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Sound are the duo of Eric Lumbleau (of Vas Deferens Organization) and Joel Zoch. Their first release for Beta-Lactam Ring is the Screaming Zenith double LP beautifully packaged in a deluxe gatefold sleeve adorned with grotesquely distorted pornography. This is the first clue of the twisted sonic perversions waiting inside. The second clue is the dadaist song titles, full of goofy alliteration and lysergic wordplay. Sound's sound is a quivering gelatin of sinister whimsy: Aphex-style beat sequencing rubs shoulders with Numan-esque keyboards, fuzzy Western guitars, creepy voice loops and sudden, terrifying plunges into ring-modulated, echo-chambered oblivion.Beta-Lactam Ring
"Resplendant [sic] Vistas of Viscous Treacle" creates a burbling horror-movie landscape of dilapidated video arcades filled with ominous cocaine cowboys. It's a weird trip that takes in Ennio Morricone, Black Light District-era Coil and Fields of the Nephilim and comes out the other side sounding like, well, Sound. The production is influenced by the sonic inventions of Steven Stapleton, but Sound have an abiding fetish for early-80's darkwave and goth, so they are equally as adept at invoking Tubeway Army as they are Nurse With Wound. "The Tickly Pistons" utilizes dark, Wagnerian strings, reminiscent of Death in June's Nazi sound-loops on Take Care and Control. A wacky chorus of squiggles, squeaks and squishes coelesce into a Mouse on Mars-ish breakbeat on "The Taffy Rapids", even as the song's tempo is alternately sped-up, stretched, delayed and perverted beyond all recognition. These songs gradually build up layers of noise and reverberations until they become giant, cacophonous "walls of sound" that are as indebted to Phil Spector the producer as they are to Phil Spector the gun-toting killer. "Cock-eyed Hydra" replicates Thighpaulsandra's synthesizer squalls from Coil's "Amethyst Deceivers", adding a cheesy goth-prog majesty all its own. Layers of Wendy Carlos/Gary Numan moogs take prominence in "Amorphous Procession Through Paralyzed Gelatin", sounding not unlike Switched On Bach being played at the bottom of a peat bog. "Gambol and Caper Through Discombobulation's Lustre" is a nostalgic vintage synth concoction that borders on the territory occupied by Boards of Canada. However, Sound's nostalgia is more Goblin and OMD than Charles and Ray Eames. Parts of Screaming Zenith plunge the listener into murky frog-filled swamps and dark rainforests with pygmies shooting psychedelic darts, not entirely dissimilar from the super-hallucinogenic astral byways previously mapped by The Orb. There are hidden perils and contagious diseases lurking in the arteries of Sound. "Dulcet Flux" is a case in point, a massive beat splashing into vibrating pools of radioactive goo that realign into fanciful melodies as layers of caustic sitar sizzle the frontal lobe. "Corrosions of Ambrosial Veneer" meets Venetian Snares for a tangent into dark drum n' bass that is inexplicably matched with carnival calliopes and animal sound-effects. The title track finishes the record with a tribal trance jam a la Boredoms, complete with mindbending hyperspeed guitars. Sound's syrupy quagmire of goopy aural pleasures is just what the witch doctor ordered. If my mouth had not grown over with ectoplasmic jelly, I would be yelling "Oo, ee, oo, ah, ah, ting, tang, walla walla bing bang!"
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The essence of 'doing it yourself' is to avoid any hints of compromise, watering down, or loss of vision so that you may release a work that is totally and completely pure. It's a personal expression that is something to be proud of. Unfortunately, it seems that along the road to self-actualization some people eschew both quality control and thoughtful planning.
