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I can get downwith a substance-less booty jam with the best of them, but this is thekind of amateurish, formulaic piffle that makes me want to leave theclub scene well behind. The artists took no care to create or craft asingle sound in the title cut or its b-side remix that is the least bitinteresting. This is simply stock disco and electro rehash withpredictable lead lines and endlessly trite drum beats. Anyone wantingto replicate "Take U To The Car Crash" needs only to purchase a coupleelectro/techno loop CDs and leave all notions of experimentation andfun behind. Cheesy synth lines, mechanical beats and obnoxious trashvocals seal this record as the worst thing I've heard yet this year.The irony of one of the mixes being called "Original Mix" despite thefact that not a single thing about it is original is the only thingabout it that makes me smile.
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Released as an LP on the K.A.K. labelin 1995, Zero Beats Per Minute was conceived as the ultimateanti-rave statement, growing out of a series of after-club performancesalong the London-Swansea mainline in industrialized Newport. Anal wouldperform next to the train tracks, hoping to catch wandering acid andecstasy-fueled ravers as they wandered from closed clubs to after-hoursillegal warehouse parties. As anti-rave, I imagine Anal's brand ofnoise worked quite well, a series of rhythmless explosions ofaggravated analogue noise specially formulated to piss off all but themost anarchic ravers. Anal was far more interested in the bleak,industrial frigidity of Throbbing Gristle and Whitehouse than themid-90s weekend rave scene typified by Praga Khan and the Lords ofAcid, and it shows. As a punk-as-fuck, industrial-strength belch in theface of vapid dance and drug culture, the album works. As another wayfor synthesizer fetishists to get a cheap thrill, it also works; anyonewho likes Mount Vernon Arts Lab or Queen Elizabeth would likely alsoappreciate Anal. The question of whether or not it contains good musicis a bit more difficult, however. The album's first six tracks are allrelatively brief little sketches of Anal's delicious blasts of analoguedrones, blankets of static, steam-venting copper tubing and gale-forceplumes of thought-canceling noise, but nothing stays long enough tofully develop. The album's main attraction is the sidelong behemoth of"Journey Through a Burning Anal," which uses all of the techniques onSide A to build a long, slowly transforming odyssey through thegraveyard shift of a steel mill, with clever little nods to morepopular forms of techno here and there just to remind you of how faryou have traveled. Though this track is nice enough, when it was over,I couldn't help feeling a little shortchanged by the album. At 31:42,it's incredibly brief, the LP apparently having been shortened for thisreissue. I can only speculate as to why it would have been edited downin its transition to the digital format, but it seems an odd choice.Fans of Coil and Co. who have been waiting years for Eskaton to makegood on its promise to release "I Am Newport" b/w "Kiss Me Ringland"will doubtless be disappointed that this material has not been includedas bonus. Also, Cope's Fuck Off & Di label apparently engineeredthis release without the consultation of Jody Evans or Thighpaulsanda,making this entire release of somewhat questionable pedigree. Let thebuyer beware.
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I think this is supposed to sound grinding, heavy, and intimidating,but the latest from Chondritic Sound's founder sounds more like a blastof dense, hot air than anything else. This single, 42 minute trackfluctuates between a frustrating stasis and short, intense barrages ofmachine noise and static. The bass-like rumble that stays through theentire album undergoes a series of modulations that becomes thicker andthicker while waves of bees, never-ending crunches, and low-endfrequencies boil over one another in an almost indistinguishable haze.Eventually Death Tonebegins to sound as though it is going nowhere and by the end of thealbum I feel as if I've been run in tiny and completely uninterestingcircles for far too long. There's no doubt that the album is incrediblyloud, but it isn't punishing or particularly noteworthy in itsseverity. With a title like Death Tone that's a bitdisappointing, especially considering the label Hive Mind released thison and the lack of any discernable arrangement other than the shifts intexture that so gradually occur. The constant cycle of homogenouselements doesn't allow for any shocking moments or unpredictable blastsof sound and it especially doesn't allow for any interestingdevelopments. Roughly ten minutes of listening to this would have beenenough to let me know what was going to happen throughout the rest ofthe record; an entire 30 minutes or so is wasted repeating andrehashing what was accomplished very early on. To make matters worse,the jumble of fuzzy waves that make up this album eventually begin toblend into the background and disappear altogether. Instead of soundinglike a confrontation with something deadly or even scary, the musicslowly becomes benign and altogether easy to listen to. I expectedsomething confrontational and demented, but received a poorlyconstructed and disengaging soundscape. Louder, far more deadly havocexists out in the realm of noise; the name and vaguely anti-musicalsentiments of Death Tone aren't enough to make a bland and redundant recording exciting or horror-inducing.
