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Concept albums in general are a bit troublesome. Like "Music from and inspired by the motion picture," they are sometimes not at all relatable to the subject at hand, and often they get overshadowed by some lofty sense of purpose that ultimately falls flat. When I saw the roster on Seasons, I was willing to ignore the fact that the compilation was a concept album just to hear new work from these bands. So, I must say I was pleasantly surprised to find that the music does, in fact, have a fine correlation with the concept, making this the best theme-based compilation I have ever heard.Ochre
Each artist was asked to compose music that, to them, represented the four seasons. Most took this at its literal meaning, composing four tracks for the four seasons, but a couple, namely Stylus and 90° South, chose a different way, combining different elements to represent more than one season and the change between them. Altogether a fascinating listening experience, the album features emotional reactions of the artists to the states of the year that are sometimes not what you'd expect. In The Land of Nod's tracks, the traditional perception is challenged on "Summer-house": a drone with frog/cat noises that almost sounds like someone being trapped in a warehouse all summer, baking in the heat — not exactly the prettiest image. It's a nice switch of roles, though, with the more traditional interpretations on their other tracks making for lovely chiming guitars and the deafening worry of the winter track, "Light Fades Fast." Longstone's electronic elements are a sharp contrast upon their entrance, and their tracks fade together and contain similar elements, allowing for a nice shift between them to represent the overlap from summer to fall to winter. It's a nice take on the theme, even though some of the sound effects and pitch bends towards the end grate on the nerves. Lakescene, aka The Land of Nod's Ant Walker, keeps the electronics going, with beeps and static washes breaking for crickets and guitar. His tracks were my favorites, making the most of different elements while painting the most lifelike pictures of the seasons. 90° South manufactured one track that shifts with common elements, as well, and with the guitar and keys being joined by thick percussion and swirling noise, it's a fantastic ride, even though the track pushes the fourteen-minute mark. Stylus makes typically odd compositions that expound on odd beginnings, like tribal drums and chanting with bubble noises. His tracks are most "out there," and therefore I was thankful for his inclusion, as he brings a bit of the left field to the proceedings. All in all, though, I was impressed by all contributors, and hope to see more compilations that can truly flesh out a theme with such success. 
samples:
- The Land of Nod - Season of Decay
- Longstone - A Singing Frog Beneath the Ice
- Lakescene - Fall
- 90° South - Seasonal
- Stylus - Icicle Tricycle
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Anxiety and apprehension are made sound incarnate within the firstquarter of this record and holy ground is consecrated and threatenedthereafter. A narrative runs through the thick, pulsing heart of thesesounds; beginning with shimmering, metallic rolls of lightning andhighligthed by the mysterious calls of nocturnal birds, Behind Your Very Eyesannounces itself as a heavy and imposing experience. The opening"Cryptozoology" has the blood of fear running through it; theatmosphere is thick with the tension of unseen voyeurs and rapacioushunters whispering secrets under forested moonlight. Such a heavy andconsuming beginning might seem imposing, but Colin Potter and PaulBradley make the mystery too intriguing to be ignored. It would beimpossible to turn tail and run. "Decline" medicates and softens thebreath of impending disaster with its organ-like tones and unearthlyshakings. There is a bright light at the center of its being and iteminates the presence of safety and familiarity; it's as if the nightof the first sounds has been transformed into the romantic and alluringnight of summer winds and cricket's voices. But the narrative of themusic is not simple and elegant transformation: "Cavity" invokes theaura of a total void, staring down into the abyss, and being frightenedthat nothing looks back. No semblance of human life is found in thecascading mass and it's low-end humming simply shakes my body to anumbness that removes the physical world to a purely mental state. Thebeauty of Potter and Bradley's work is that it removes easy reference;sounds become pure and without linguistic characteristic and there isalways an environment shaped out of silence. By the time "Flattered ToDeceive" expels its suspended ghost, the music has made a full circle.The electronic whines and textural brushes of sound reverberate backinto the mystery of the unknown and demand another journey; thenear-deceptive warmth of these sounds is Behind Your Very Eyes'greatest asset. Though alien and without translatable elements, itexpands and welcomes the mind to a consideration of the esoteric.
