- Michael Patrick Brady
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With their first full length release, They Threw us All in a Trench and Stuck a Monument on Top,Liars made their existence known to the world outside Williamsburg asthe most interesting product of that gentrified province, moreintriguing than the achingly deliberate sleaze of the Yeah Yeah Yeahsand decidedly darker than the goofy warble of the Rapture. A few yearsdown the road sees those latter two bands consorting with Carson Dalyand the buzz bin, while the recently shaken Liars lineup (minus theformidable bass and drum duo from the first LP) holed up in a NewJersey basement with their recording equipment and a notebook ofaudience-alienating ideas. The bands' prevailing neuroses have shiftedfrom bombast and bravado to paranoia and claustrophobia, which revealthemselves in oblique chants about witches and magic. "Broken Witch"(perhaps the shortest Liars song title to date) opens the album with adeep electronic pulse that sidles ominously alongside the staggeringdrum kit. Though intentionally hook-less, the song's offbeat, hypnoticfluctuations are as engaging as anything the band has done previously.The track sets the intended mood perfectly, conveying that this albumis not going to be pretty, and that it may not be danceable, but canstill be compelling enough to want to know where the rapidlyaccelerating incantations are leading. "There's Always Room on theBroom" mixes distorted voices and fuzzed out samplers with a creepyfalsetto sing-a-long chorus that eats away at the defenses like amalevolent earworm until the song has completely seized control ofrational judgment and begins to appear on the mind at its own volition.Combined with the hysterical strobe-animation video included with thedisc, the song is a devious and extremely successful attempt atreprogramming listeners and viewers to find the unlistenablelistenable. "They Don't Want Your Corn, They Want Your Kids" is theclosest to the early Liars bass lines and kick beats, a brief reprievefrom the murky fear of tracks like "We Fenced Other Gardens With theBones of Our Own," with its desperate cry of "We're doomed! We'redoomed!" that pierces through the indiscriminate chanting aboutcauldrons and evil spells. These songs capitalize on the darkness andspooky atmosphere that were hinted at in earlier efforts that wereobscured by the snap of a dance-punk bass line, driving the band (andtheir audience) into more and more unfamiliar territory until much oftheir sound and style are unrecognizable. They Were Wrong, So We Drownedis a reactionary record, forged in the glare of the spotlight thrustupon the band in the wake of their catchy debut. Rather than linger inthe comfortable bed they made for themselves, and potentially reap thebenefits of a wider appeal, they chose to start from scratch andchallenge themselves. In the end, the adventurousness of this decisionwill benefit them far more, as Liars have demonstrated that they are acapable, inventive band with more than just one trick up their sleeves. Read More
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Meerk is, if the bizarre pseudonym didn't give it away, one of the founders of Providence's Fort Thunder collective as well as a member of the most firmly-entrenched of FT musical incarnations, Forcefield. Those discouraged by the willfully obtuse nature of that group's recorded efforts could do worse than rough up this dirty gem, Puffy's first non-cassette release and one that plays off Forcefield's talents for lo-fi squelch-tronica in welcome fashion. Meerk (aka Matt Brinkman) shoulders the arsenal of bleeps, blats, and digital farts that made Roggaboggas such a throbbing fun time, but he adds a backbone of rhythmic chug and swirling, claustrophobic phase-out, owing as much to the psychedelic skronk aesthetic of early Boredoms as to the cassette noise underground.
If patrons were merely startled by Forcefield's stoic army of woolen mammoth-men at 2002's Whitney Biennale, this is the kind of audio program that might have created a legend. Puffy keeps a healthy fascination with vomit-pitch levels of neon-inspired noise sizzle, but here he has eliminated any silence in between, running serpentine loops ad nauseam through the kind of minimalism that, instead of motivating intricate sound analysis or a part-for-the-whole meditation, exists only to the numb the brain into open-mouthed submission, synapses stuck on continuous, receptor-scorching misfire. This surely has roots in early industrial and primitive electro, but the psychedelic influence should not be underestimated, for as claustrophobic, strangled, and unrelenting as Nung can get, the record seems to continually revisit sections of acid-headed clarity, spacious clearings amid the hiss, where modulated phase effects commune for brief flights into the radioactive sunset, and everything seems, for a moment, peaceful. Even some of the pulse-drowned, intensely repetitive sections contain potential for an accidental mysticism, a grainy, hypnotic charm that would find Meerk riding his desk of cracked electronics down golden country lanes in search of Barrett and Beefheart and other fellow problem children. As a bonus, Nung contains two lock grooves willing to prolong the head-cleaning bliss indefinitely for anyone well adjusted enough to tune in. Always in character, Puffy has placed the grooves strategically, helping them to slip under the needle without warning, a trick that proves a perfect resistance-shattering mechanism and had me bobbing away like a catatonic idiot for longer than is probably healthy.