East River Pipe consists entirely of F.M. Cornog and his Tascam 388 mini-studio, so it is safe to say that Garbageheads on Endless Stun, his most recent album is entirely his. I'm somewhat confounded by this release, however. It appears as though this singer/songwriter has very little to say over the course of forty four minutes, mindlessly linking phrases and songs together with no sense of concept or cohesion. Mind you, it's not done in a clever way, it's done in a way that resembles a late night songbreaking session where the singer is just making words up to fill in space before they write the real lyrics. "Arrival Pad #19" drops a fuzzy clap beat along with a stuttering bass line that sets the track off on the right foot. Cornog further deepens the song with synthesized string arrangements that carry his singing through the first verse. Things lose their way at the song's midpoint however, as he begins to speak his lyrics in the style of an airport terminal public announcement, and then letting the song just drift off along with any number of promising ideas that presented themselves in the piece's brief duration. The song certainly could have stood to have a few more verses, and the tossed off feel that this abandonment cements into the album rears it's head again and again. "Streetwalkin' Jean" is a banal ode to a nineteen year old prostitute that takes a weak stab at poignancy in its final verse of painfully purple prose. It appears as if Cornog is looking to pen a song meant to draw some sort of feelings out but is either unwilling or unable to delve into anything more than perfunctory word association. "No self esteem / but eyes that still gleam." We'll just take your word for it. Though the album suffers from a perpetually slow motion tempo, much of the music that backs the needless words comes across very well. There are enough pretty melodies and synth chorales to make it moderately interesting, but it would be nice to have seen them expanded, developed, explored, and not just thrown out on a whim and left to whither under the weight of Cornog's lyrical filler. For what should in theory be an individual showing off their own thoughts and musical desires, Garbageheads on Endless Stun feels like a desultory mess.
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Jim Sutherland has quite a background as a composer of television andfilm scores. Crackletone is his somewhat minimalist, somewhat spooky,and somehow intriguing vehicle for composing drone-based pieces. I saythat the pieces are drone-based, but that really isn't fair: there area lot of different sounds used throughout the rather awkwardly namedalbum: what might be the sounds of a heart beating are combined withnauseating organ spills, a little too cleanly produced digital bleepsand bloops, and truly effective moans bubbling over with drifting windsand interstellar interference. The result of combining haunting andintriguing sounds with overused and bland ones makes for a see-sawexperience. At times the sounds really produce a sense of horror butthen they are interrupted by sounds that remind me that the horrificstuff can't possibly be real. In other words, what seems gritty, dirty,and realis revealed as fake because of sci-fi noises that remind me of blastersounds used in so many video games. The first track, "Crackletone," isa thirty-minute composition that manages to stay entrancing andbelievable despite some of the rather silly sounds used in it. "FondlePark" is nearly unlistenable. In fact, I only listened to it once andthat was only because I felt I had to so that I could be honest aboutthe album as a whole. "Journey to the Sea of Sparks" is probably thebest piece on the album, where a majority of those digital and cleansounds have been eliminated in favor of a rather stunning combinationof distorted grandfather clocks, evil hissing, and a truly strangemelody that appears half-way through and then disappears into the voidof space the rest of the sounds create. Maybe it's the sound of a stormas heard by someone on LSD or maybe its just the rumblings of aspace-monsters hungry stomach. In either case, it's entertaining. Ican't wholly reccomend this release, but I can't deny that I enjoy agood portion of it when I give it a spin; it's just that I don't oftenfeel compelled to listen to it.
