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Current 93's recent concerts in Toronto saw the release of a smalltreasure trove of limited EPs and 7" singles. One of most unexpected ofthese was a five-track CDEP of new material from Simon Finn. If anyhave heard about Finn's activities in the years since he recorded thelegendary Pass the Distance,it's been through rumor and innuendo, and generally falls along thelines of: "Recorded one album then disappeared. Now a[psychotic/drug-addled/lobotomized] hermit, living in [a one-roomshack/his mother's basement/a sanitarium]." Well, the truth might bestranger than the cliché in Finn's case, who moved to Canada, gotmarried and became a soybean farmer, apparently. After David Tibetbecame obsessed with Pass the Distance a year or so ago, hetracked down Simon Finn at his Canada home, and arranged not only forthe reissue of of that seminal LP, but also this EP of new material anda few live gigs opening up for Current 93 for three nights in Toronto.If anyone had asked me to rate the chances of the elusive Simon Finnresurfacing in 2004 to play a series of live shows, I'd have rated thema low zero. I would have further doubted the sanity of someone whosuggested that Finn would ever record new material. Though it couldpotentially be a big embarrassment, Silent City Creep isactually quite good. It's somewhat surreal to hear Finn's voiceunmitigated by the murky echo and bizarre instrumentation to which I'dbecome accustomed. Instead, Finn's voice and gentle acoustic guitarcome through clearly, in five songs that reminded me of Tom Rapp (ofPearls Before Swine), with their Dylanesque melodies and apocalypticlyrics fraught with symbolism and mythological references. On "WalkieTalkie," Finn bemoans the isolation caused by the mediation oftechnology into human communication: "And we all go walkie talkie/Thenwe all go run and hide/Between the cracks of our illusion/From ourdepredated lives/And we hold on to our cocks/And we hold on to ourcunts/To assert we're still alive/And to tell our backs from fronts."Strangely, Silent City Creep does not feel more "mature" than Pass the Distance.In fact, it feels as if Finn hasn't missed a beat, picking up rightwhere he left off over 30 years ago. It makes me wonder if all of thosestories about Syd Barrett might be exaggerated.
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As the current indie scene now falls into lock-step formation rallyingunder the banner of "new folk," I find it interesting to reflect on thefirst folk renaissance, the one that took place five years ago. Youprobably never heard about it because it took place largely in my head.After years spent obsessively listening to and collecting records byCurrent 93, Death in June and Sol Invictus, there weren't many placesfor this jaded listener to go other than the strange, misunderstoodworld of sixties British psych-folk — a loose outcropping ofpsychedelia that incorporated medievalism, folk and free jazz withesoteric lyrical influences and ethnic instrumentation. This music isthe clearest antecedent to the "apocalyptic folk" that resurfaced inthe eighties English underground. Most have at least heard of theIncredible String Band or John Renbourn, but for every famous,influential artist from this period, there were scores of ignoredobscurities like Comus, The Trees and Jan Dukes de Grey. With the helpof an evil book called The Tapestry of Delights, the adventurous (read:compulsive) collector could choose his next Holy Grail and crusadeforth to seek it for his collection. For me, the best of these elusiverecords will always be Pass the Distanceby Simon Finn, an obscure 1970 one-off from London's Mushroom label. Itwas a unique album, not just for its unorthodox musical content, butalso for its extreme rarity, legal action having forced its withdrawalfrom the market not long after is release. Simon Finn's album puzzledme during my original folk renaissance, and five years later — withthis new remastering and rerelease on Durtro/Jnana — it still evadeseasy categorization. Finn's songwriting and vocal style belong to alate-60s tradition of melancholy, doom-laden propheteering, but ontracks like "Jerusalem" and "Big White Car," he displays an unmatchedvocal fury, passionately belting out his words with throat-strippingferocity, building to a pair of frighteningly shattering crescendos.Adding to the album's unique sound are the contributions of the youngmulti-instrumentalist David Toop, who since the recording of Pass the Distance has distinguished himself as a preeminent musical critic, a frequent contributor to The Wireand the author of several books. Toop and percussionist Paul Burwellwere apparently given free reign by producer Vic Keary to use Finn'sstandard folk material as a blank slate for experimentation andimprovisation. This results in a series of loose, chaotic settings forSimon Finn's songs, Toop often climbing up and down the scale of amandolin or a harmonium with utter disregard for melodic sense.Producer and engineer Keary adds another level of mystification, usingheavy echo, stereo panning and excessive phasing to create a sense ofdislocation, muddying the waters of Finn's apocalyptic stream ofconsciousness. This rerelease, overseen by David Tibet and Simon Finn(emerging from more than 30 years of total silence), improves the soundsubstantially from the Japanese bootleg CDs, and adds four bonustracks, which don't share the same mysterious qualities as the materialon the original LP, but are welcome nonetheless. Also included areinformative liner notes from Finn, Toop, Keary and Tibet. This shouldbe a fine replacement for my well-worn vinyl copy.