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Knowing that this is a collection of music from previous EPs (and then some) makes the joyous and erratic beauty present all that more enjoyable. David Edwards knows what he wants to do with his music: there's not a moment of sound that isn't somehow strangely beautiful, sweetly smooth, or surprisingly fluid. Instruments come together in flirtatious ways and rhythm excuses itself from predictability to usher in the kind of melodic surprises that early electronic bands managed to pull out of their hat through variation in repetition.
"Don't Be A Slave To No Computer" clicks and bubbles with the kind of percussive pillow-noise and sizzling, seemingly random, and jumpy melodies that makes programmed music sound so human. There's a daring glimmer in their souls that suggests caution but favors the extremes and the rawness of jumping into the middle of a power that can't be controlled. "Let Me Out" grinds with the sound of aquatic organs and forests bathed in silver, the electronic sounds becoming tangible and sensuous instead of alienating, industrial, and altogether cold. The middle portion of Rinse (tracks five through eight) have a more digital sound, but don't suffer for it. The cut up pieces of live percussion mix well with the horn-like synthesizers on "The Downs" while "Albert Park Music" rolls along the tunnels of abandoned highways with hidden pianos and omnipresent percussion. The only thing suffering here is the relatively straight-forward pop music emerging out this section of the album; the stuttering and awkward time signatures that made the first part sound so fresh are absent and replaced with a sound that almost sounds geared toward a live performance with instrumental musicians. This is how the album ends, on something of a slick note. I'm a fan of the raw and unpredictable, so I'm not so inclined to enjoy the relaxed vocals on "Lady Came from Baltic Wharf" or the easy-going flutes on "Rockpoolin'," but the music is no less remarkable for that.
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That familiar spirit of playful chaos, randomness and intuitive groupimprovisation I've come to expect from Volcano The Bear is in fine formthroughout The Idea Of Wood.Even though VTB have been releasing music since 1996, this LP onTextile Records is only their third full-length studio album. The bulkof their work is scattered across a clutch of live cassettes and CD-Rs,10" vinyl editions, EPs and compilations. The Inhazer Decline and Five Hundred Boy Pianoshowed what the Bear could do when challenged to make a coherent album- tightly produced and concise, yet accurately reproducing the almostaccidental, improvisatory feel of their live shows. This is not an easytask. Consider other free-folk improv ensembles such as Jackie-OMotherfucker, Sunburned Hand of the Man and No Neck Blues Band; theiralbums tend to be hit-or-miss affairs dominated by unfocused meanderingwith occasional eruptions of senseless cacophony. In stark contrast, The Idea of Woodis a study in controlled chaos. VTB's singular grasp of group dynamicslends itself to the album format; their loose, disparate improvisationsare consistently reigned in and alchemized into instant skewed pop.Comparisons to The Residents, Faust and This Heat spring to mind, butthe Bear form their own unique clearing in the woods in which to shit.Itchy, atonal violin scrapes and insect buzzes flit nervously on "SheWhistles, I Cough Like A Tiger," a clattery improv that happens uponsome genuinely riveting moments of pure outsider weirdness. There isclear vibe of woodland ruralism that pervades The Idea Of Wood,as if it were the product of tree-dwelling hermits communicatingthrough a primitive language of acoustical phonetics. Aaron Moore'shushed vocals whispered over the warm buzzes and banjo scales of"Golden Hotbite" sound eerily similar to Robert Wyatt's muttering hobodelivery. "Woman Who Weighs Out The Wood" immerses the listener in anorganic sound environment where a gentle bed of cathedral chanting andmedieval percussion cushions the processed squawking of crows. It'sJohn Renbourn's Sir John A Lot Of as produced by Yamatsuka Eye."Curly Robot" is this album's beating heart, a 10-minute excursion thatbegins with muted jazz but transforms into a simmering invocation ofthe pastoral gods of Frazer's Golden Bough. Miles ahead of theirfree-folk contemporaries, Volcano The Bear's The Idea Of Wood is teeming with life and coursing with sympathetic magic.samples:
