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This 1990 live recording documents an interesting moment in the history of one of the U.S.?s most interesting and long-standing avant-garde collectives. Under the early tutelage of Chris Cutler, the Colorado-based group has, since 1979, produced a wealth of music rooted in the early admirer/member's progressive legacy, an elusive, genre-bending approach with a particular emphasis on rustic folk-pop and dark, frayed psychedelia.Anomalous
As with previous like-minded collectives, the studio environment has become, with time, an integral part of Biota's creative direction. While the group's core instrumentation is uniquely acoustic (including accordion, hurdy-gurdy, saxophone, viola, and the more exotic curtal, crumhorn, and shawm), their music requires a considerable amount of keen electronic processing to produce its dense, disorienting, often surrealist currents. There is no typical Biota sound; their records map a sound world that is impossible to summarize, touching on woody baroque pop, free jazz, contemporary chamber music, and ambient soundtracking, with plenty of extra space left to the band's always-inventive, never-gratuitous forays into industrial-styled noise. The constants that do exist in their output appear only in the music's more confusing qualities: the murky sheen that keeps even the most immediate or accessible phrases at a mysterious distance, the conscious effort to make the percussion slightly and perpetually off-beat, and the wobbly perch of particular instruments in the mix, hovering a few inches from their comfortable timbres as if ghosts of themselves. Much of the power and uniqueness in Biota's music comes from very specific in-studio manipulation of the various instruments, in ways that retain the earthen vigor of acoustic sound to the exclusion of all other comfortable associations surrounding its creation or place with the larger collage. For Musique Actuelle, their first live event in nine years, the band essentially recreated their studio setup onstage, utilizing no samples, tapes, or synthetic sound of any kind. The only amplified instruments are the electric bass and guitar, with all instruments played untreated from the stage, their acoustic sounds gathered via microphones and processed by three band members in real time. The resulting work is site-specific, composed for this particular event alone, and its holds up surprisingly well in comparison to Biota's previous studio recordings. The performance divides into four movements, spanning haunting, dirge-like chamber pieces, Celtic jig-inspired shuffles, a raucous, saxophone-led psych driver, and one massive, slow-burning hulk of ambient sound which ushers in the fourth movement's climactic and conclusive ascension into noise. Sound processing remains a continual presence throughout, at its most subtle supplying simple delay and pitch-bend effects, and at its peak of involvement, transforming the entire performing group into a writhing, fractured mess. The immediacy of the band's unique instrumental palette often gives the music a false simplicity, something quickly denied as skillful electronic manipulations uncover hidden layers of sampled sound or warp specific passages entirely. The complexity of Musique Actuelle is unbelievable for a live recording and almost as staggering when taken at face value. Biota's traversal of stylistic boundaries is in no way arrogant or awkward, and the group's ability, less than halfway through their long life, to transcend a base "fusionist" approach, creating music that sounds just as singular as their recent efforts, is remarkable.
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Though the policies of containment kept the political and geographicalboundaries of free thought and fascist oppression clearly defined inthe early 1980's, the strength of the iron curtain was not enough toprevent ideas from crossing into and beyond the bloc. Begnagrad iscomprised of members who were all exposed to the burgeoning punk andprogressive rock music scenes in their hometown of Ljubljana, Slovenia,then part of communist Yugoslavia. The band is the product of fivedaring multi-instrumentalists who combined Alpine and Eastern Europeanfolk concepts with modern rock, free-jazz influences and a distinctsense of whimsy. Their self-titled album, originally released in 1982,is a fascinating example of the creative minds and wonderful ideas thatflourished in less pleasant times and circumstances. The tracks theyproduced are impressively intricate, with numerous instruments spinningoff around each other in a complex weave of sound and rhythm. "Pjan ska/ Drinking One" begins with a swirling arrangement, accordions andwoodwinds etching out those alpine peaks as they rise and fall beforelaunching into a full steam ahead horn sprint, as if James Chance werefronting a Bohemian (geographically, that is) dance ensemble. Finallyspliced with the enthusiastic mock yodeling of the band members, "Pjanska" spends itself in an amusing gasp of grinning energy. "Bo Ze (CeBo) / All's Good (Maybe)" is a relentlessly charming track, whoseloping, oscillating bass rhythm inspires the urge to make jaunty,whirling circles, arms linked with another in the midst of coy, flirtydance. What makes Begnagradsuch an engaging, satisfying listen is the pure joy that emanates fromthe music, a sense of deeply passionate humanism that can often be lostin experimental, fusion, and avant-garde music. This feeling isexemplified in two live bonus tracks that document the band on aEuropean tour. "Tazadnatanova / Thelastnewone" is an intense,rollicking piece that is driven by a furious punk rock energy, squallswith saxophone riffage and sputters about on jagged, post-punk guitars,but ultimately is fully entrenched in the warmth and togetherness ofthe band's folk-troubadour roots. The band launches into a frantic jig,pushing themselves and their audience to clap along and dance withmanic energy. The crowd can be heard clapping, whistling, hooting, andpouring themselves heart and soul into the song. Potentially thehappiest record I have heard in a very long while, Beganagradmanages to be progressive by utilizing the past, finding the originalmotivator for musical expression: to entertain, to bring peopletogether, and make them feel as if they are involved in somethingbeautiful.