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Does overproduced Weezer-lite rock-pop with Notwist-by-numbers laptopbeats and effete vocals sound like the music you've been waiting tohear all your life? Well, the wait is over now that Certainly, Sir havegraced the world with the hipster atrocity of their new album Mugic.The title of the album seems to have been inspired by a night ofreckless Pabst Blue Ribbon consumption and pot smoking: "Hey dude,let's name the record Mugic, because it's like 'music' plus'magic.' That would be so deck!" It's this same kind of misguidedimpulse that led the band to write songs with excruciatingly sophomorictitles like "My Bad" and "The Vacant Lot of My Heart." I know virtuallynothing about the history of this Boston group, and I'd prefer to keepit that way. I'm more than willing to bet that the members ofCertainly, Sir have been spotted at various nightspots wearing fadedjeans, nylon trucker caps and studded belts. Certainly, Sir's sub-parsound has clearly been influenced by the laptop-pop of groups likePostal Service and Yoshimi-era Flaming Lips. Unfortunately, they seem unable even to properly plagiarize. The 11 power-pop songs on Mugic are banal to the point of negation, making even the tepid Give Upalbum by Postal Service seem like a masterpiece in comparison. Not onlydoes the band's music fail to contribute anything new or unique to themedium, it actually seems to microscopically detract from the entirehistory of music merely by its existence. Records as dull and unlikableas Mugic seem to indicate that it has officially become far tooeasy to record and release an album these days. The opening track"Sweet Time" sets up the dreadful sound with its shiny guitar,cookie-cutter Powerbook beats and "Don't You Want Me"-style male/femaletradeoff vocals. However, this is miles away from the pop mastery ofthe Human League, with embarrassingly overwrought lyrics like "Turn offthe TV/Come out from in the open/Get beneath a tree/Safe and warm,that's me." Later, on "Hello," the vocalist assures "No sweat, girl, Ichecked, we're still alive." These lyrics would be better suited tosome high-profile emo-punk band with a name like Sunny Day Monument orBurning Coalition (thanks to The Emo Band Name Generator). On "My Bad,"the lead singer makes a heartrending confession: "When I said my heartwould crack - I take it back/Apparently it won't/My Bad." Thesetrust-fund babies are hoping that anorexic girls wearing headbands,ironic t-shirts and unnecessary eyeglasses will find their brand ofsoul-baring irresistible enough to warrant the occasional hand-jobbackstage. Certainly, Sir should sign to a major label quickly, as Idon't think the current MTV generation can go another second withoutthe aggressively mediocre, homogenized crapfest offered by Mugic.
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Upon first listen, The Civil War sounds completely unlike anything I've ever heard from Matmos. Initially, it is quite a struggle to place this new album in context with their previous work, which is characterized by minutely detailed electronica full of samples constructed from non-musical objects and field recordings. In stark contrast, most of the tracks on The Civil War are non-conceptual, traditionally structured songs with easily digestible melodies and chord progressions. Many of the medieval, folk and symphonic instruments on this album reach the listener untouched, without the usual precise surgical edits and digital processing that Drew Daniel and MC Schmidt have built their career on. This will be quite a shock for those who have become acquainted with Matmos through albums such as Quasi Objects and A Chance to Cut is a Chance to Cure. Even The West, though it was purportedly an exploration of country and blues, still shared the same fascination with sample-derived audio minutiae. So, it's fair to say that The Civil War is quite a departure. Luckily, the gamble pays off.
I believe The Civil War is a singularly original record, effortlessly merging the medievalist whimsy of late-60's British folk revivalism with the collective unconscious of America's folk music past, all glued together with Matmos' incredible ear for sonic detail. On The Civil War, Matmos dares to allow simple melodies and crisply reproduced instruments to assert themselves as the primary element of the music. For the most part, Matmos have masked any obvious laptop editing and sequencing, preferring instead to let the digital processing underscore and accentuate the songs, rather than deconstruct them. Drew Daniel and MC Schmidt have spoken about the influence of The Incredible String Band on the new album. With classic albums like The Hangman's Beautiful Daughter and Wee Tam, the Incredibles created a new musical lexicon with their unorthodox, free-form combinations of medieval, Celtic, American, Oriental and Indian folk traditions, which were blended with amazing fluidity and imbued with a pastoral, psychedelic mysticism all its own. With The Civil War, Matmos are creating an ISB-like amalgam for the post-techno generation.