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The destruction is set to maximum and the bullshit is set to minimum onPaik's latest full-length, a continuation of the dreamy soundscapesthey most recently displayed on a split with Kinski and Surface ofEceyon. Never have they sounded more pure and raw than this moment, atorrent of distortion and volume that seems at the same time to becoldly calculated and yet to have no plan at all. There is a peaceamong the ruins, where the band almost seems to accept a fate they havenever relished before, nor asked for. But there is ferocity yet, almostas though the fight is with themselves. Not that this ever adverselyaffects any song, or is explicitly stated, but Paik neverthelessdisplay a struggle that elevates them, gives them purpose, andultimately conquers all. Repitition sometimes wears, displaying astasis or lack of ideas that sidetracks but never derails thecompositions: it merely extends them perhaps a bit far past the pointof relevance. They eventually snap out of it and change course,dropping headlong into the maelstrom of their own creation. For a trioto make rock music that blisters and cracks like this is quite anachievement anyway, but Paik excel at it as a practice. The album'sopener, "Jayne Field," is a steady rocker, with almost pots-and-pansdrums and guitar noise that shimmers as much as it shreds. Just as itfades, an abrupt guitar riff buts in, and the playful noise thatemanates skips right along, like a soundtrack for that kid that neverhad it figured out but secretly plots the demise of those who underminehim. By the time the swirls and echoes expand the palette, the storyhas chaned, and the kid gets the girl and all he ever wanted. Here andthere Paik grate their collective teeth, muster the energy to go on,and make it seem like it will be painful for everyone involved. Itnever is, as the band continues to explore and expound, creating thebest music of their careers every time. -
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To innovate, one must not only stand on the shoulders of giants but recognize that they do so, if only to learn how to provide a solid footing for others. Boston-based Cul De Sac are innovators of the highest caliber, and the members have made astounding music for years, utilizing elements of any number of styles, genres, and movements. On their last few releases, guitarist Glenn Jones has led them into a deep relationship with the output of Takoma records and their troika of acoustic guitar virtuosos John Fahey, Robbie Basho, and Leo Kottke. Their adaptations of Takoma sounds and ideas mixed in with often visionary electronic, world music, and post-rock juxtapositions have made for truly wonderful pieces of work. This Is The Wind That Blows It Out marks the first solo release by Glenn Jones, and he revels in the startlingly evocative sound produced by the six and twelve string guitar.