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Underground hip-hop allstars cLOUDDEAD either win people over in excess or lose them completely, and their sophomore full-length isn't likely to change that much. There is no compromise in this music: there is only with or against this interesting lot.
Combining indie folk musical sensibilities with unique rhyme delivery and odd subject matter and effects, each track bubbles and builds towards a common understanding or ultimate light-bulb moment. It's not easy to stomach, and certainly doesn't go with the traditional concept of hip-hop, but it truly is forward-thinking and a worthy effort. I was listening and couldn't escape the mental image of sitting in front of the TV, watching as a child in complete disbelief, not knowing the words to express the emotions I felt. Catchy beats and melodies abound on Ten, though not always in the same place, and from time to time I heard complete brilliance. "The Keen Teen Skip" features a fantastic sample, then a multitude of voices speaking as one on such bizarre lines as "youngsters today are not prepared to buy plants or collect stamps" as a dirty beat and ringing bells provide the impetus to continue. Eventually the chants become harmonized simple singing, and skips and repeated words create awkward breaks, like an idea struggling to get out of the brain. And so it goes, the perfect formula that gets the point across through juvenile-sounding voices and simple tones and instruments. Sometimes it doesn't get there — like on "Rhymer's Only Room," a chant and march that grated on my nerves — but there's a consistent feel, a commentary on society that cannot be denied or even understood on occasion ("Strawberry in an ostrich throat"?). "Son of a Gun" and "Rifle Eyes" address real issues with an off-kilter bend, rapid-firing and driving the point into the mind with freight train force. That they get these points across through such an odd combination is commendable, and I certainly hope that their detractors are few. This is the new style, and may the collaborators and peers reign.
samples:
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Don't ever feel afraid to strike up a conversation with afriend/associate who's not from your country about food of theircountry, a reward might be in the future. I was talking to an Ethiopianperson I knew about Ethiopian food and she told me that I must try aplace that's sort of off the beaten path, somewhat hidden and in an oddlocation in Boston, a place I had been relatively familiar with buthave never realized a good restaurant existed there. I had been to acouple other Ethiopian places in Boston, one I thought was dreadful butone I was quite fond of, however, when you get a recommendation from anEthiopian (or an Indian about Indian food, or Japanese, Mexican,etc,...), you take them up on it. So I took Jessica out for herbirthday and the food that night was fantastic. The place was full withplenty of Ethiopian patrons all talking with the staff like they werefamily, which is always a good sign. The music being played wasexcellent and by the time this one song came on, I had to get up andfind out what it was. The slap-bass and looped drum patterns weren'tmuch unlike old stuff from 23 Skidoo and I was completely in a trance.I went to the bar and the bartender wrote it down in a language Icouldn't read and told me to take the sheet of paper to the South EndFood Emporium and hand them the sheet of paper. The following day I didand ended up with this CD. It's not completely unexpected from a foodmart: the sound quality is pretty shoddy (cassette tape "breathing"sounds can be heard), the packaging looks less than legal, and there'sno web site coming up with the aforementioned URL. However, that songwhich originally stole my heart, "Wey Arada" (listen below) was wellworth the trek and worthy enough to share. The disc is a collection oftunes from this blind singer, he carries a saxophone but it's hard tohear a real sax on the disc, as a number of the songs are poorlyproduced with cheap synths. The vocal style is completely un-Western,but not dissimilar to singers of the Middle East while the music isundoubtedly African in nature, with numerous interwoven timesignatures, upbeat guitars, and keyboard instruments playing prettytones. The songs are bright and springy for the most part and it shouldgo without saying that I've got absolutely no clue what's being sung. Acouple standout tracks, like the hypnotic "Tzta," is nearly ten minutesof sheer beauty which oddly enough has to get faded out (I wonder howlong the band actually went on playing the repeated bars).Unfortunately without the web site for the label working, I've got noinformation to share about the musician nor any idea how to get itelsewhere, so, for those who find it as captivating I did, a quest inyour own city might be in order.