"Regicide" opens the album, a lovely tribute to "Chinese White," the opening track to the Incredible's 5000 Spirits or the Layers of the Onion - a hurdy-gurdy drone highlighted by a stately recorder melody and gently fingerpicked acoustic guitar. "Zealous Order of Candied Knights" is a rollicking Rennaisance symphony complete with horn fanfare, courtly drumming and some curiously Appalachain fiddle playing courtesy of guest Blevin Blectum. Throughout the album, instrumental tropes of the American Civil War are resurrected, along with the incongruous drone of synthesizers, including a vintage Buchla expertly played by Keith Fullerton Whitman AKA Hrvatski. These compositions have a free-form looseness, gradually finding themselves within the chaos, morphing into bright, patriotic concertos for piano and electric guitar, or gentle acoustic tributes to John Fahey or John Renbourn. The disarming "YTTE" utilizes samples from a fireworks display, expanding into a shimmering symphony of chimes, autoharp and guitar. "For the Trees" is the repeated musical motif of the album, a sweet, loping melody redolent of a breezy Fourth of July picnic. "The Stars and Stripes Forever" is an odd pastiche on John Philip Souza's patriotic marching-band classic, mixing a sampled instrumental rendition with throbbing beats. "Pelt and Holler" is constructed entirely from samples derived from a rabbit pelt, and as such is the only time Matmos engage their well-known propensity for constructing music from microcosmic sound events. After this brief tangent, Matmos tune into the British folk influence again, this time on "The Struggle Against Unreality Begins," where a majestic steel guitar melody is subtly intensified by sampled sewer pipe, blood and glass. Matmos' unexpected cultural cross-germination of folk traditions has yielded an album of exquisite beauty, an album that on repeated listens becomes more complex even as it affirms its simplicity. The Civil War is simply amazing.
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Guapo have a reputation as instrumental prog artists that evoke avariety of influences to produce ambient structures that are known tocross the ten-minute mark. Cerberus Shoal are no stranger to longpieces with myriad styles themselves, and their collaborations of latewith a wide array of artists have done more for their palette than canbe measured. For the third in the Shoal's split-EP series, both ofthese left-of-center bands contribute tracks over sixteen minutes andthen a third of the same stature is created from their tracks. It isthe longest, most freeform and ethereal release in the series, and inplaces the most impressive and frightening. Guapo's solo piece, "IdiosKosmos," is a wall of sound dirge of guitar, cello, and electronicsthat swells and expands like a lung: taking in air and using it, thenpausing before taking in the air again. There seems to be nothing thatwill distinguish it for the first ten minutes, and the quality changesto a crashing plane's whine. Then, the lung springs a leak, and theinner processes and air spill out in a whirlwind of poundingpercussion. It takes a while to get where it's going, but the track isultimately fulfilling. Ceberus Shoal's track, "A Man Who Loved Holes,"is a chilling piece with no rhythm or structure, with scatteredpassages of singing and a ghostly voice that passses from one speakerto the next and back again. Prose and poetry are recited, eerie soundeffects escape and intertwine, and everything maintains an evil calm.The Shoal have approached this kind of strangeness in the past, butnever this extended madness with little music to speak of. It'sconfusing while fascinating, and worth a listen even though it isclearly not for everyone. The third track, billed as Guaperus Shoalo,is an appropriate puree of both tracks, with ambient and eerie vocalsconverging before mighty percussion and electronic whines. It is themost collaborative song on these EPs so far, and eclipses both previoustracks in its atmosphere and bizarre melody. As they continue with thisseries, the material from both artists gets stranger and stranger, butalso more collaborative, as each artist seems to feed more off of whatthe Shoal is putting out and vice versa.