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Here, MachineBoy unfortunately adds nothing to the previous cast of characters whohave worked with these tools in the past. While the central point ofinterest is supposed to be Lorian Elbert's spoken word, that's exactlywhat derails this disc and leaves Machine Boy's production to try, (andfail) to take up the slack. Elbert's poetry might mean something ifread with conviction, but her delivery is soaked with the dissociated,uninterested droll of someone's who's heard of poetry as a verbal artform, but hasn't quite mastered it. Every line pulled from her verse isdelivered with virtually the same intonation so that I'm never sure ifall the words are from one long poem about tedium, or just sound thatway because she lacks the spirit or presence to bring the words fullyto life. The words are further maligned by Machine Boy's sampling,looping, and poor recording of them. Spoken word is a hard thing topull off without garnering laughs from all but the most turtle-neckedEnglish majors, but artists like Nicole Blackman, Maggie Estep, andElizabeth Alexander bring to mind the kind of collaboration thatMachine Boy no doubt wants this to be. Thankfully, none of the tracksare long enough to inspire contempt, but they aren't interesting enoughto merit the short time they do occupy either. Tied down todeconstructed poetry and musical backing that doesn't seem to noticethat the words are there, the Depression EP never has a chance to take off.
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Nothing against Techno Animal or Curse of theGolden Vampire, but I am guessing that most of Broadrick's hardcorefans were just biding their time until he unleashed this long-rumoreddebut full-length from his new band Jesu. The album is released at avery serendipitous time, as the resurgence in interest and popularityof post-metal and noise rock has reached a fever pitch, just the righttime for Broadrick and crew to show everyone how things are reallydone. And show them he does, unleashing a longform rock album thatrecalls the best slow-burn doom metal and shoegazer psych-rock, withoutreally sounding like anything else other than itself. People willdoubtless attempt to refer to this as "metal," but it's no more "metal"than Godflesh ever was. Instead, it's a unique combination of elements:rumbling, speaker cone-obliterating bass to rival the mostbowel-voiding moments of Sunn O))) together with thick, textural layersof grinding, melodic guitar, powerfully sparse drums and a blindingwall of wintry keyboards. Broadrick's vocals are desolate and emotive,plaintive wails that are artificially time-stretched, vocodered andharmonized to stunning effect. With the heady sense of chillingambience provided by the synthesizers, I was reminded of Burzum's Filosofem,though the vocals share more in common with Alice in Chains or someother reference point bound to scare the beard-strokers away. The albumis composed of eight somber rock dirges of generous length, each onecompounding layers of distortion and echo throughout their length,filling the room with forceful surges of sound that funnel down noisywhirlpools or crest to awe-inspiring heights. Jesu is more than the sumof its parts. From a collection of essentially down-key, depressingmusical elements, the music at times achieves a sort of heavenlyspiritual transcendence. Case in point is track two, "Friends AreEvil," in which melody is provided by Broadrick's funereal, downcastvocal mantra along with ferociously belted guitar and punishing basscrunches. By the seven-minute mark, however, the song has becometriumphant and majestic, aspiring to the ecstatic "Jesu, Joy of Man'sDesiring" heights suggested by the band's name. The band's effect islargely visceral and thus difficult to translate into words, I amcertain this will please longtime fans of Broadrick as well as fans ofHydra Head, Southern Lord, Robotic Empire, and related businesses.
