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A majority of the tracks are live performancesfeaturing outlandish clarinet solos, haphazard and drunken blurts ofbrass-noise, and a good deal of shouting. After listening to the albumbeginning to end, and without repeating certain tracks of particularbeauty, this document of an obscure and somehow mesmerizing band hascompletely won my heart. It is true that some information about theband makes some of the tracks more amusing (for instance, The DeadlyDoris hired a three strangers on a couple of occasions to fill in forthem live; during the concert cards were handed out that informed theaudience that The Deadly Doris were "being seen on stage in a foreignbody"), but many of these songs stand up on their own. "M..Rökk:Rhythmus im Blut" and "Der Tod ist ein Skandal" are incredibly viciousand nearly catchy pieces of metal destruction set around the openingscenes of 2001: A Space Odyssey while other tracks, like"Naturkatastrophenkonzert," seem to be on the disc merely forhistorical reasons. Of interest to some might be the appearance ofBlixa Bargeld on one track and a concert recording from a double billwith SPK. Whether or not SPK actually performs on the track is anyone'sguess. So much of this could easily be dismissed as pure noise wankery,but there's an atypical beauty in a lot of these pieces; somethingabout the raw and unfinished feel of the whole album makes it a hundredtimes more enjoyable than a lot of the studio work I've heard comingfrom contemporary noise-mongers. "Der Letzte Walzer," primarily a noisecollage, features a trio of easy-listening musicians playing in thebackground. The meshing of these two styles of music, oddly enough,sticks out in my mind. It's just that sort of surrealist approach tothe music that makes this record so enjoyable.
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"The Drink" begins with samples of folks slurpingdown beverages undoubtedly served with little umbrellas included. Onthis track Dixon ingeniously incorporates the rhythmic sounds of icecubes clinking around in drinking glasses into the bouncy beat.Throughout the EP he captures the feeling of being far from everydayworries, as if during the course of the program one is traveling aroundthis popular vacation destination. The sound of birds weaving in andout of the rhythms on "The Beach" similates the experience of suchcreatures circling overhead while one is at a beach. The rapid cut-upsnippets heard during opener "The Culture," such as vocal fragments("mahalo"), steel drum patterns, and Hawaiian style guitar playing,attempt to provide an overview of Hawaiian culture while acting as awarped aural welcoming mat. Musically the tracks consist of many tinybits of found sound, tied together by intricately programmed 4/4 beats.The rhythms are multi-layered and sometimes fall into brief repetitivesections that allow for melodies to sneak in. These melodic sectionsare highly effective since they are used so sparingly, especially theinfectious staccato keyboard melody that is introduced halfway into"The Drink." The Hawaiian theme has rarely been used outside theexotica music genre that it's refreshing to hear it updated socleverly.
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This is the third edition of the album, initially released as alimited 12" (containing only the first nine tracks), subsequentlyreleased as a limited double CD in a silk bag, and now released as adouble CD in a regular jewel case. Typical of a Muslimgauze release,the album is adorned with photos from the Middle East that Bryn Jonesnever actually visited, even though the region's history, culture andpolitics obsessed him for his entire career. Even though Jones changedmusical directions several times throughout his career, from abstractnoise and ambient compositions through to densely layered worldbeat anddance music, there is no absolutely mistaking the Muslimgauze sound:those crisp, powdery beats and ragged, sudden edits; the layers ofburied samples from Arabic music; the extreme, trance-inducingrepetition. Syrinjia is distinguishable from other 'Gauzereleases of this period only because of its unwavering fixation on dubreggae. Jones was, of course, one of the first to draw a straight linebetween Kingston dub production and Middle Eastern breaks, long beforeDJ/Rupture started releasing albums. Muslimgauze's dub is a tenser,more violent beast than the average Augustus Pablo or King Tubby side,coming closer to the type of dancehall dub typified by Rootsman or TheBug's Pressure. Fiercely synthetic machine beats built fromJones' usual sound palette are joined by occasional dancehallshoutdowns, weaving Arabic female vocals and random plunges into theecho chamber. There are several standout tracks here, notable for theirrelative absence of dissonance and aggression, including the thrilling"Detrimental" and "Holy Man." The extra tracks also contain someworthwhile tracks, including the minimal dubwise techno of "Taliban"and "Zindag." Those insane enough to be Muslimgauze completists havedoubtless already tracked this album down, but for the casual Gauzelistener, Syrinjia would still be a worthy purchase.
