Psychadelic post-rock from Canada is alternately sleepy and heavy.
 |
|
6279 Hits
Gorilla Masking Tape is a beautiful, haunting record.
3783 Hits
Wonder
I'm getting quite sick of hearing this familiar thread in music: somonedecides to write a melody, throw some neat effects over it, add asplattering of acoustic instrumentation in and call it a great songthat borders on the experimental. The truth is, music like Enik's isbecoming more and more predictable all of the time. There's nothingcourageous or creative about changing the sonic template of rock musicby adding cabaret elements and electronic palettes of noise. When theshit hits the fan, the only thing that can save a record like this oneis good song-writing. Enik has an obviously enormous range ofinfluences that cover a spectrum from classical and jazz music to thestuttering and sick beat-heavy compositions of electronic music. Theproblem with this six-song EP is that it never leaves its influencesbehind and strikes new ground; it never does anything but try toemulate something far too familiar. This fact leaves Without a Barkfeeling flashy and without substance. "Chaos the Drug" is a goodexample of how bad metaphor, melodrama, and overproduction can kill asong. Forget that Enik is actively trying to combine a near-metal vocaltendency with dramatic washes of erratic percussion, typically brokenkeyboards, and something like a bass guitar stuck on two or three notesand way overplayed; the whole of this song sounds half-assed. It's asthough the vocals were meant to be deep and meaningful, but they comeaway feeling as badly performed as some of Alec Baldwin's earlyattempts at being an actor. There's passion in Enik's voice, but hisdelivery doesn't exactly match up with the music. "Tired Heads" suffersfrom a similar problem. There's a bare piano part being rolled alongeasily undernearth a toy drum machine sound while Enik croons away likehe's talking to a child that's asleep in its baby carriage anyways. Ifeel like I'm being lied to when I listen to this. Quite frankly Idon't believe in whatever whimsical notions Enik might have and that'senough to spoil these 24 minutes of music for me. Without a Barkis most predictable in its attitude and arrangement: Enik wants to bedifferent, so he employs a wide array of musical styles to hide thefact that he doesn't really have any ideas that haven't been used upbefore. Predictable in its diversity, painfully derivative, and lackingaltogether in some appeal that exists beyond its influences, Enik haswritten an album that will appeal to a lot of people stuck on badradio, bad television, and bad soundtracks, but there's nothing aboutit that makes it stand out from the sea of releases already doing thesame damn thing.
I'm getting quite sick of hearing this familiar thread in music: somonedecides to write a melody, throw some neat effects over it, add asplattering of acoustic instrumentation in and call it a great songthat borders on the experimental. The truth is, music like Enik's isbecoming more and more predictable all of the time. There's nothingcourageous or creative about changing the sonic template of rock musicby adding cabaret elements and electronic palettes of noise. When theshit hits the fan, the only thing that can save a record like this oneis good song-writing. Enik has an obviously enormous range ofinfluences that cover a spectrum from classical and jazz music to thestuttering and sick beat-heavy compositions of electronic music. Theproblem with this six-song EP is that it never leaves its influencesbehind and strikes new ground; it never does anything but try toemulate something far too familiar. This fact leaves Without a Barkfeeling flashy and without substance. "Chaos the Drug" is a goodexample of how bad metaphor, melodrama, and overproduction can kill asong. Forget that Enik is actively trying to combine a near-metal vocaltendency with dramatic washes of erratic percussion, typically brokenkeyboards, and something like a bass guitar stuck on two or three notesand way overplayed; the whole of this song sounds half-assed. It's asthough the vocals were meant to be deep and meaningful, but they comeaway feeling as badly performed as some of Alec Baldwin's earlyattempts at being an actor. There's passion in Enik's voice, but hisdelivery doesn't exactly match up with the music. "Tired Heads" suffersfrom a similar problem. There's a bare piano part being rolled alongeasily undernearth a toy drum machine sound while Enik croons away likehe's talking to a child that's asleep in its baby carriage anyways. Ifeel like I'm being lied to when I listen to this. Quite frankly Idon't believe in whatever whimsical notions Enik might have and that'senough to spoil these 24 minutes of music for me. Without a Barkis most predictable in its attitude and arrangement: Enik wants to bedifferent, so he employs a wide array of musical styles to hide thefact that he doesn't really have any ideas that haven't been used upbefore. Predictable in its diversity, painfully derivative, and lackingaltogether in some appeal that exists beyond its influences, Enik haswritten an album that will appeal to a lot of people stuck on badradio, bad television, and bad soundtracks, but there's nothing aboutit that makes it stand out from the sea of releases already doing thesame damn thing.