Allowed to develop the Takoma fetish to its natural conclusion, Jones is able to create a beautiful work that raises itself above tribute and establishes him as a musician and thinker capable of speaking that language in a thoughtful and articulate way. "Sphinx Unto Curious Men" is an extreme delight to followers of Cul De Sac, as it elaborates on the "Second Victim?" motif from their last release, The Strangler's Wife. Here, Jones draws the thick, oscillating hook out of the unfortunately brief limitations of that soundtrack work and lets it unfurl. His nimble playing conveys a spooky tension that is now even more affecting as it blooms into more developed avenues of melody and rhythm. The new intermediate section of the piece offers a warm respite in looming darkness of the hook, each note stinging through the fog to offer a bit of comfort before ultimately plunging back into the depths. "Sphinx" captures everything that makes Jones an adept aural storyteller, capable of utilizing the strengths of his instrument with clarity and precision. "Friday Nights With" inhabits the same pastoral noir of dark woods and wind swept fields that "Sphinx" introduces, loping across moonlit hills albeit with less curious fear and a tenor of playful chase or dance amidst these elements. The piece is free from the heavy riddle of "Sphinx," a boundless Friday night in the glory of unencumbered abandon. "The Doll Hospital" shimmers as the notes rise and fall with stunning alacrity, flashing briefly and barely fading before the next reveals itself brightly. Jones' fingers cast off sounds in numbers that flood the senses as they try to receive and appreciate every new addition to the impeccable series. "Nora's Leather Jacket" spins about like a carousel, with rapidly repeating strums swirling, augmented by quick plucks that promenade themselves delicately, courting the fancy of those who pass by. For a moment it seems like something out of a Nino Rota score, the carnival wonderment and emotional discourse of La Strada is seeping through Jones' displays of feeling here. Throughout the album, Jones is able to imbue his pieces with a sensitivity and power that instantly communicates the message and input of his music. This Is The Wind That Blows It Out is a noble effort for Glenn Jones and demonstrates that his mastery of his instrument goes well beyond the speed of his fingers and lies in the investment of his mind and soul in his art. - 
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Mnemosyne's debut album builds slowly with a solid if sleepy foundationof guitar, bass, and drums that wouldn't sound out of place in theKranky or Constellation stables. The Toronto trio is fronted (if that'sreally the right word) by experimental guitarist Aidan Baker, whosevoice on the title track rises just barely above a whisper in a stylereminiscent of early Labradford. But from there, Mnemosyne depart fromthe somnambulant formula of muted minimalism by swelling guitars upwith distortion and kicking in drums and crashing cymbals. The resultis a bit darker, more psychadelic, and more varied than their post-rockforebares, but it also results in something that probably has a muchwider appeal. It wouldn't be far off to imagine my stoner friends fromHigh School who went to Pink Floyd laser light shows getting seriouslyinto Mnemosyne's hypnotic twirls of guitar and dubbed-out percussion,but recovering goths will also appreciate the atmosphere of tracks like"Dark Grove" and "Unreal Space." Thankfully, Mnemosyne seem lessconcerned with whether they are impressing the weepy Projekt crowd orthe Drag City chin strokers, and they carry on making moody,genre-hopping space rock. Occassionally, as on the 12 minute albumcloser "Aqualisp," the instrumentation gets a bit too dry and literal,causing the psyche-improv to drift uncomfortably close to jam-bandterritory where it feels like every instrument needs room for a solo.Luckily, Rodin Columb's straightforward bass holds everything togetherjust long enough for the band to get back on track as they rip into theloudest creshendo (saved somewhat predictably for the end). Though theynever really achieve all out ROCK,they do manage to crank the volume, distortion, and delay on everythingto give the album's trip a final dose of hash-fueled paranoia. AlhoughMnemosyne can easily be seen as a confluence of influences that havedone this sort of thing before, their own take on a soundtrack for thatbad-acid trip is well worth exploring. It somehow manages to be bothfamiliar and disorienting at the same time which is kind of creepy, butgood.
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Mnemosyne's debut album builds slowly with a solid if sleepy foundationof guitar, bass, and drums that wouldn't sound out of place in theKranky or Constellation stables. The Toronto trio is fronted (if that'sreally the right word) by experimental guitarist Aidan Baker, whosevoice on the title track rises just barely above a whisper in a stylereminiscent of early Labradford. But from there, Mnemosyne depart fromthe somnambulant formula of muted minimalism by swelling guitars upwith distortion and kicking in drums and crashing cymbals. The resultis a bit darker, more psychadelic, and more varied than their post-rockforebares, but it also results in something that probably has a muchwider appeal. It wouldn't be far off to imagine my stoner friends fromHigh School who went to Pink Floyd laser light shows getting seriouslyinto Mnemosyne's hypnotic twirls of guitar and dubbed-out percussion,but recovering goths will also appreciate the atmosphere of tracks like"Dark Grove" and "Unreal Space." Thankfully, Mnemosyne seem lessconcerned with whether they are impressing the weepy Projekt crowd orthe Drag City chin strokers, and they carry on making moody,genre-hopping space rock. Occassionally, as on the 12 minute albumcloser "Aqualisp," the instrumentation gets a bit too dry and literal,causing the psyche-improv to drift uncomfortably close to jam-bandterritory where it feels like every instrument needs room for a solo.Luckily, Rodin Columb's straightforward bass holds everything togetherjust long enough for the band to get back on track as they rip into theloudest creshendo (saved somewhat predictably for the end). Though theynever really achieve all out ROCK,they do manage to crank the volume, distortion, and delay on everythingto give the album's trip a final dose of hash-fueled paranoia. AlhoughMnemosyne can easily be seen as a confluence of influences that havedone this sort of thing before, their own take on a soundtrack for thatbad-acid trip is well worth exploring. It somehow manages to be bothfamiliar and disorienting at the same time which is kind of creepy, butgood.