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Touch and Go
This album is the full realization of theconcept and it shows—as track after track is stronger than the last,building to a climax that settles in like a lamb more than a lion,drawing absolutely no complaints. Abaddon being the abyss or place ofthe dead, it's not expected that songs on the record will approach anyform of positivity, but they do on occasion, and either way it's adelight coming through the speakers even when they're at their mostmellow. The only thing that gets in the way is the sometimes obtusenature of the lyrics that reach for highfalutin concepts without anyreal merit. "I missed your monotube" and "Acute angles divide my paththat I had lost" may sound cool, but ultimately they are a little muchon the simple structures that surround them, and therefore they soundlike reaching. The repitition is also a bit trying, but forgiven if thesong actually hits the right marks eventually. "Syracuse," forinstance, repeats the same two lines until they're almost meaningless,but the driving energy of the song and the many layers that itrepresents make this null and void. This is almost math rock, as thereseems to be some greater formula at play that mere humans can'tcomprehend. The duo that make up Pinback on record shift styles andtempos with sly skill, all in the name of making pleasant sounds andhummable melodies, even if it sounds more complicated than it is.Whether there is more artifice than art is inconsequential.
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The resultant electronic influenceis so heavy that the instrumentation is barely categorizable as "hiphop"—rapid fire hi hats slogging through dense but pedestrian soundslast heard on the Doom soundtrack alternating with somethingKraftwerk might have done on the Euro club scene had they worked 30years later (maybe the title is relevant, or deliberatelymisconceiving?). The lyrics are at their core well done. Intelligentenough, as complex couplets ("to the detriment of many a derelict/ wecome to inject a bit of intellectual impulse/ set to a beat to offsetthe inimical complaints of the ignorant"), and cerebral syllogisms flyby the ears at a frenetic pace. Being bombarded by heavily distortedvoices waxing futuristic over the fate of humanity provies a bit ofironic relief too. But the combination of heavy effects and light-speedpace make the lyrics, a key component of any rap record, all butindecipherable. The instrumentation makes Zwarte Achtegrond toogratingly artificial for a hip hop aficionado, and the dizzinglydifficult rapping will distract all but the most dedicated electronichead, potentially alienating both sides of the would-be crossover. Theformula clicks just once, with "Get the Signal," a fast paced energeticthumper most notable for its simplicity. On the whole Lab Waste seemsto have forgotten an essential ingredient in any hip-hop album,unforgivable if they do portend to have a "Zwarte Achtegrond":there's no soul. Put together with double clicks, and without a singleturntable, the album lacks nearly all vestiges of human involvement, avital element of the hip hop aesthetic. The feel is cold anddisconnected, which is probably the point. As a bleak concept albumbemoaning the future, then, Zwarte Achtegrond might succeed onsome level, but it's not enough to save it from being a tedious genreexperiment, mired in confused mediocrity.