3049 Hits
Hydra Head
If they are to be believed, Thad Calabrese and Justin Foley met at acamp for wayward young men that was meant to treat feelings ofhomosexuality and to eliminate them. Rather than use this as the basisfor so much melodrama and angst to crash their prom a la Saved!,the two went on to forge anthems of fury and naked aggression, set tothe punishing sounds of a full volume drum machine that seems to borrowall its sounds from old Slayer and Heathen records. The two have analmost easy connection, playing bass and guitar over the snare smacksand cymbal crashes in a kind of symbiotic synchronization. Then, Foleysings, or tries to sing, and his voice cracks trying to sustainit all, singing about unfulfilled prophecies, disease, and otherunrelated and thrown together nonsense. It surely is not meant to be asfunny as it is, and there is a genuine passion to the inflections overthe fairly standard guitar buzz and bass-through-weak-amp tomfoolery.Unfortunately, the band lacks direction, letting their epics sprawl outpast a nine-minute mark that they should never see, and more phrasesthat don't connect. The songs use the exact same drum, guitar, and basssounds, like they were never moved or experimented with during therecording of this EP, and share the exact same tempo. Foley, for allthe passion he exudes, merely comes off like Blaise Bailey Finneganwith less taste in plagarizing. There's spaces where there shouldn'tbe, and long passages of the same notes played for far too long, likethe duo are searching for an idea while they play. They find a few, butnone of them are really noteworthy or even all that good. Maybe it'sthe age of the recordings and they've advanced a lot, but I doubt it.They kind of know their limitations, or so the lyrics seem to suggest,as Foley howls "I knew this ride would never last" and other fatalistremarks. They're probably right if they continue on like this, asthere's very little in these songs to latch on to for more than a fewseconds.
If they are to be believed, Thad Calabrese and Justin Foley met at acamp for wayward young men that was meant to treat feelings ofhomosexuality and to eliminate them. Rather than use this as the basisfor so much melodrama and angst to crash their prom a la Saved!,the two went on to forge anthems of fury and naked aggression, set tothe punishing sounds of a full volume drum machine that seems to borrowall its sounds from old Slayer and Heathen records. The two have analmost easy connection, playing bass and guitar over the snare smacksand cymbal crashes in a kind of symbiotic synchronization. Then, Foleysings, or tries to sing, and his voice cracks trying to sustainit all, singing about unfulfilled prophecies, disease, and otherunrelated and thrown together nonsense. It surely is not meant to be asfunny as it is, and there is a genuine passion to the inflections overthe fairly standard guitar buzz and bass-through-weak-amp tomfoolery.Unfortunately, the band lacks direction, letting their epics sprawl outpast a nine-minute mark that they should never see, and more phrasesthat don't connect. The songs use the exact same drum, guitar, and basssounds, like they were never moved or experimented with during therecording of this EP, and share the exact same tempo. Foley, for allthe passion he exudes, merely comes off like Blaise Bailey Finneganwith less taste in plagarizing. There's spaces where there shouldn'tbe, and long passages of the same notes played for far too long, likethe duo are searching for an idea while they play. They find a few, butnone of them are really noteworthy or even all that good. Maybe it'sthe age of the recordings and they've advanced a lot, but I doubt it.They kind of know their limitations, or so the lyrics seem to suggest,as Foley howls "I knew this ride would never last" and other fatalistremarks. They're probably right if they continue on like this, asthere's very little in these songs to latch on to for more than a fewseconds.samples:
3567 Hits
Kranky