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It seems her father was a leader of the Tamil rebellion attemptingto win independence from the Sinhalese majority, which made her earlylife one of violence, poverty and constant flight from governmentforces. Apparently, this background accounts for the political andrevolutionary overtones of many of the tracks on Arular,though I'm not sure I ever would have detected these themes had I notalready been aware of Maya's story. The Sri Lankan beauty has some goodbuzz behind her because of a pair of ace singles released last year—Galang and Sunshowers—thatintroduced M.I.A.'s signature combination of Timbaland-style beatcraft,Peaches-style electro, dancehall reggae and UK grime/garage-scentedhip-hop. Also there was the popular illegal mashup mix Piracy Funds Terrorism Vol. 1with Diplo, which pitted L.L. Cool J against The Clipse, Missy andCutty Ranks. Her debut is released on XL Recordings, home of DizzeeRascal and Basement Jaxx, both of who seemed to have informed elementsof M.I.A.'s sound. Most tracks are built from a Roland MC-505 beatboxspitting out pounding, distinctly dancehall-style beats, decorated witha myriad little squiggles and acid squelches. The emphasis on clean,laser-sharp, eyeball-vibrating synths bears more than a passingresemblance to Timbaland's production style, which is no accident, asit seems M.I.A. is trying to position herself as thepolitically-conscious, across-the-pond answer to Missy Elliott.Although she perhaps comes by it more honestly, M.I.A. also includes alot of the banghra and worldbeat elements that have become de rigeurfor all modern hip-hop post-"Ger Ur Freak On." Except for a fewpointless tracks of filler, the majority of Arular is raucousand entertaining while maintaining a certain kind of relentlessforcefulness that seems at once scary and sexy. It's the very model ofan entirely derivative sound palette, and M.I.A.'s vocal stylings andlyrics are in no danger of being admired by anyone, but the albumaspires the rarefied heights of alluringly disposable club culture. I'dsuggest that anyone interested in the album immediately go look forlabel advances in cutout bins or on your favorite RIAA-baitingfile-sharing service, because the official release of the album, whichwas scheduled for this Tuesday, has been indefinitely postponed becauseof an unauthorized sample issue. Enjoy.
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The album rotates about the shamanistic experiences of aCzechoslovakian man named Jiri Nepomuk Prihoda. In 1967 he escaped hishome and lived among the Inuit, Samoyed, and Chukchas of Siberia forover 30 years. Apparently Prihoda was witness to or a participant in aritual that involved submersion into ice-cold waters for weeks at atime. This practice was meant to facilitate an understanding of thesubjective nature of the reality all individuals seemingly share.Aranos, whether or not he has captured the hypothermic qualities ofthis practice, has crafted Bering Seawith an ear to the skeptical view of reality these shamans held. Themusic is consumptive in two ways: each sound swallows and regurgitatesitself or other sounds in a series of digital effects, gongs, low windblasts, and processed string and metal whirlpools so that the piecesounds as if it is actually turning itself inside out and reinventingitself throughout. Beyond the musical element, Bering Sea isalso space consuming and, especially out high volumes, tends totransform the environment it is being played in. Shadows that creepacross the room suddenly become far more noticeable and ominous, lightsflicker with a greater intensity, and natural light feels far morecomfortable and safe than the darkness just over the horizon. Onemoment the music can be nearly electric in its outbursts, the sizzle ofunseen energy bursting and dying immediately in a constant flux ofthoughts, and the next moment it can be wholly material. The spirit ofthis record is both terrestrial and magickal and it moves between thetwo realms seamlessly. Aranos actually remarks on the back of therather beautiful packaging that he kept this album at roughly an hourlong because of concerns related to disrupting the "space-timecontinuum;" I highly suggest listening to this on repeat and becomingcompletely consumed by its rumbling chaos and strange movements. Themore these gusts of sounds spill over me and get inside my head, themore my brain shakes and slowly transforms the objects around me.Besides, Aranos does provide a small spot of relief in the last fewminutes of the album as reversed singing and guitar begin to fade inand provide a ray of light over the flow of introspection thatpreceeded it. It's as though Aranos has gathered everyone around a fireto talk about what's just happened and to sing happily of its effects. Bering Sea is available for purchase from Aranos; all the details needed are available at his website.