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A record comprised of tencover songs, nine of which revisit some of Daniel's favorite moments inthe annals of English punk rock and American hardcore, transformingtwo-minute angry screeds into sleazy, hedonistic electro-disco. Whileit's fairly obvious that Daniel has retained much of his affection forthis music from his youth spent in the Louisville, Kentucky hardcorepunk scene, it's equally obvious that Daniel is aware that he isessentially negating the substance of punk and hardcore protest bygrafting the lyrics onto hyper-sexualized, druggy dance music. MinorThreat's "Out Of Step" remains a classically explicit statement ofpurpose for the straight edge DC hardcore movement, but SPT's versioncompletely castrates the original's ascetic stance, adding layers ofsampled sex moans and laughable snippets from a "Stop Smoking in 30Days" LP. The central question posed by Do You Want New Waveappears to be this: Can these fiercely political songs be takenseriously when they can be so easily stripped of meaning?Anti-capitalism and anarchism abound on the album, with People Like Us'Vicki Bennett providing vocals for a version of Crass' "Do They Us aLiving?" from the epochal Feeding of the 5000 that sounds likeits being covered by The Normal. But the famously confrontationaljeremiad, juxtaposed with digitized whipcracks and squelching synths,ends up in the realm of the absurd, a series of hopelessly radicalizedleft-wing rants that seem downright quaint in the age of prosperity andTony Blair. It seems clear that Drew Daniel's intention is to have thelistener question the political substance of these songs, as he slylydisarms them of their power by transforming them into slick dance clubfodder for a generation that can't be bothered to think. In fact, itmay have been SPT's plan all along to force us to think about thesedecades-old blasts of political aggression, and by removing the loud,primitive noise guitar and chaotic pummeling, the listener receives noassistance and must take the lyrics on their own terms. This isespecially effective on more obscure cuts like the mashup ofRudimentary Peni's "Media Person" (which Daniel mistakenly renames"Media Friend") and "V.S.B.," transforming RP's savagely desolategoth-punk into a relentlessly hypnotic MDMA groove that matches JeremyScott's vocal delivery perfectly. The deliciously blasphemous "Poet'sConfession" from electro-punks Nervous Gender ("Jesus was a cocksuckingJew from Galilee/Jesus was just like me/A homosexual nymphomaniac") isturned into a dark, queasy acid rave-up worthy of LSD-era Coil,serving only to intensify the song's already terrifying nihilism.Daniel has a good time turning The Angry Samoans' miniature homophobicdiatribe "Homo-sexual" into a high-velocity rip-roaring sing-along forrivetheads, making it even more difficult to figure whether or not theoriginal's intolerant hate-mongering was meant to be satire. Like anygood punk album, SPT's Do You Want New Wave clocks in at a slim35 minutes, but it doesn't waste a second, turning what should havebeen a patently ridiculous concept into an incredibly, infectiouslyentertaining album.
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- Do They Owe Us A Living? (Crass)
- Media Friend/Vampire State Building (Rudimentary Peni)
- Confession (Nervous Gender)
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With 37 short tracks, this 13th installment in the ongoing Carnival Folklore Resurrectionseries has a much more cut-up feel than the two disc set, also createdfor radio, which preceded it. As a critique of the onslaught of quicklychanging imagery that defines America 2004, this program succeeds inpointing out the depths of absurdity to which said culture has sunk.This is best exemplified by "Only In America inc.," which consists of ahilarious answering machine message left by a young entrepreneur for"Mr. Rockefeller." The young go-getter asks if Rockefeller will providehalf a million dollars to help him start up a company whose solefunction is to send phony bills to corporations, on the assumption thatsome of them will pay these "bills" without researching their validity.Alan Bishop's charming/fearsome "Uncle Jim" character makes severalappearances during this set. His free associated ranting is highlyenjoyable, as his interjections are transmitted in several shortbursts. This is an improvement on the previous volume, which devotedthree ten minute tracks to his verbal antics. Here his demeanor is likethat of a radio announcer, except he interrupts the program to presentfacts about cannibalism and make wise-crackin' boasts that oddly oftenreference baseball ("I'll crack yer skull with a greazy spitter/walkthe pitcher/strike out the lead-off hitter"). There is also muchworthwhile music hidden among the skits, radio collages and monologues."Very Middle East" sees the group in pseudo-ethnic mode, theirguitar-bass-drums lineup appropriating melodies discovered whiletravelling in Far East Asia. "Anvils Keep Fallin'" is exactly theparody of the BJ Thomas classic that one would hope it is upon readingthe title. "Bangalore Porch Lights" sounds like a recording of a banjoplayer searching for a melody he heard in a dream. "EvasivePrescription" and "Dark Eyes" are fine examples of the kind of mangledjazz/rock hybrid Sun City Girls are known for delivering live. During"Evasive Prescription" in particular they astound with their talent forcollectively stopping on a dime during sections of free improvisation.Although it has been suggested that they release too much material thatnever should have left the practice room, Sun City Girls should beapplauded for the sheer range of material they produce. I'd rather hearthe failed experiments among their gems than the perfected output ofcountless less daring outfits. -