Paul Dickow is submerged in the hazy underworld of drugs, secrets, andfailing memory. His music is a borderline between narcotic dreams andreality; there is no certainty in the melodies and beats that flowsteadily through these seven songs, but rhythms do emerge and gasprecognizably without fail. Strategy's newest release is march towardscontradiction. There are dub rhythms bobbing back and forth throughoutthe watery synthesizers and echoed noises, but they never seem to headanywhere. All the while, without giving notice, they morph and changewith the highlighted melodies and uneasy motions of the music. Dickowhas played with Fontanelle, Nudge, and Emergency, as well as remixedmaterial for Stars As Eyes, and this material sounds at as uniquecompared to the rest of his work. Despite the title of the CD, there'snothing Max Roach or Bill Bruford about these songs; they're all asteady flow of not quite intelligible words, sounds, and heartbeats. Attimes, like on "Drumsolo's Delight," the drums play a more noticablerole than on the rest of the record, but they always seem like they'rebeing choked underneath a mass of effects and late nighthallucinations. Nothing moves quickly enough to escape my ears, butnone of the sounds rest on a firm ground; this gives Drumsolo's Delightan uneasy delivery. At times the slow motion eruptions and naturaldevelopments are appealing and at other times they are painfully slowand do nothing for me. Sleeping music this might be, something to beplayed in the background, but it rarely moves or evolves in a way thatmakes active listening a joy. There are exceptions to this rule,however, as other parts of the record are compelling in their aquaticsway. "The Jazzy Drumsolo" is an excellent merging or steady rhythms,repetitive melodies, and noise-driven tangents. As various sounds seepout of the background, the rhythms and melodies shift and becomesomething entirely different. When some element of the track wears itswelcome away, another piece of the picture slides into view andcontinues to carry the music away in a floating drift. I'm not usuallya fan of something this direct. All the sounds are quite obviouslylaptop or keyboard-oriented and there's little to no variation in thedirection of any of the songs (they all sound like perpetual chillmotors made for slowing the heart down), but Drumsolo's Delightkept me strangely interested. I never moved to change the songshalf-way through their duration and I never once stopped and thought tomyself, "I hope this ends soon." I could deal with a bit more diversityor at least some surprising changes because the nature of this recordlends itself towards the obvious and simple. The whole album soundslike the color blue and that color never really changes from track totrack. Everything marches steadily on into infinity, until Dickowdecides to shut everything down. This record has its good moments, butthere's nothing fantastic about it that makes me want to listen to itagain and again. -
Paul Dickow is submerged in the hazy underworld of drugs, secrets, andfailing memory. His music is a borderline between narcotic dreams andreality; there is no certainty in the melodies and beats that flowsteadily through these seven songs, but rhythms do emerge and gasprecognizably without fail. Strategy's newest release is march towardscontradiction. There are dub rhythms bobbing back and forth throughoutthe watery synthesizers and echoed noises, but they never seem to headanywhere. All the while, without giving notice, they morph and changewith the highlighted melodies and uneasy motions of the music. Dickowhas played with Fontanelle, Nudge, and Emergency, as well as remixedmaterial for Stars As Eyes, and this material sounds at as uniquecompared to the rest of his work. Despite the title of the CD, there'snothing Max Roach or Bill Bruford about these songs; they're all asteady flow of not quite intelligible words, sounds, and heartbeats. Attimes, like on "Drumsolo's Delight," the drums play a more noticablerole than on the rest of the record, but they always seem like they'rebeing choked underneath a mass of effects and late nighthallucinations. Nothing moves quickly enough to escape my ears, butnone of the sounds rest on a firm ground; this gives Drumsolo's Delightan uneasy delivery. At times the slow motion eruptions and naturaldevelopments are appealing and at other times they are painfully slowand do nothing for me. Sleeping music this might be, something to beplayed in the background, but it rarely moves or evolves in a way thatmakes active listening a joy. There are exceptions to this rule,however, as other parts of the record are compelling in their aquaticsway. "The Jazzy Drumsolo" is an excellent merging or steady rhythms,repetitive melodies, and noise-driven tangents. As various sounds seepout of the background, the rhythms and melodies shift and becomesomething entirely different. When some element of the track wears itswelcome away, another piece of the picture slides into view andcontinues to carry the music away in a floating drift. I'm not usuallya fan of something this direct. All the sounds are quite obviouslylaptop or keyboard-oriented