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The most obvious change is the addition of vocals by Phyllis Forbes andMolly Schnick, the two founders and leaders of the band. The dualfemale vocals bring a level of pop coalescence to Out Hud's music thatmay have been present on past recordings, but not as immediatelyobvious. Where before, Out Hud tracks seemed to meander through aseries of amorphous transitions, odd instrumental bridges and deathdefying plunges into the dub chamber, "One Life to Leave: A Requiem fora Requiem" retains a tightness and focus from start to finish thatsuggests a evolution of the band's sound. That's not to suggest thatall the bizarre eclecticism is gone, however, as proven by the mutanthybrid of early house music, Bananarama vocals, funk guitar licks andthe barest outline of jagged, PiL-style abrasiveness on "OL2L." Thefirst track on Side A is a longer, alternate mix of the album track,and is entirely informed by the band's usual kitchen-sink maximalism,subjecting the song to layers of complex, hermetic production gimmicksand completely unexpected left turns. There are even a few distortedblasts of speaker-cone destroying industrial percussion that recall thebest track on their first LP, the oddly named "Dad, There's a LittlePhrase Called Too Much Information." And speaking of weird song titlesaddressed to the ubiquitous Out Hud patriarch, Side B is entirely takenup by a massive 10-minute track entitled "Put It Away, Put It Away, PutIt Away Dad." I suppose dear old dad is trying to embarrass hisdaughters again, and Out Hud respond with an infectiously wackylong-form psychedelic odyssey through every retrograde musical gestureof which they are capable. The number of competing styles that areforced to groove in one another's presence is truly stunning; the onlyappropriate comparisons I can think of are Sigue Sigue Sputnik's "LoveMissile F1-11" or Steve Miller's "Macho City." Though Out Hud's musichas spawned the usual bevy of imitators, they are still very much themasters of their own style, and this generous teaser has me positivelysalivating for the upcoming long-player.
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- One Life to Leave - A Requiem
- One Life to Leave - A Requiem for a Requiem
- Put It Away, Put It Away, Put It Away Dad
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Mirror is aware of something hiddenbehind the world of appearances; walking silently in the wake of theirmusic are all manners of hushed events and murky images culled from thesleeping side of the imagination. Their process of assembling uniquesounds into colossal monuments of musical energy has resulted in atapestry of intrigue on Shadows.It begins quietly, as many Mirror records do, and escalates into acomplex thread of throbbing oscillations, warped choirs of naturalsamples, and synthetic wounds. The music is almost taunting me attimes, acting as though it will reveal the source of its whistles andsirens and just as I am about to uncover the spring that feeds one ofthe sounds, it shifts and slips away. It either speeds up, flowingforward in time and distorting itself in fits of interference or itslows down and goes where I can't: backwards towards its own origins. Afigure begins to emerge within the single 45 minute track as it creepsalong, forming the impression that every second on Shadows isdedicated to an occurrence that continues to resonate long after it hasculminated and ceased to be. I want to speculate that the aftershock ofa murder has somehow been stretched through time, but the sweepingdynamics of this recording suggest something far more revelatory andcomplex. Whale calls, no... radio signals (maybe both) begin to lurkwithin this sound-picture before it is even half over and the subtleinclusion of static or rainfall paint a portrait of a lonely figurelost at sea and crushed by the weight of hopelessness. Steady machinefuzz, bird calls, faintly rhythmic reverberations, wrecked gongs andbells, and the possible sound of smeared screaming and guitar allregister throughout Shadows, but every listen reveals that Ihad the sound source wrong. Police sirens take the place of wailing,water drops materialize where plucked strings or computer chirpsexisted before, and the album takes on a whole new shape in aperplexing and exciting way each time it spins. It's impossible toenumerate everything happening on this record as what I think might bethere at times escapes and reshapes itself the second I try to pin itdown. This is undoubtedly one of the finest Mirror recordings I haveever heard. Its constant metamorphosis is transfixing and meditativeand undeniably beautiful.