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The voice of Blixa Bargeld of Einsturzende Neubauten is the rawmaterial from which Andrew McKenzie constructed the sounds on the twodiscs comprising Normally.Disc one begins with silence. Silence is merely sound that lingers justbeyond the threshold of audibility. Silence is unpotentiated space.Sound is the dissipation and usurpation of silence. When sound beginsto gradually seep into the silence of Normally, the experience is akin to the onset of a hallucination. For Normally,McKenzie is not interested in language; any whispers or screamscontributed by Mr. Bargeld are rendered indecipherable, and henceforthaffect the listener on a purely subconscious, subliminal level. This istellingly similar to the practice of talismanic magic, where theconscious desire is sublimated through a series of transformations intoirretrievably esoteric codes and diagrams, bizarre correspondences andperverted anagrams. Magic and ritual are McKenzie's primary motivationson Normally. Like the hallucinatory state, where the mind issometimes freed to make sympathetic connections between thought andmanifestation, so too the sounds on Normally contribute to anunraveled head-state in which synchronicities are the rule rather thanthe exception. At various times during my first listen to disc one, aslayers upon layers of meditational aumgns are gradually compounded, Iheard the unmistakable sounds of descending piano scales, mewlingkittens, distant muffled screams, even the sound of my front doorviolently being forced open. These were phantasms, no doubt, catalyzedby the abstract drones and ghostly monasterial choirs that McKenziesculpts. By the 28-minute mark, the piece has taken on the majesticintensity of Gyorgi Ligeti's haunting choral works, sounding like theinfinite vibratory intonations cascading from the void of space. Disctwo, or "Sphotavado," deals primarily with the breath. Just as AleisterCrowley noted after a lifetime of study devoted to the tantricmeditation, there is no better purgative than pranayama (breathcontrol), and no better way to enervate the aspirant than therepetition of mantra. Using Bargeld's mantric recitations and breathyintonations, McKenzie provides a series of distinct, dynamic passagesover the 65-minutes of the disc. Each passage fades in and out likebreathing, and each takes the listener to a more remote, rarefiedstrata of magical conception. From the gentle, reedy abstractions ofthe opening passage all the way to the serpentine, metallic Kundalinibrain-swipes of the final breath. At high volumes, many of theseprocessed sounds vibrate portions of the ear canal in an unexpectedway. I found that by moving my head back and forth, or changing myposition in the room, I could radically change the experience oflistening to "Sphotavado." McKenzie, therefore, has created a raresound sculpture which can be actively engaged and changed by thelistener. The enigmatic packaging and accompanying foldout bookletcreate a remarkable series of "blinds" that distract and mislead evenas they lay bare the central theme of Normally; words createvibrations; vibration is the result of sound; sound is the articulationof existence; existence is created by a single word, vibrated.
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When a band displays all the ferocity that could rip my muscles off mybody sinew by sinew it gets my pulse going, and that's exactly whatGuapo have on this, their fifth full-length. Recent work with CerberusShoal and the addition of a third member Daniel O'Sullivan have bothtaken Guapo down a new and risky path where they seem to let their hairdown more, worrying less about the artifice and more about the art.These songs are almost painfully direct with less noodling and inherentdistraction than previous work and the band is all the stronger for it.The one weakness is that Five Sunswears a bit thin in a few areas as a result of almost incessantrepitition — particularly on the title track, represented as one longpiece with five track separations. As a result the album cannot beendured in one sitting, but the pure aggression and brave reaching istantalizing all over. When taken in portions it is a delicious andfulfilling meal. The title track starts the record, and the firstsection features non-structured jamming with quiet keyboards and loudcymbals and gongs. Eventually the quieter moments are broken by louderdrumming and guitar noise, then a full-out sonic assault is unleashed,with distortion and deafening percussion climaxing in a loud squeal. Iwas beside myself as the song moved to its next section, a morestructured collaboration with driving bass and percussion and a playfulkeyboard. The piece itself put me in full-out sway mode, but here theinternal repeating of the same parts grates a bit, then it all seems tostart over but with more squealing. The third section redeems it, alljazz drumming and piano solos with touches of shred guitar. It islengthy, but it never wanes once, with a steady pace and varied tempos.I let the sound embrace me, and the remaining suns made me secure,paranoid, and warm as the tracks progressed, ultimately devouring me ina wall of sound like a tidal wave. A brief intermission, and then"Mictlan" and "Topan," two tracks that share the same aesthetic butbecome far more melodic and structured. These were scenes in ahunter/hunted movie, with a relentless killer and a hapless victim inan elaborate game of cat and mouse. I felt closer to them than "FiveSuns" and all its glory. There is a beauty in their simplicity that Ienjoyed, and that I will reach for again and again even though theywere a bit darker in tone. Overall, however, Guapo has created a soundfor this record drenched in solidarity, and when they keep it simplethey just soar.