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Among those in the know, Deathpile stands out as one of the finestpower electronics acts in the United States today. This incarnation ofthe project, consisting of founder Jonathan Canady and keyboardistDavid E. Williams, is as menacing and unsettling as ever, setting itssights on the true crime story of Gary Leon Ridgeway, ultimately knownas the Green River Killer. From the rumbling tones of the opener"Genesis," it becomes painfully clear that G.R.is a dark and gruesome journey into the sick heart of a serialmurderer. Not suitable for the weak of heart. the subsequent trackscrank up the intensity and the aggression one hundred fold.. Riding thecrushing waves of hot guttural noise on "Addicted" is the inhumanmonologue of Canady's roaring first-person narrative mixed withsnippets from an actual survivor interview. Taking this type of hideousreality-as-entertainment a step further, "Known Victims" painstakinglychronicles Ridgeway's fourty nine known victims over the course oftwelve and a half minutes, with an ironic and ominous female voicemonotonously reciting vital information as if off a checklist. However,the next track "All You'll Ever Get" claims that there may have been asmany as eighty more murdered women, keeping in with the type ofdepraved gloating Canady has already exhibited throughout thispersonification. Refusing to let up even after capture and arrest,"Kenworth" displays the murderer's defiance and sense ofaccomplishment, augmented by the track's nauseating mantra of "Who'slaughing now?" By the time the curious and vulgar unanswered questionsof "You Will Never Know"arrive, Deathpile's aural and psychologicalassault has left its mark, and the uncertainties reverberate endlesslyin the murky pool of phasing electronics. While the inclusion of alyric booklet may result in some snickering among the jaded types, theoverall quality of these tracks cannot be overlooked. Concise andto-the-point like all power electronics albums should be, G.R.represents a powerful and memorable moment in not only Deathpile'smusical career but also in record labels Force of Nature and Hospital.As the possibility of a final Deathpile performance looms (tentativelyscheduled to take place in March in New York City), this album may verywell be one of the final chapters in the history of this project, anending that is as uneasy to swallow as that of Gary Ridgeway.samples:
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The next addition to in increasing collection of music by thesefantastically driven sonic players (see: Trapist, Radian, Dean Roberts)marries some of the free jazz tendencies with an affinity for retronoisemaking devices. Whereas the Trapist album reviewed last week wouldappeal to a number of Talk Talk fans, this album will probably find awarm place in the heart of many Wolf Eyes fans. While the liner notesdescribe the process of recording with respect to a room's atmosphereand space, my own mental image of the record is quite different. I seea very alien world. A world where the physical laws of nature that wehave grown accustomed to on this planet do not necessarily apply. Newcolors, new landscapes, and a new language, all of which are neitherdescribable nor translatable, but something which has to be experiencedfirst hand to truly appreciated. Recorded in 2001 and 2002, faintlytapped drum kits and timid guitars provide stability and recognitionwhile outbursts of analogue static and high frequency communicationlines blur the electromagnetism in the atmosphere. The planet and itscharacteristics are brilliantly established through "Part 1" and "Part2," while by "Part 3," actual beings are seemingly introduced. Like theutter bizzareness of the film Fantastic Planet,these foreign beings do not take recongnizable forms nor communicate inthe same way humans understand. It's on this track, "Part 3," whereit's almost as if a conversation is taking place between the aliens.Whether or not the quartet is imagining such a world during theirrecording is a different story, but the music created between themembers is very conversational, simply without words as we know them."Part 4" is much like a human contact would be to this new world. Thealien landscapes have been established but the guitar introducesitself, and at first, tries to mimic the electronic hums, drones andsqueals. As the contact between explorers and natives develops, eachtake turns in demonstrating what each species can do: the guitar andbass begin to play more familiar lines and between riffs, seems toalternate with the electronics for attention focus. This continues andescalates to the point of everybody playing together in a audio soup ofsorts, where everybody has let down their guard and has grown afondness for sharing themselves with new found friends. If Die InstabilitŠt der Symmetrieis like a visit to an alien world, the final track, "Part 5" is muchlike the sorrowful departure, as the melodies and tunes form in a veryconcluding manner, with low bass notes in a melancholy motion as thenew found friends must say goodbye, perhaps forever. The ship driftsoff into space as the whirry hums quell in the end. Fade to black. As aviewer to my own interpretation of the album as a fictitiousdocumentary, I hope the explorers and natives will meet up again someother day for another rewarding adventure.samples:
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Okay, already, I take it all back. The EP from this Brighton foursome released late last year didn't light me up, but this record is a delight from first track to last, and in between it has just enough touches of brilliance to guarantee a place in my CD player for weeks or months to come.Too Pure
