vocals. This could get boring quite quickly but most of thetime Glissandro 70 keep it far within the realms of enjoyable. “BolanMuppets” is a beautiful piece; it sounds exactly like the best summervacation with a loved one. It’s followed by “Portugal Rua Rua,” whichis the one track where the duo stumbles but only for the first coupleof minutes. Once the slightly annoying vocal loop that starts the songfades out and the wah guitar kicks in (followed by a nice chant liftinglyrics from Model 500’s “No UFOs”), the song falls into place.
With only five tracks, it seems like I’ve only hit play when the album is spinning down. At just over 35 minutes, I wonder have Perri and Dunsmuir deliberately kept it short to give maximum impact to the material. I hope there is more as in this age of the 80 minute album, this feels like more like an EP than an album. Of course, this could be an example of an artist showing some restraint in making an album as they want it, as opposed to filling a disc to bursting point.
One thing that I question though is Constellation’s decision to release this album in March. Glissandro 70 is a summer album to my ears. This is somethingthat I’m sure to spin more in July than I have been over the last fewweeks. There’s something depressing about listening to a track like“Analogue Shantytown” while it pisses rain and freezes brass balls offa monkey outside.
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