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I was immediately a little confused upon popping Individual's new disc into the CD player because it sounded almost like the CD was skipping through a copy of Pan Sonic's "Osasto EP" on fast forward. Actually, as I grew to understand, that's a lot of what can be expected from this album of minimal, deconstructed technoise. Each song has a particular rhythm that it exploits for a set duration and the dynamics are created by filters, LFOs, and subtle delay effects more than flourishes of arrangement. Most of the parts of each track subtly fade in and then gracefully exit over time. For this reason, I'd say that 180 Bullets... takes more after the minimal techno and trance mom's side of the family than it does after dad's unruly noise side. Such a simple formula works for Individual though, and the repeating patterns of thumpy kick drums and static bursts begin to behave the way a multisyllabic word does when you say it over and over and over. Are there new rhythms constantly bubbling up to the surface or is my brain just latching on to different parts of the same loop to keep from feeling bored? Either way, it works and none of the tracks ever seem too long. In fact, a few end abruptly on the short side, begging the question of how to tactfully end a piece of music that relies on its monotony and microscopic shifts in scope for its drama. The track titles have an obsessive militaristic theme that I don't really pick up from the music itself, but if it takes reflection on war and bullets for Individual to come up with tracks like these, I hope he keeps at it.
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I came to Nels Cline's work by way of the Geraldine Fibbers and I had never heard any of Devin Sarno before, but I was expecting "Buried on Bunker Hill" to be something of a free-jazz style improvised guitar and bass workout. What I got instead was a thick, syrupy collection of drones and crackles and ebbing waves of distortion that is equal parts menacing dark noise and plaintive restrained ambience. If Subharmonic were still issuing their duet series that featured solo guitarists (Justin Broaderick, Page Hamilton, Thurston Moore, etc.) let loose for a side of a record to make any and all amount of noise they wished with their axe of choice, Buried on Bunker Hill would be a crowning achievement to a novel and intentionally limited approach. Where layered guitar and bass improvisational noise often fails me is in its creators' lack of ability to move from one point to another and then another with enough momentum as to seem organic and evolving. Cline and Sarno thankfully don't have that problem here, as they consistently build up to crests of deep, haunting noise and then flow back down to quiet moments that only suggest the power lurking underneath their arrangements. There's relatively little resembling the traditional timbres of the instruments used to make these songs, but when the recognizable guitar phrases surface as on "Only Peace," the atmosphere fades a bit to the background to give the stringed voices a chance to shine. Interestingly, Ground Fault founder Erik Hoffman was himself not sure of how this record could be classified based on his self-imposed series system (I=quiet, II=medium, III=loud) and initially released it as a part of the 'quiet' series. It is frequently quiet and loud and somewher in between so Hoffman's later admission that the record is more of a 'medium' probably makes the most sense. Buried on Bunker Hill is diverse but focused; it's dark but often tranquil and it winds up as the kind of record you can listen to quietly if you want to have some distracting noise in the background, or that you can listen to at full volume if you want to tremble before the monolithic force of echoing sounds crashing over you.
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The second release in this year's Piehead series is a stirring, evocative disc from a UK-based musician who goes by "Knowledge of Bugs." There's no way around the Greg Davis comparison for me, so I'm just going to get it out of the way: the things that work about My Way No Way are the same things that make Greg Davis' processed guitar compositions so appealing. Although there's a fair amount of digital artefact and evidence of computer manipulation of these tracks, the organic, emotive nature of the playing still shines through much to the composer's credit. It's nearly impossible to fault Tom Bugs' approach to the guitar because from the looping bits of "The Accuarian" with underlying, amplified field ambience to the percussive lurch of "Heard Through Floor" accompanied by delaying plucked guitar to the soft organ drones that close out "1 Tonne Wheel", everything maintains a consistent space without ever sounding like too much of the same thing. The one strange exception is a narrative-vocal laden track, "Endless Path" that sounds a bit like a ballad that was penned in a lush forest populated by wood elves and magical wanderers. At the end, the narrator bumps into what I picture as wise old wizard who drops the science "Your life is an endless path." The song takes some getting used to, but after repeated listens it makes a nice connection between the more traditional singer-songwriter technique and the post-modern songwriter-digital editor technique that is employed throughout. Knowledge of Bugs has presented another link in the growing chain that connects the digital world of sound design and computer recording to the time-honored tradition of a lone musician playing music because it suits him. So far this year, Piehead is 2 for 2.