The single, "On Parade," doesn't even scratch the surface of the planet they've touched down on — even though the album gets its title from the track — and playing the whole record on repeat won't duplicate the atmosphere they breathe, but the downloadable pictures of the topology are a sight to see. This is the real girl rock, with the members firing on all cylinders every note and beat. There is an eighties influence for sure, but Electrelane are deft as well as daft in the way they intertwine their various styles, sometimes all in the same track. A driving bassline and French vocals open the album with a swaying rock number to make the shoegazer set proud. After the punk angst of the single, a soaring choral number takes over the speakers, and I'm immediately more impressed by this band than I ever was before. The hits keep coming, one after another, with the quiet infection of "Birds" and "Oh Somba!" being balanced by plenty of bombast and energy as well as almost strategic experimentation and space-out rock of the album's closing instrumentals. In fact, it's been a long time since I've heard a more calculated and coordinated release, where one can listen to the whole record start to finish and not skip one track. The growth of the band from their earlier releases is astounding, and the record reveals more and more with repeat listens. Where before I wasn't sure about Electrelane, I am now a converted disciple, and I cannot wait for the next sermon. 
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Andrew W.K. and Pink have never sounded better. Britney Spears andJustin Timberlake can be enjoyable! So long as the combination ofapples being gnawed up, pigs snorting, children laughing, andelephant-speak is processed, destroyed, and turned into a headfuck ofan album; then bad music can be made beautiful. Secret Mommy specializein the annihilation of all that sucks (including French educationalrecords) and all that can be used to make the pain of bad music lessexcruciating. The thirteen tracks on Mammal Classare composed of the dead bodies of pop stars, the flucuating anddecaying breath of large mammals, and various instruments that may ormay not be readily indentifiable; but who cares? This sort of thing hasbeen done for a while, now! What could possibly make me want to spendmoney on this record? First of all, "Bottom 40" features aspeak n' spell alongside Britney Spears and the mating calls of catsand turns out to be one hilarious and nerdy ride through funkdom.Second of all, the whole of this record is hilarious! "Shania Twang" isthe best combination possible of cowboy screams, mouth harp, ShaniaTwain samples, pigs, chickens, and off key banjo. "Andrew W. Cake" iscatchy, spontaneous, and makes the best use of Andrew W.K.'s outrageousmusic all while serving as a therapeutic means of getting back at allthose celebrities I've come to hate by using them in ways that wouldmake certain record companies jealous. Besides the funny aspect, a lotof the music here is just plain fun to listen to; it's the bestsynthesis of creativity and accessibility that I've found in a longwhile. What isn't cool about frogs, guitars, and girls being used tocreate rhythms that would send any dancing feet into the stratosphereand would also happen make certain "IDM" provocateurs red in the facefor their academic journey into blandness? Incessant giggling, goodtunes, and a real live imagination is the name of the game; this is themost entertaining time I've had listening to a record in forever. It'sextravagant, lushly melodic, and a real benchmark for other purveyorsof the strange and wonderous to test themselves by. samples:
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It is nearly impossible to discuss Camera Obscura without mentioningtheir fellow countrymen and kindred spirits Belle & Sebastian. Thecover photograph of the former's second album was taken by B&Sfrontman Stuart Murdoch (which alone screams of his own band's retro /twee stylings), in addition, he has produced one of Camera Obscura'searlier tracks. While CO might seem to owe a heavy debt to them, it isinteresting to note that both bands formed in 1996, and although theiroverall aesthetic is similar, the two clearly spring from differentminds. Underachievers Please Try Harderputs the band squarely in the realm of jangle-pop, and primary vocalistTraceyanne Campbell's gentle, breezy, inobtrusive vocals are perfectlycomplimentary. "Suspended from Class," "Teenager," and "Keep it Clean"are all classic examples of the genre with their sunny, simpleconstruction and topped off with twee lyrics. There are, however, a fewunexpected twists in this overall sound. "A Sister's Social Agony" hasechoes of the angelic, dreamy pop your parents might have danced to attheir prom, while "Your Picture" has a suprisingly melancholic tone.The latter may be the result of the Morrissey-esque male vocalist whotakes over for a few of the tracks. It is ultimately Camera Obscura'slyrics which seem to save them from lapsing into a saccharine overload.They are marked more by a pensive reflection on adolescence than bymere nostalgia. And although they aren't breaking any new ground withtheir music, they good a fine job of carrying the torch passed down tothem by their C86 forefathers. samples:
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Ielasi will be best known for his label, Fringes, which has beenbrightening the Italian improv community for the past six years with aslew of successful releases. Starting out as a guitarist, he performedin several bristly, tense ensembles (even playing acoustic at times)before easing into electronic improvisation, a transition thatintroduced a more understated method of expression and produced worksthat, while full of the scrape and bounce that characterize Ielasi'sguitar-playing, contain new attention towards careful sculpting of thesmooth approach and weightless hover of each piece. Such concerns haveexploded with Plans;at only thirty minutes, the piece is a major addition to Ielasi'salready-intimidating catalog and marks a considerable stylistic shiftfor the artist. Not a work of pure improvisation, Plans wasactually created over a sixteen-month interval and is of remarkablydense construction, including everything from layered field recordings,thick accumulations of vinyl surface noise, and a toy museum's worth ofclatter and acoustic tinker, to the surprisingly "present"accompaniment of live drums and Ielasi's narcotic strumming. Not onlydoes Plans travel through a succession of movements, but themusic transitions with rare, effortless stride, captivating in itsjoining of contrastive sounds and playing styles, over passages thatnot only sound perfectly-aligned but maintain an emotional current thatremains close to the surface. This is the power of Plans; itsimmediately palpable, almost nostalgic beauty becomes a catalyst forforgetting just how intact Ielasi leaves his sound sources. Plaintivechordal phrasing lines up neatly next to the most atonal, asymmetricalbits of sturm und drang, all sounds recognizably different, even (itwould seem) in direction, but down to the slightest of details each onefits and seems created with full knowledge of every foreign item thatwill graze its path. Like the artist's recent improvisations, Planslifts dense assemblage to airy heights without the sacrifice of thesounds' material qualities. One particularly illuminating moment comesin the third or fourth "movement" when out of breezy, layered surfacenoise Ielasi introduces a pristine recording of keys fumbling and heavymetal doors being swung open and shut. These harsh, solid soundsimmediately take their place within the airborne whisper of the whole,an explicit representation of Plans' achievement, iron doorsswinging between the clouds. It is not hard to believe that thisrelatively short piece took so long to create. Even the improvisedelements appear intricately placed, often spliced via electronics tofit the multiplicity of layers and the "larger," more demandingcompositional structure. This music demands repeated listening, and itsrewards, I've found, are almost limitless, such that I cannot evenmuster predictable criticism of the disc's short length. Plansis an easy favorite from the new crop of Sedimental releases and leavesme hoping Ielasi's next work will continue in similar stride. samples:
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Though odder and odder this one becomes with each listen, I think I'vefinally found the piece of my heart that loves The Elected. With onefoot planted firmly in the indie psyche-rock weeds and the other in themore low-down country aspects of life, this Los Angeles ensemble playswith genres and styles in an effort to find their niche, but the truthis they needn't try so hard sometimes. Me Firstis a well-paced and structured debut with funny, intelligent lyricsabout classic themes but with clever twists. All the while, there'splenty to swallow whole, as savoring it instead of devouring it won'tmake it any more logical or understood, like the finer moments of theFlaming Lips or the Shins. This is the road trip record for drivingthrough the dusty south and southwest, with pure Americana and shortstories to keep the feet firmly on the ground, though the mind is freeto roam. Blake Sennett, principal songwriter and guitarist in RiloKiley, is also the mastermind behind The Elected, and certainsimilarities can be found in the two bands. Sennett seems to have someya-yas to get out about relationships, though, and that's where thesesongs have their strengths. Whether it's failed romantic relationshipsor hiding the secrets from family and friends, the subjects of thesongs are lived-in, and that's the the real appeal of The Elected'sdebut. In the age of vapid and vacant pop stars who steal the beats andbasslines of classic songs to try and duplicate the stardom or revive agenre bigger than them, it's nice to hear a band that can just do theirthing and sound like they've been around forever making music with thebands of the age. This is record I will be listening to all year, I canjust feel it.samples:
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