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The last time these two got together to make some music, I was thoroughly blown away by the results. Behind Your Very Eyesis an amazing piece of cinematic drone work that set a new mark tomeasure these kinds of records by. Drone music is notoriouslytwo-faced; either it works or it doesn't. There really isn't any middleground for the music to tread on so far as enjoy-ability goes. That'snow changing with the release of Confluence. Colin Potter andPaul Bradley recorded the first track as a kind of cluster: the soundsare reworked from studio rehearsals and so on until they are made tosound harmonious. The two following tracks are remixes of this firsttrack. This all sounds fine, but Confluence is amazingly unevenas a record. Where Colin Potter and Paul Bradley succeeded before wasin their radically transformative flow of sound. I feel a bit uneasycalling their music "drone" because their stream of noise and samplessimply never sat still long enough to drone away into the darkness.Potter and Bradley both used, in the past, a wide palette of musicaland non-musical sounds to create an emotional and sensational (relatingto the senses) experience. The first track on here, however, is afairly monotone mix of wind tunnels, chimes, and various effects thatare far too related. Diversity can often lead to a kind of unity thatbecomes recognizable upon repeated listens, but no such quality isevident on "Confluence 1." That being said, the track is relaxing andheads and shoulders above other similar songs. I know, however, justhow good Potter and Bradley can be and so I am disappointed by the lackof change and difference on this song. "Confluence 2" and "Confluence3" both suffer from the same problem as "Confluence 1" though indifferent ways. "Confluence 2" sounds as though it is based on onesound source alone. That source is then pitched, slowed down, and spedup to create different degrees of textural tension and shiftingmelodies. A few minutes of this sort of thing would be great, but thesong is over seventeen minutes long and just drags a bit too much.There are some creepy samples to be found here and there (readilyrecognizable as slightly morphed versions of sounds that are on"Confluence 1"), but they do little to add to the appeal of the song."Confluence 3" is the aquatic closer on this record and it is the bestof the three tracks. The sounds here are more open, moretransformative, and they resonate in a way that creates the sort ofethereal heaviness that always attracts me to Potter's work. Thepreviously silenced noise samples are now front and center and theirdevelopment works well with the tones that surround them. The churningreminds me of the sound of coffee running through a grinder for somereason (a manual one, not electric) and its wavering quality is verycomforting. This record sounds a bit haphazard and unfinished and thevery nature of its creation suggests that there could've been more roomfor development. The album could have certainly used it; it has a lotof potential, but needs to be thought out more carefully.