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This track has a pleasantly loose feel, with Newman lettingquick, fingerpicked phrases and patterns fly from his acoustic guitaras if by stream of consciousness. Newman sounds as if he makes thismusic because he needs to, not because of a need to fit into any genre.It feels as if he is communicating these tunes directly from his headto tape, and this immediacy makes his music refreshingly inviting. Afew tracks seem more thoroughly composed, such as "Cloud City," duringwhich a slower intro section is a prelude to a main body which seesNewman off to the races with rapid-fire melodies. After threeconsecutive tracks involving solo acoustic finger-picking, "It's A Trap(Part One)" comes whirling out of nowhere and sets Accidents With Nature and Each Otherapart from countless solo guitar affairs. Gorgeous, abstract hauntingtones shimmer in and out of focus, sounding like a train travelingalong on a foggy night. Although "A Thousand Stolen Blankets To KeepYou Warm" utilizes old-timey slide guitar playing, Newman also coaxeslong ringing tones out of his instrument during the midsection.Ultimately, small gestures such as this elevate Newman's work abovebeing an exercise in antiquity. Bruce Cawdron's percussion also adds anelement that gives Accidents With Nature and Each Other a broadrange of textures. His ramshackle playing style is a perfect foil forNewman's free-flowing phrases on "Lords & Ladies." The percussiongradually moves from steady tambourine playing to a solid backbeat,before breaking down into free-form chaos, the result is the sound ofWar-era Larry Mullen Jr. being thrown from the drum stool by Animalfrom The Muppets. His shuffling brushwork and melodic glockenspielplaying on closer "Driving All Night With Only My Mind" make this amemorable end to an album that expands the possibilities of theacoustic guitar-based project. While Newman's guitar playing stillcommands the spotlight, the flourishes added throughout the set are atestament to his individuality.
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The breadth and scope of Sumatra's indigenous musicalculture was fascinating, as were the bizarre cross-culturaljuxtapositions that often resulted in hilariously corny but eminentlylistenable pop hybrids. The material on this disc is much the same asthat earlier disc, except that all of this music was captured from FMradio broadcasts throughout Sumatra, Java and other parts of Indonesia.Anyone who has heard past volumes of radio collage from the SF labelknows that Bishop is particularly talented at editing and sequencingthese volumes with a listener in mind. He intersperses disparatemusical styles with radio station IDs, sections of Sumatran talk radio,karaoke call-in shows, signal jamming noise and other assortedunexplained audio phenomena. Bishop has an ear for the chaotic clash ofethnic styles that is only possible in a place like Indonesia,deliberately segueing from Islamic Folk to Gambus Rock, from saccharinefemale vocal pop to punk and heavy metal pastiches. Some of the songsare utterly excruciating, others are strangely beautiful, but none lastlonger than three to four minutes, so there's always relief around thecorner if your ears can't take any more. Sumatran culture in particularseems to fascinate Bishop because it plays into his aestheticpredilection for adulterated, post-modern cultural half-breeds, whichhe clearly sees as superior to ideas of cultural purity or classicism.Through the years, the music that Bishop has made with the Sun CityGirls has freely and unceremoniously dipped into various ethnic musicforgeries with an admirable lack of political correctness or humility.With Sublime Frequencies releases like these, Bishop's ideas of "worldpsychedelia" come into clearer focus; the continued cross-germinatingand interlacing of popular art forms create a complex and chaotictangle of ethnic noise that resists deconstruction or analysis, buthints at a vast cultural archive simmering below the surface. The lackof information about the performing artists, recording dates or othercontextualizing information provided with these releases tends tosupport this view. For Sublime Frequencies, it doesn't really matterwhere or how or why, it just matters that we can tune into something atonce exotic and familiar that forces us to consider the rapidlyconverging world community.
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