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This is Rabelais' third release using Argeiphontes Lyre, software ofthe artist's own design which runs instrumental sound through agauntlet of time domain filters, resulting in unique digital music thatretains much of the physicality and tender imbalance of its soundsource whilst enacting subtle, though deeply resonant transformations.His previous record, the excellent Eisoptrophobia, featured processed piano works by Bartók and Satie, and ...benediction, drawcontinues with a similar exploration of the latter's idea of "furnituremusic," this time with Rabelais' own guitar compositions run throughthe forgiving machine. The resulting 71-min. piece, essentially dividedinto eight sections, is most certainly the kind of inconspicuous,sublimated work that Satie's doctrine would promote. The originalguitar lines are completely obscured, disintegrating (ormultiplying...who knows?) into creeping waves of tonal flutter, theshivering patter of half-plucked strings, and faint, drone-likebackdrops that sound like the result of fairly extreme time-lapsemanipulation. The relative sameness and level field of each track make ...benediction, drawhard to penetrate at first, and the meandering movement of the piececould be off-putting for the unprepared. However, deeper listeningreveals the remarkably intricate construction of the work, which,rather than retreating to the background, instead completely transformsthe listening environment. Rabelais understands that Satie's ideas donot predict music that is just another piece of room-filler, but musicwhose structure and passage feel determined by the acoustic quality ofthe sounds themselves, music that becomes, to some degree, a room ofits own. Rabelais' guitar emerges from the Lyre sounding like a25-piece ensemble of brushed guitars, chimes, and hammered bells,passing slowly through a cycle that seems immediately incidental, yetpainfully timed and integrated so that no such group could havepossibly arranged it. Digital manipulation is evident, but the sound ofthe instrument, which Rabelais' claims to have recorded withoutmulti-tracking (!), is beautifully maintained. A look at the notesinside tells me that ...benediction, draw is dedicated to theartist's "father, who [he] never knew, and mother who abandoned [him];"also, the track titles read sequentially, making two florid sentencesthat describe the journey of a "dispossessed child under the invisibletutelage of an angel." Turns out the record is a reminiscence onRabelais' childhood, growing up estranged on the desolate sweep that isSouth Texas, which explains the cover photo of a boy, presumably theartist, in full Gary Cooper regalia. It's easy to imagine ...benediction, drawas furniture music for the wind-damaged Texan plains; each shimmeringwave full of weightless solemnity, highly expressive but also elusivein character. Comparisons to late-period Morton Feldman, particularly For Philip Guston, would not be out of place; a similar tenebrous beauty stretches through ...benediction, draw'sdrift, making any lapse of attention impossible. With this record,Rabelais has created one of the most singular processed guitar worksI've heard in a long time, and it will be a pleasure hear whichinstrument he approaches next.
- L'Enfant déshérité s'enivre de soleil
- Retrouve l'ambroisie et le nectar vermeil
- Et l'Esprit qui le suit dans son pèlerinage
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As far as creating atmospherics is concerned, the merging of similarsounds and muddy samples works fine in a simple and amateur way. Thisprinciple cannot be applied to a fifty minute record of unconventionalrecording processes. Nothing leaps out at me in any significant way onthis disc; many of the sounds are intriguing in and of themselves, butthey don't work out when stretched to times well over ten minutes. Ihave a feeling that they wouldn't work out at periods of five or sixminutes. While there are variations in sound and theme on each of thetracks, none of the themes fall into a distinct relationship witheachother and this ends up being unsatisfactory. "Four Chambers PlusTheir Various Fluids" has a great spot near the middle of it thatfeatures the rattling of metal pipes, awkward springs, and bustedpendulums, but it doesn't sync into the rest of the song and emergesfrom the previous section like a young child on stilts. It ultimatelymoves nowhere and returns to silence when covered up by other sounds.On the other hand, "Some Trio Study (#2)" feels as if it belongs in aretirement home; it's a loop of some wonderful melodic samples thatstretch into infinity and change only slightly for the course of fiveminutes. The effect is stunning for the first minute and then themonotony wears thin. The best and the worst is saved for last; "HarborSurfacant" features some stretched and pitch samples of classicinstruments rotating and dying in a mess of pops and claps. It is byfar the most inspiring of the five pieces, but that does not hide thefact that what could've been a journey into the darker realms ofthought ends up sounding more like a damaged toy piano. There's nodynamics at play to keep things interesting for the nine minute runningtime. I just can't sit through it without checking the time to see ifit's over, yet. The sounds are fun here and there, but Vertonen simplycannot come up with an arrangement that stays consistently interesting.