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Turntablism courtesy of his son Casey is alsoincorporated, and while far short of anything DJ Shadow would put hisname on, it is the final nudge that pushes Real Gone'ssound from the eccentric to the borderline insane. Such tomfoolery attimes threatens to derail the album, but Waits and his trademark gravelthroat keeps Real Gone if not grounded at least focused.Sometimes a mere croak, Waits's war-weary pipes conjure up images oflate nights, hard drink and one carton of Marlboro Reds too many, whilesubtly revealing the true star of Real Gone, and indeed the keyto Waits's longevity: his skill as a songwriter. When mated to theyarns Waits is able to spin in the span of three to five minutes, themanic music becomes sublime. Waits matches tribal drumming andprimitive chanting to make an anti-jingoism anthem: "The sun is up theworld is flat/ Damn good address for a rat/ The smell of blood/ TheDrone of flies/ You know what to do if/ The baby cries/ HOIST THATRAG!" Waits's longstanding to downtrodden has not wavered at all, fromthe unlucky lover with "Green Grass" ("Lay your head where my heartused to be/ Hold the earth above me/ Lay down in the green grass/Remember when you loved me") to the unfortunate accessory on "Don't Gointo that Barn." His ability to create characters and tell compellingstories has not lost any of its uncanny power, as is evident on "How'sIt Gonna End": "There's a killer and he's coming/ Thru the rye/ Butmaybe he's the Father/ Of that lost little girl/ It's hard to tell inthis light." Waits does overdo things at times:- "Sins of the Father"is an egregious overindulgence, boring, preachy and tortuously long atnearly eleven minutes. The opening track, "Top of the Hill," is littlemore than a vehicle for Waits's newfound instrumentation choices, asthe lyrics are nothing more than a string of non sequitirs, madetolerable only by the fun Waits has with the turntables and beatboxing.On "Clang Boom Steam," Waits felt the need to imitate orally what couldbe either a steel foundry or a busy railway yard, with, just as thetitle suggests, clangs, booms, and hisses from his mouth, a pointlessmeandering that is wildly out of step with the rest of the album. Butit doesn't matter, as Waits does as he pleases, and whether it'sthrough luck, ability or something more sinister ("I'm not able, I'mjust Cain") he releases one of 2004's most compelling albums. -
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This San Francisco group released a pretty nifty EP lastyear called Don't Stop,which not only introduced their particular brand of dub-influencedpostpunk instrumentalism, but also featured an ace remix by The SoftPink Truth. "Don't Stop" became a minor underground sensation becauseof its rubbery, melodic basslines and dense layers of digitallyprocessed percussion. They came on sort of like a low-rent PiL withless noise and more dub. It was nothing earth shattering, to be sure,but it was eminently listenable, and seemed to suggest that the bandmight be capable of some grand things in the future. Their debutfull-length Kling Klang, shows that there was a lot more where"Don't Stop" came from. And that's the problem, really. They repeat theformula of "Don't Stop" with almost zero variation across 11 tracks.Though the album is only about 40 minutes long, it feels four hourslong. Kling Klang achieves a kind of bland uniformity of soundthat evidences a band unwilling to take risks or experiment with theformula that has garnered them critical praise. In the end, it comesdown to four white guys making passable instrumental dub with DFA-styledance rhythms and the odd echoplexed shout. Tussle obviously wantcritics to think they are influenced by krautrock, by creatinginterminably repetitive grooves and naming their album in tribute toKraftwerk. However, their connection to krautrock is all style and nosubstance, and other reviewers would be advised to steer clear of suchlazy associations. I have a feeling their live show might come off alittle better, as it reportedly features trippy video projections, butthis album is tedious. It's hard to even pick one song and talk aboutits relative merits, because all the tracks seem to meld into oneanother and form one giant, shapeless mass. Perhaps I'm being unfair,as Tussle are certainly a talented group of guys, and they are quitegood at doing what they do. The problem is that they aim a little toolow. If you turned this album on at a party, it would quickly fade intoa non-threatening white noise background, which could either be a goodthing or a bad thing, depending on your tastes. For myself, I prefermusic that engages me a bit more intensely.