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When financial ruin, explosive internal tensions and abortive,drug-fuelled recording sessions finally claimed the life of Frenchelectro-punk group Metal Urbain, Metal Boys rose from their ashesPhoenix-like and went on to a celebrated and influential 20-yearcareer, applauded by critics worldwide for their originality anddaring. Well, not quite. In fact, the Metal Boys only lasted a coupleof years, they are celebrated by no one, and they could only muster onealbum, recently rescued from total obscurity by Carpark subsidiaryAcute. Acute smartly released a career-spanning retrospective of MetalUrbain earlier this year, but they not-so-smartly follow-up with twolackluster latter-day efforts by Metal Urbain refugees (Dr. Mix and theRemix's inessential Wall of Noiseis also due out soon on the label). It's hard to say what the problemis exactly with Metal Boys, the project of Eric Debris and CharlesHurbier from the original lineup of Metal Urbain. Perhaps it's theircurious lack of identity, as they schizophrenically shuffle through ahandbook of genres, unable to settle on anything. The opening trackshares the energetic, motorik stomp of Metal Urbain, but its quicklyfollowed by "Suspenders in the Dark," a blind stab at theSuicide/Throbbing Gristle sound that borders on parody with ridiculousEnglish-language vocals such as "The rain stops my tits from growing"and "I saw my mother fucking a nuclear missile." It's unclear whyBritish singer China didn't alert the French duo to the grammaticallyawkward, hokey lyrics they were asking her to sing. Other tracks (andeven the album's sleeve artwork) seek to emulate such electro-dandyoutfits as David Sylvian's Japan or early Duran Duran, but thesongwriting is stunted, songs are often far too long, and the stylisticinconsistencies all conspire to make Tokio Airport one of themore laborious listens I've had in a while. Amateurish, Kraftwerk-esquesynthesizer ditties like "Carbone 14" might be charming on some work ofoutsider bedroom-electro, but from musicians who used to be involved increating challenging, enduring rock music, it seems rather unfortunate.The pessimistic, cold-war futurism of the album's lyrics and thegroup's angular, dandified bearing are conceits directly lifted fromtheir new-wave contemporaries. A pair of bonus tracks originallyintended for release as a 12" single, "Disco Future" and "Outer Space,"sound like low-rent versions of classic TG tracks "Adrenaline" and"Persuasion." So, the Metal Boys are not the logical continuation ofMetal Urbain, but rather simply an odd historical footnote that mayappeal to borderline-autistic completists, but are generallyunremarkable otherwise. -
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While the debate over what is or isn't 'real music' is tired, there arestill releases now and again that call that nagging question to mind,just as a reminder of the very far extremes of music that exist beyondeven the peripheral vision of most CD-buying folks, and this iscertainly one of them. For roughly 18 minutes, English treats us towhat could be a foley recording session for a major motion picture ifsome of the sounds weren't layered and overlapped through time. There'slittle emotional or psychological reward for making it through those 18minutes, and the theme of "Ghost Towns" isn't explored in anysignificant way that stuck with me, but the disc works like a trainingguide for careful listening. While some of the mixing techniques are abit obvious (a humming sound slowly pans from stereo right to left;distant sounds slowly fade in while closer sounds pop into the mix),most of the time the sound isn't drawing attention to its manipulation,and that's a good thing. In a very traditional Music Concrete sense,this work is about the sounds themselves in space; sound as an objectto be perceived. To that end, the record can be enjoyed vastlydifferently in different settings where gongs, distant trains, torturedpianos and chewing potato chips aren't usually familiar. The onlytraditionally musical timbres included are a gong and some mutedpercussion at the beginning and a piano that is being banged on andplucked at ferociously towards the end of the piece. The bookendinstruments hold together a string of recordings from amplifiedroom-tone to all of the scraping and crackling sounds that these kindsof records generally include to keep listeners guessing. I can imagineLawrence English performing this piece on a stage full of seeminglyrandom objects and tape machines with loops of field recordings. I cansee him scurrying back and forth between the pile of leaves, the birdcage, and the broken crash cymbal as a well-dressed art crowd looks onand wonders "is this really music?" The wonderful point of music likethis is, however, that none of it matters in the end. The sounds areobjects, you are free to browse them at your leisure. There will besome you find quite pleasant and others that are objectionable, whilestill others may leave no impression at all, and if you have anycomments please leave them with the curator.