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Bill Laswell is trying way too hard. He couldn't decide whether or notthis record was going to be broadcast from Mars, made danceable bysolid rhythms from the past, or infected with the spirit of imaginationand experimentation and this is more than enough to hurt the album. Thereare all sorts of pseudo-melodies winding their way between bass-heavyrhythm sections and musty turntable effects, but none of them stand outor doing anything like create the feel of a hook.Now and then there's a groove established by way of bass guitar andrecord-scratching, but none of them stand out over the other; it's asif every instrument was made to take center stage. This is a solorecord for all heavy and groggy instruments in the court of nothing. Atonce a song can feel like an excursion into Jamaica, a shout out to thebeat-masters of yesterday, and a trip into the drug-fuelled,hallucinogenic march of the future. "Black Dust" is a perfect example;the bass sounds great, the rhythm is heavy and hot, and there's a hintof some exotic instrumentation weaving its way out of the background;but none of these elements ever mix together. They clash like PresidentBush and common sense. The sound of Casio keyboards imitating disco-erahorns don't synch well with the grit and grime of funky rhythms andsumptuous bass pounding. I can appreciate someone who wants to pushboundaries and create new sounds for others to work with, but Laswellsimply isn't doing that or, in the very least, he isn't doing it wellenough. With a mix like this, all of the elements can't work togetherin a perfect unity; something has to be sacrificed (I'd like it if itwere all the faux-psychadelia and space-inspired thematics) for it towork.
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Those who slip on the Mekons new album as a novice to the band andtheir wiles will no doubt be a bit dumbfounded. Listening to therecord, I could hear countless passages of music that I've heardelsewhere, or something so similar I would swear it was influenced bysomeone else — if I didn't know that these songs were written almost 30years ago and just recently recorded for the release. Punk Rockis a study of a band at their absolute finest, re-embracing musicthey'd written off a quarter-century ago in favor of loftier heightsand bolder experimentations. Maybe all that experience has fed thesesongs, too, as there's a wisened approach to the compositions. Pairedwith the naked aggression and powerhouse vocals is a variedinstrumentation and brave altering of tempo. These songs have a punkheart but their brains are scrambled in how to present it the heart'sfeelings. It's like punk viewed through different lenses, or a tributealbum of great punk songs by various bands, some punk some not. Thatthe band chose to record these songs to celebrate their 25thanniversary as a band is extremely telling, as they truly went backtheir beginnings to dredge this up. The album is an experience that'ssometimes rollicking fun, sometimes tear in your beer, but always aninteresting ride. The stomp of "Teeth" that opens the record is a greatindication of what lies inside, for the most part, with all instrumentsblazing to the finish line. This sentiment is echoed on "I'm So Happy"and "32 Weeks," as well, but the moments are staggered in betweentracks that slow it down a bit, bringing across a purified version ofthe song at its most naked, without the pomp and circumstance thatsometimes comes with the genre. What I hear most of all on the recordis how these songs influenced the band in the beginning and how thatspirit affected every release since.
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The Frames' lack of notoriety in the US is not due to any lack ofeffort on their parts. With two releases on Overcoat, including their2001 studio album For the Birdsand a compilation of unreleased tracks, the band has been on theseshores for several club tours, getting their name out and entertainingthe masses with their polished live sound. Where other Irish bands havetried this route with limited success on a grand scale, The Frames seemto want a home-grown fanbase, teaming their small club presence withintimate albums recorded with Steve Albini and in someone's kitchen. In2003, they recorded a live album in front of a sold-out Dublin crowd,and released it to great acclaim in their home country, where it toppedthe charts and critic's polls at year's end. Now, with a new deal onEpitaph's Anti imprint, Glan Hansard and the boys are making another goon American audiences on a slightly larger scale, with that very livealbum as the first release to give people a taste of the already richcatalog of songs the band has accrued. Three of their studio albums arerepresented with more than one track, and several of them becomeextended rock jams in front of an audience. Many have said that TheFrames are a live band first, and hearing the CD I can understand why.Hansard gives his all vocally, yelping at the top of his lungs inareas, and the band blisters their way through songs, though the crowddoesn't seem to mind. In fact, it's always a good sign if you have thecrowd singing along with every word, and on several tracks that'sexactly what happens, most notably on "Lay Me Down," where the crowdbecomes an almost impromptu choir. Hansard also proves an amusing andamiable frontman, conversing with the crowd and offering stories andanecdotes here and there. Though the album is a tour-de-forceculmination of all their energies, there are small missteps, like theinclusion of "Ring of Fire" into "Lay Me Down," and the fact that themajority of the songs will be lost on a new listener, with no studioversions to compare them to as the albums are not available in the USand are rather difficult to order. That said, it's a great primer fortheir new studio album due later this year, and a great show of theextremes the band goes through, from somewhat down-tempo numbers to theall-out assault of "God Bless Mom." One thing's for sure: with anupcoming US tour supporting it-boy Damien Rice, I'll be one of thefirst in line to see if they can live up to Set List.