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- Guapo - Idios Kosmos
- Cerberus Shoal - A Man Who Loved Holes
- Guaperus Shoalo - Kdios Iiosmos, He Loved Two Holes
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Marco Haas, founder of Berlin's Shitkatapult label and the man behindT. Raumschmiere, has become somewhat notorious for his uniquelycrowd-pleasing, fist-pumping techno. On last year's The Great Rock n' Roll Swindle,Haas delivered a record filled with raucous, repetitive party jams thatdared to bring some sorely-needed fun into the German minimal scene.Haas' merging of gutter punk and arena rock to the comparativelyacademic world of microhouse and minimal techno was a revelation, andan idea whose time had come. Not since The KLF unleashed The White Rooma decade ago have I heard such beautifully simple, slam-dancing,stadium rave beats. T. Raumschmiere's new album certainly does notdisappoint, meeting and exceeding the bar set by his previous work. Radio Blackoutis a willfully dumb, loud and aggressive album full of rave-up anthems,like the IDM version of Andrew WK, or better yet, a Kompakt Recordstribute to Gary Glitter's "Rock N' Roll Part 2." T. Raumschmiere wantsus to rock out hard, and he's channeling the memories of all thoseNitzer Ebb and Front 242 records he listened to as a teenager, rollingout 11 big, dirty punk-electro jams. Just try not to jump up and tearthe roof off when the concussive beats and big chunky power chords of"Monstertruckdriver" hit you across the face. Miss Kittin, theEurotrash club girl whose unpleasant monotone has graced so manyelectroclash records, provides vocals for the album's first big 12"single "The Game is Not Over." It's unrelentingly awesome, weirdlyreminiscent of 70's-era glam-rock anthems like Slade's "Cum On Feel theNoize." Actually, glam rock is a very illustrative comparison, as MarcoHaas, like T. Rex and Kiss before him, prefers to concentrate onsurface concerns, rather than depth or encoded meaning. Everything youneed to experience in T. Raumschmiere's rave-rock is floating right ontop. Inside is just an empty husk, devoid of meaning other than thatinitial aesthetic thrill. Depending on the listeners sensibilities,this is either a critique or a recommendation. Ultimately, the vapiditythat makes T. Raumschmiere's brash techno so appealing also gives riseto that cold, empty feeling that sets in after a few listens.
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I had a very tough time making it all the way through "Vigil." For thisalbum, Ambarchi and Martin Ng (a guitarist and a turntablist,respectively, though no instruments are listed here) let some feedbackdrift aimlessly for an hour across four tracks, each track onlyslightly more eventful than the last. The irritatingly piercing,mid-volume feedback that comprises most of the sonic conent here ispunctuated every so often by a bell-like chime, which seems to decayinto more feedback... but feedback is such a transparent anduncompelling sound that it resists pure listening. Events are obviouslynot the point here, but even non-event with substanceless sound hasbeen done more effectively already (Otomo Yoshihide and Sachiko M'sFilament live album leaps to mind, as does Sukora's "Tower") and it's apoint that doesn't demand being made more than once. I don't feelchallenged by "Vigil"s icy restraint, just bored. If there is anythingsubtle happening with the composition here (I don't believe that thereis), it went right past me as I struggled past the ambivalence of thesounds used. The only (relatively) interesting section is the fourthand final track, in which the bass swells a bit. I can't recommendthat, though, since it's such a meager reward after the hour that'spassed. I found "Vigil" to be merely tedious, a real let-down from twoguys whose other work I so look forward to hearing. There are some TinaFrank videos on this disc as well, comprised of some shapes and linesmoving around... also, not terribly compelling.
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The liner notes make a convincing argument that this record is notautobiographical or escapist or even existential; it is "politicalwithout the pulpit." I'm not entirely sure what that means but what Ido know is that in the twenty-eight or so minutes that this record runsI am completely held in its hands and give away all my thought to it.It's simple in a haunting way. Alexander McGregor plays nearly everyinstrument so that they don't just produce notes and melodies: theybecome an extension of his voice and his lyrics whether they be muddledor quite clear. There is a sense of awe and wonder in each song that isestablished by way of contrasting melodies, basic production, and thecombination of Latin sounds with more familiar rock n' roll feelings.It's a hard aura to pin down. It's surreal and at the same timesomething that isn't so alien that it becomes void or nullified by itsstrangeness. But enough of that: the music is fun, too. The openingsounds of "Calibrate" are formless and unidentifiable but somehow serveas the perfect introduction to the wavering, watery, and druggy "NoNine." Drinking a very fine wine and watching a troupe of dancers seemsan entirely appropriate activity to accompany this song and at the sametime it has an incredibly romantic horn solo that brings to mindthoughts of making love. "Nothing Wrong" is a simple acoustic guitarpiece that somehow captures an ideal of innocence through its lyricsand sighing vocals. The center lyrics, "I don't know about you lil'girl / But there's nothing wrong / Nothing wrong with me," are of akind that manage to be uplifting, resentful, and hurt at the same time;it's a truly human song that I've become more and more fond of as I'velistened to it. The closer, "Making Movies," combines all of theelements of the previous songs and adds overdubs on the vocals, flute,and what I think is a cello to the mix. It's a dramatic and lilting endand serves as the perfect way to end a night. Part of the beauty ofthis album is that it can be played anywhere and at anytime and becompletely entrancing.