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Somewhat discontinuous with Quecksilber's output thus far, which hastended to focus on works either more singular in process (ScottHorscroft's 8 Guitars) or more challenging in construction (Ambarchi & Ng's Vigil), Wirkus' third release is, nonetheless, a lovely and substantial slice of autumnal electronica. The one real surprise of Inteletto d'Amoreis that the music was created live without computer, via only threemini disc recorders, run through tremolo effects and mixed down. Ratherthan producing the kind of rough-hewn, shifting sound field that fellowlive-from-disc operator Philip Jeck diligently occupies, Wirkus'approach is much more minimal, a largely additive process where warm,melodic fragments pile up with lace-like delicacy, tracing comfortablewall-patterns. The artist's mini discs sample string quartets, pianopieces, and droning amplifier hiss, all extremely welcoming sounds,placed with enough economy and tasteful repetition to create stablepieces, thick with the hazy lull that people like Jeck and Fenneszconcoct regularly. What they lack in uniqueness, Wirkus' songs make upwith a quality of intimacy that often feels lacking in similarproductions, where the music's melancholic or nostalgic focus threatensto push it towards a remote, bookish level of engagement. Each trackseems cut from the same slow, thoughtful mold, an easy incline into atender plateau where melodious fragments graze the inside of grainystring loops or gentle static envelopes. Wirkus' pacing is entirelyappropriate given the warmth and level luster of the sounds used, andnothing here suffers from thinning structure or a lukewarm melodicsensibility. Inteletto d'Amore's only odd moment comes in thesecond track, "Blask," where the artist adds a vocal over the disc'sonly overtly rhythmic loop (of common amp hum and golden feedback).Sounding eerily like Alan Vega, Wirkus utters a breathy chant thatdoesn't really connect with the comforts of the record overall, and heseems to know this, calling up a hesitant, last-minute delivery withthe same minimal variation as his hypnotic backgrounds. One misstepaside, the disc, while unremarkable, will still demand return listensfrom most fans of experimental electronica or anyone looking for someabsorbing sonic wallpaper.
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Abner Jay was a classic ragtime song-and-dance man, learning his trade with Silas Green's Minstrels in the 1930's and WMAZ Minstrels in Macon during the 40's and 18's. Lap dissolve to the late 60's, and Abner Jay had transformed himself into a one-man-band and traveling nostalgia revue, issuing a series of private press LPs that now trade hands for ridiculously high prices. Sweden's Subliminal Sounds recently released this compilation, collecting material from three of Jay's best albums.
Jay billed himself as America's Last Minstrel Show, and he played an energetic combo of finger-picked banjo and harmonica, working the bass drum with a foot pedal. He introduced each song with bad puns and raunchy jokes, his deep Southern drawl a deliberate caricature of old-time Uncle Tom minstrelsy. It would be tempting to dismiss Abner Jay as a politically-incorrect anachronism, were it not for the obvious talent and intelligence with which he approaches his racially-charged material. By fearlessly accentuating the house Negro stereotypes that defined and imprisoned black performers in the post-Civil War South, Abner Jay is able to transcend them, exorcising the pain of his ancestry.
Nowhere is this more clear than in the heart-breaking song "I'm So Depressed," a track so beautiful and haunting that it floored me upon first listen. Beginning as a traditional-sounding blues lament, Jay's voice suddenly shifts into a high lonesome wail, choking back tears and belting out a series of deeply felt emotional cries that express an ancient sadness. "I was born during the hard depression days...My folks were sharecroppers/We had nothing, we had nothing, we had nothing/But grasshoppers/Looking back over my life/O lord, I'm so depressed."
On "Swaunee," Jay talks at length about his beloved Southern river, it's legacy and importance. Jay's narration is layered over an atmospheric instrumental track punctuated by the chorus of the traditional song, treated to sound like an old 78. Because of my penchant for outsider music, I have heard hundreds of hyped reissues of vanity pressings and much-vaunted musical oddities. Rarely have I heard anything as impressive as Abner Jay's evocative, recollective race-folk. One Man Band is currently the only widely available edition of his music, making it absolutely essential.
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