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The work contained herein goes even further down the idiosyncratic path in evidence on The World of's more abstract tracks such as "Schoolbell/Treehouse" and "Keeping Up." These songs make it clear that Russell was a perfectionist of sorts, meticulously adding echo, splices and overdubs to his songs until they achieved a complexity that, on the surface, can appear almost effortless. These tracks cannot be deemed "disco" in any sense. They sound more like bedroom pop masterpieces, made with a working knowledge of the patterns and clichés of current pop music, but with a striking originality that transcends its time and technology. "The Platform on the Ocean" showcases Russell's striking use of distortion and stereo panning, and his throaty, soulful vocals curl and echo around the clipped African percussion. His simplistic, almost childlike lyrics are elevated to high poetry with inflected repetition and Russell's distinctive production: "On the wood platform on the ocean/I looked down and saw the fish/Which way its tail was pointing and why." Even tracks that sound very much like a sincere attempt at hackneyed 80's pop balladry, such as "You and Me Both," retain a dreamy, alien distance that is utterly magical. It's as if we are seeing 80's pop filtered through Arthur Russell's dreams and hallucinations, and this altered perception allows the music to arrive untainted by its tenuous attachment to the tired clichés of the period. Many of these songs come from a shelved album called Corn, a strangely appropriate symbol for the sonic alchemy that unites the urban sprawl of NYC with the windswept, oceanic expanses of the Midwest, Russell's birthplace and spiritual homeland. Some track are marred by crude drum programming, but Russell's intuitive approach to the cello and keyboards more than make up for these weaknesses. For me, encountering Arthur Russell's experimental disco work three years ago was a revelation, like rummaging through an attic and stumbling upon a collection of perfectly eccentric artwork that was there all the time, waiting to be discovered. It often occurred to me that Russell's released material must be only the tip of a vast, multifaceted iceberg, and Calling Out of Context wonderfully proves my suspicions were correct. -
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Adam Pierce has evolved Mice Parade from its humble beginnings to a full-fledged accomplished live ensemble, a feat especially impressive given his other dealings in HiM, touring with M√∫m, and running Bubble Core. After the success and bombast of that experience, Pierce went back home and recorded another album mostly by himself, but he felt the need to incorporate his experiences on the road and some of his friends from other projects, culminating in the fantastic new work of Obrigado Saudade.
Mice Parade of old is represented, with the Cheng making an appearance and the DIY ethics, but there's a new breath and heartbeat in these songs, where Pierce tries his hands in new realms through familiar tactics. Guitar is presented in a number of beautiful ways on the record, with minimalist drumming and percussion allowing for an unintruded splendor to awaken and flourish on several tracks. Elsewhere, Pierce has captured the fervor and proficiency of the live band with the freefall of improvisation — or so it seems at least. With his fierce drumming and love of keys, the songs take on a fluid and dynamic bend, evolving as they continue, eventually resting at a comfortable stasis that never bores. Vocals from Múm vocalist Kristin Anna Valtysdottir on two tracks add a quaint and understated beauty; innocent-sounding and utterly familiar in this setting, even though it is their first recorded pairing. Doug Scharin of HiM also adds a bit of drums on "Out of the Freedom World," sure to be a reference to the "Into the Freedom World" tracks on Mokoondi, and Chris Conti's guitar work is also not to be discounted or missed. Pierce has crafted a truly wonderful album in Obrigado, due in no small part to his travels and experiences. 