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The Ebb and Flow sound like the setup to a great joke: an Iranian, aRussian, and a New Yorker start a band, drawing on their individualinfluences to make a new sound. The joke's on anyone who takes thatdescription at face value and expects to hear a trainwreck, though.This San Francisco band employs a clever mix of styles, rhythms, andinstruments, forming an interesting melange that never quits or getssloppy. The Ebb and Flow use guitar, drums, and a variety ofsynthesizers and organs as a base coat, then use whatever methodsnecessary to take the song to the next level. As it stands, theirs is aunique jazzed up prog synth pop sound, with two vocalists that bringout different strengths as the songs progress; and Murmursis a solid piece of work from a band destined for excellence. Guestmusicians provide everything from touches of flavor to necessarycomponents: the band is billed as a trio, with guest bassist DmitryIshenko, but I think they should just invite him to join, as I can'timagine these songs without his confident low end. "4 Track Mind -Dusty Crickets" starts with arpeggio guitar and solid rhythm, then addstrumpet and keys, building towards release. Then, it all dissolves inelectronic chirps, only to be reborn as a power pop shuffle. SaraCassetti and Roshy Kheshti have smooth voices like icing on this cake,and they play their instruments with just as much passion and heart."Me and My Twins" features guitarist Sam Tsitrin's turn on vocals, anda more indie rock sound to boot, just as easy to swallow as the firsttrack. It threatens to fade out, but then comes right back in again forone last taste. "Routes and Roots" and "Throop" are the high energyrocking out double shot, with "Throop" approaching boogie territory asthe trumpets blare. Then "Contra Verse" puts all the pieces togetherwith male/female vocals and a blend of all sounds previous. Too shortbut solid, Murmurs shows a band in their prime that deserves a real shot at the prize. Hopefully they won't have to wait too long.
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For his latest release for the Chocolate Industries label, 24-year oldChicago hip hopper/multi-instrumentalist Caural (aka Zachary Mastoon)presents Blurred July, an EP of three new, original tracks plus a remix track from his full length Stars on My Ceilingdisc, courtesy of Savath + Savalas (aka Scott Herren). The EP unfurlswith the gradually headnodding "Goodbye May Kasahara" - a mixture ofsubtle vibraphone flourishes, brushed snare rolls with sloshy hi-hatswells, keyboard and tight beats (complete with handclaps) that pulseto rhythmic bass end, conveying a positive mood. The soulful sounds ofthe Fender Rhodes spin their way through "Blacktops and Plains,"featuring lines and rhymes from label mate and fellow city dweller, MCDiverse, over crunchy, distorted beats. The evocative patter ofrainstick opening "Visuals" falls into a soundscape of subtleelectronic waves and cymbal swells which bring in compressed beats,peppered with live drums and keyboard progressions which are heavy onthe reverb. A relaxed track of shimmering keyboard and upright basslines, Scott Herren subtly adds his signatory syncopation on the laidback groove of "Sipping Snake Blood Wine (Savath + Savalas remix)."With summer now left behind, the Blurred July EP is a great selection of compositional beats and instrumental sounds to conjure up the warmth of those fleeting days.
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- Goodbye May Kasahara
- Blacktops and Plains (featuring Diverse)
- Sipping Snake Blood Wine (Savath + Savalas remix)
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