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This particular musical collective hails from the PacificNorthwest, and has close ties to the Sun City Girls; both Alan Bishopand Charlie Gocher make guest appearances, and the album is released onSCG's own Abduction label. Like a lot of bands lazily being lumped inunder the heading of New Weird America, MMOB focus on freeimprovisation and play with the idea of a hippie drum circle, movingbetween areas of dissonance and chaos, to long passages of cohesiveensemble playing. The Visible Sign of the Invisible Ordercomes in 15 separate tracks that have been joined together into onelong, amorphous musical ritual. And the emphasis here is on ritual,with much of the music drawing from a Westerner's conception of Middleand Far Eastern ceremonial musical forms, from Moroccan joujouka toJapanese taiko, from the most hidden Sufi order to the most profane andobvious ethnological forgeries. Like much of SCG's best work, there isno distinction made between high and low art here, and a shamblingsense of joyous group improvisation negates any sense of that sleazycultural imperialism often found in the "World Music" section of yourlocal record store. MMOB achieves a righteous sense of psychedelic,ritualized improvisation that is dynamic, hypnotic and substantive, asif the musicians on Paradieswarts Duul had decided to channelthe entire Sublime Frequencies catalog into one hour-longimprovisation. Schuller and the collective (which includes thesuperlative Eyvind Kang on electric violin) attack a multitude ofinstruments, largely percussive in nature, with all players utilizingtheir voices in a nonverbal, intuitively Eastern way. Though I doubtany of the mantric recitations and chanting found on the recordrepresent anything other than meaningless glossolalia, the MMOB areincredibly good at building tension and drama with their meldingvoices, creating an invisible ritual chamber in which the music exists.Much of this music was recorded outdoors, with the coastal and interiorforest acoustics lending an ancient, timeless quality to the music.Scattered among the 15 tracks are several well-placed moments ofclimactic explosiveness, most notably on the slyly named "Access ofEvil," which reaches a hair-raising crescendo of ululations andmonolithic tribal percussion. "Pillow of Green Light" apparentlyattempts to recreate the Dogon tribe's creation myth, with aterrifyingly chaotic swirl of noise and electronics, the soundtrack ofa pre-Babylonian alien abduction deep in the heart of Africa. Therepetitive firing of a 9mm firearm on "Custody's Last Battle/SecretWars" evokes the slaughter of Native Americans, forging a secret jihad.The album ends with absolutely lovely "Circular and Made of the Earth,"which combines high-lonesome steel guitar (or is it sitar?) with femalevocals, floating on a rich backdrop of deep, reverberating aums andharmonic drones. My only complaint with this album is the botchedpackaging job, piss-poor four-color process having rendered the coverphoto and liner notes completely unintelligible. Musically, however,the MMOB have created a true masterpiece, one that entirely transcendsthe collective's unfortunate choice of name.
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More occult and religious imagery again, with a new thread of directness and honesty only hinted at in her first album: "I've been looking for someone/Who sells truth by the pound/Then I saw the dealer and his friend arrive/But their gifts looked grim/Now I'm tired of hanging on...Beautiful pearl, o when will you reappear?" The yearning for spiritual cleansing and reawakening is palpable throughout Heart Food, which despite its Chicken Soup for the Soul title, is nothing less than a cry to heaven from the darkest depths of hell. It's an absolutely remarkable album, and one that, if there were any justice in the world, would be mentioned at least as often as critically-acclaimed mediocrities like Carole King's Tapestry or Joni Mitchell's Court and Spark. In "The Phoenix," Judee prays for salvation and rebirth in the midst of an eschatological nightmare: "On phosphorous wings the phoenix floated/The fires froze and the sea was hushed/And when I tried to speak, the sun imploded/And the ware will wait in my guts/Till the devil bites the dust." I don't think I'll ever get tired of the odd paradox of these songs, with lyrics worthy of David Tibet's most apocalyptic nightmares coexisting with muted easy listening-style arrangements for guitar, piano and strings. Heart Food's finest moment comes with the final track, the seven-minute "The Donor," in which Judee Sill builds a stunning choir of layered voices singing the Kyrie Eleison, transforming the liturgical hymn into a haunting, ritualistic call for mercy from a cruel and arbitrary God. After a long silence, the album oddly concludes with a brief Irish jig. Heart Food was Judee's swan song to the world, as the album again failed to ignite the interest of the public, and she dropped out of society, disappearing into an underworld of drugs and prostitution, only resurfacing with the news of her death from a heroin overdose in 1979.
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