samples:
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This release should arrive with a grain of sadness for, in January, Reynols disbanded after ten years of tireless activity. The prolific Argentine group spent the majority of this time in relative obscurity, forging ahead with large ambitions and an unflinching devotion to idiosyncratic craft that inevitably left them well-situated within the pantheon of frayed roots-rockers, brash experimenters, and psychedelic casualties. Their willingness to experiment with the most eccentric of concepts always made Reynols seem extra special, even among the small crop of similarly broad-minded collectives.Sedimental
The group's catalog forms a sidewinding trip through torrid homemade noise rock, vintage free-form freaking, drone opuses, and a number of fantastical pieces composed for increasingly wayward instrumentation, of which Whistling Kettle is certainly one. Without the visceral edge of Blank Tapes, their surprisingly abrasive work of processed and layered tape hiss, or the baffling atmospherics of the 10,000 Chickens Symphony, sourced in what must be a gigantic, cavernous coop, Whistling Kettle brings more of a lyrical approach to Reynols' consistently adventurous arrangements. Performed on "baritone, tenor, contralto, and soprano whistling kettles," the quartet moves with a reserved, almost classical rigor that may come as a surprise to those indoctrinated by the coarse psych jams of earlier releases. Kettles drift closer to wails and howls rather than whistles, but the music supplies enough controlled tension to prevent the slip into gratuitous or brainless display. In fact, the four chrome mouthpieces do little to reveal their simple construction, each part contributing to a quivering, animate strand of sound that can only be described as otherworldly. The opener, "Andante Mogal," with its strained insistence, immediately reminded me of Jack Nance in Eraserhead, sitting patiently before the steaming vaporizer that attends his sick, inhuman child. There, like here, the kettle's whistle is something recognizable, though uncomfortable and veiled in mystery and expectation. Comparisons to Ligeti's obelisk-speak score for 2001 come easily during "Moderato uno Surido Fermo" where pitches maintain a frightening vocal range, undulating with reverent moans. The quartet escalates into its final and most impressive section, "Allegro Repuliom Lanidelo," as kettles produce grating screams and calls, sounding like the ambience from some dark, interstellar rainforest. Even at this noisy plateau, however, Whistling Kettle maintains a fragile, hushed quality which must be due to the unique timbre of the kettle. This "thinness" becomes both a callback to the medium and production of the piece, as well as one of the more interesting aspects of the music taken alone. It adds a beautiful layer of melancholy to the piece, while making the whole seem just as likely to dissolve, inconsequentially, like steam into the room. 
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The Chicago Underground (whose members vary in number on their various releases) uses the malleable forms of jazz and electronic music to explore sounds and thoughts that could only be captured in the vistas of these boundless styles. Slon is an experiment in forms and styles, exploring the brassy expressionism of both genres to deliver a stirring display of meaning and intent through their inspired tones.
The opening squalls of "Protest" are immediate, like a fist raised in the air, standing out with a direct intensity that breaks out of the din of high hats and ride cymbals that pepper the air. As the track progresses, the melody and rhythm begin to double back on themselves through overdubs, slightly out of phase but still in concert with one another, building and moving along the same path. The tension created by these overlays increases the urgency as the trio begins to sound like a throng of voices all searching for the same step. "Zagreb" begins with a low rustling of machinery in the distance, or warm air rushing through a subway tunnel, before a slinky bass line and moody cornet overtake the scene, like steam rising off a rain slicked city street. Mazurek's horn playing is intensely sultry, an alluring hook into the dusky rhythm work of bassist Noel Kupersmith and drummer Chad Taylor. The album's title track blends an ethereal, disembodied horn with a clattering of aggressive blips of electronica, transporting the initial impulses that would typically emerge from the end of a horn or drum stick deep through a processor. The percussive, pixilated energy highlights that while the medium may grant artists a wider selection of ways to express themselves, it is still up to the artist to find those words. "Slon," along with the sparse ambience of "Kite" demonstrate that the Chicago Underground is quite adept at pulling the pieces together, whatever language they are speaking. The abstractions only intensify on "Palermo," which assembles the slow attack and fast falloff of reversed cymbal hits with a drippy beat and slippery progression. The track was seemingly assembled in the style of musique concrete, by tape cutter Bill Skibbe, furthering the ensemble's post-bop aesthetic and dedication to utilizing creative methods of presenting their sound. Though the acoustic and electric portions of Slon only intersect briefly, the way in which the Chicago Underground Trio employs them makes for a distinctly impressive piece.
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