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Keeping it simple and writing good music go hand in hand quite a lot.The guitars, drums, vocals, and other instruments on this album speakthat rule clearly and demonstrate that excellent music doesn't alwayshave to be radically new or different. Mike Fellows writes rock musicwith just a bit of folk and country influence. His guitar picking andharmonica playing is simple and structured around smooth songstructures fronted by a broad and gentle voice. Bits of piano andelectronic drums highlight this otherwise straightforward attempt atwriting a good album. There's no flashy production, no outrageousarrangements that call for ten-plus instruments to flood the mixsimultaneously, and, most importantly, there isn't an air ofpretentiousness surrounding anything Fellows has to say. All of hislyrics recall stories told on the front porch with a cold one in handand a beautiful, moonlit sky up above. So what is left if there isn'tany of the extra stuff mentioned above? All that's left is really allthat matters: good song-writing and a clear sense of direction. WhileFellows never draws his voice out like some famous country croonersmight, his instrumentation is clearly a throwback to when country androck weren't opposites at all. This love for acoustic instrumentation,easy rhythms, and clear, distinct melodies could've gone terribly wrongif it weren't for the fact that Fellows never lets a strong stray toofar away from its origins and never bothers trying to extend songsbeyond their proper range. Limited Storyline Guestis just over a half-hour in length and of its nine songs, only threebreak the four-minute mark (and just barely at that). The songs openstrong and stay strong from start to finish, expanding on the themesthat Fellows open them with. Besides all of this, the songs are simplygorgeous and have a whimsical edge to them that makes them all the moreattractive. "Way I Love" and "AM" have, in particular, unforgettablemelodies that have stuck in my head since I first played the CD. Imight be able to chalk my appreciation of this album up to nostalgia,but repeated listens have proven that the songs can stand repeatedlistens and, in most cases, the tunes become stronger after being givena few chances. There's not a bad song on the album and after awhileFellows' voice becomes one of the most addictive elements of the album.I'm going to take this outside with me and play it while I watch theworld go by. It's a good relaxing album with no extras added because noextras are needed.
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This collection, highlighting obscure underground post-punk and newwave from France was released on Tigersushi Recordings, therecord-label arm of the Tigersushi website, devoted to cataloging andtracing obscure connections between underground, post-punk, dance andavant-garde music. Previous compilations from Tigersushi includedK.I.M.'s superlative Miyage CD, as well as No More G.D.M., which together contained more leftfield classics and unjustly obscure artists than anyone could shake a stick at. So Young But So Cold,compiled by Volga Select, is a bit less generous with its treasures.Perhaps the chosen time period and geographical area narrow the fieldtoo much, forcing Ivan Smagghe and Marc Collin to include many tracksthat have a hard time living up to "lost classic" status. However, thedisc still includes its share of tasty nuggets, chief among them a pairof stunning tracks by a group called The (Hypothetical) Prophets. Likemost people, I'd never heard of this early-80's French new-wave groupuntil this compilation. Their single "Person to Person" seems to havebeen influenced by The Human League, but takes off in its ownidiosyncratic trajectory, lyrically and musically. Male and femalesingers describe their romantic fantasies in a monotone, proto-HipHopstyle: "I want a middle-aged, plump and cuddly, distinguished,hairy-chested, double-breasted, gray-templed, tall attractive, rich andactive father figure." This against a minimal rhythm-box beat decoratedwith analog detritus and electronic drones, with occasional BeachBoys-esque expansions into vocal harmony. The Prophets' otherappearance, "Wallenberg," is a dark synthscape intertwining mutatedvocals narrating stories from World War II, with frequent blasts ofsaxophone, eerily evoking the later work of The Legendary Pink Dots.The first track on the compilation "Suis-Je Normale" ("I Am Normal")reminded me of Broadcast (or Broadcast's forerunner The United Statesof America), with its minimalist synths and Jane Birkin-esque vocaldelivery. Mathematiques Moderne's "Disco Rough" has a raucous beat, butits chorus is unfortunately reminiscent of Kenny Rogers and DollyParton's excruciating "Islands in the Stream." The Metal Boys were anoffshoot of underappreciated electro-punks Metal Urbain, but theirtrack "Carnivale" proves that the talent didn't come along for theride. Charles de Goal's "Synchro" bears an unmistakable resemblance toThe Vapors' hit "Turning Japanese." Was Moderne's "Switch On Bach"meant to be the French response to Falco's "Rock Me Amadeus"? It's hardto say, but at least this collection ends on a fairly strong note, witha row of Kraftwerkian space-rock and proto-techno tracks. Best amongthem is Nietzschean scholar Richard Pinhas' funereal, TangerineDream-influenced "Iceland," a densely atmospheric foray into theice-cold nether regions of arctic tundra. A more inconsistentcollection is not likely to be found, but Tigerushi's So Young But So Cold still has much to recommend.
- Nini Raviolette - Suis-Je Normale
- The (Hypothetical) Girls - Person to Person
- Richard Pinhas - Iceland
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