and there's little to no variation in thedirection of any of the songs (they all sound like perpetual chillmotors made for slowing the heart down), but Drumsolo's Delightkept me strangely interested. I never moved to change the songshalf-way through their duration and I never once stopped and thought tomyself, "I hope this ends soon." I could deal with a bit more diversityor at least some surprising changes because the nature of this recordlends itself towards the obvious and simple. The whole album soundslike the color blue and that color never really changes from track totrack. Everything marches steadily on into infinity, until Dickowdecides to shut everything down. This record has its good moments, butthere's nothing fantastic about it that makes me want to listen to itagain and again. -
3552 Hits
Leaf
This gap-filler disc from Murcof is Leaf's way to buy time and keep thename fresh before the release of the next proper Murcof album, but it'sno less inspired, all the same. Beginning with a 10 minute epic of filmscore orchestration and minimal techno thump, Utopiaestablishes early on that Murcof is dealing with a larger scope and amore developed tone than many of his contemporaries. Jan Jelenik'sclicky, jazz-spliced remix of "Maiz" is the perfect groovy counterpointto the album's creeping, moody opener. Sutekh gives "Memoria" a tweakedtechno workout with plenty of glitches and squiggles that pop out overthe monotone bassline and piano chord. "Utano" blends dark cello andbrass timbres with twinkling electronic percussion for a while, thendrops out the techno trappings for a more experimental approach to thecinematic loops and swells that other artists tend to leave in thebackground. It's refreshing for someone working with beats not to makethe beats the primary focus for a change, and Murcof is able to bendand arrange sounds with a composer's rather than dj's ear. Theremaining remixes are mostly placid and unremarkable; not an affront tothe source material but certainly not as clever as they'd like to be oras necessary. "Una," the second to last of the un-remixed tracks takessymphonic and operatic fragments and glues them to a stutteringdsp-laden beat that is just short of club-friendly, but not sooverblown as to draw unneccessary attention to itself. The "ColleenMix" of "Muim" could easily figure in a Chris Nolen film as its allbackwards pianos and heavy string passages that conjure up the grimynoir of "Memento" and the slick isolation of "Insomnia" equally. Theremixes are all solid, sometimes taking an ambient detour that'swelcome amidst the electrobeats, but Murcof's originals clearly standout as the best tracks here. If nothing else, Utopia performs its role by making a case for watching for the forthcoming album and possibly for picking up the back catalog.
This gap-filler disc from Murcof is Leaf's way to buy time and keep thename fresh before the release of the next proper Murcof album, but it'sno less inspired, all the same. Beginning with a 10 minute epic of filmscore orchestration and minimal techno thump, Utopiaestablishes early on that Murcof is dealing with a larger scope and amore developed tone than many of his contemporaries. Jan Jelenik'sclicky, jazz-spliced remix of "Maiz" is the perfect groovy counterpointto the album's creeping, moody opener. Sutekh gives "Memoria" a tweakedtechno workout with plenty of glitches and squiggles that pop out overthe monotone bassline and piano chord. "Utano" blends dark cello andbrass timbres with twinkling electronic percussion for a while, thendrops out the techno trappings for a more experimental approach to thecinematic loops and swells that other artists tend to leave in thebackground. It's refreshing for someone working with beats not to makethe beats the primary focus for a change, and Murcof is able to bendand arrange sounds with a composer's rather than dj's ear. Theremaining remixes are mostly placid and unremarkable; not an affront tothe source material but certainly not as clever as they'd like to be oras necessary. "Una," the second to last of the un-remixed tracks takessymphonic and operatic fragments and glues them to a stutteringdsp-laden beat that is just short of club-friendly, but not sooverblown as to draw unneccessary attention to itself. The "ColleenMix" of "Muim" could easily figure in a Chris Nolen film as its allbackwards pianos and heavy string passages that conjure up the grimynoir of "Memento" and the slick isolation of "Insomnia" equally. Theremixes are all solid, sometimes taking an ambient detour that'swelcome amidst the electrobeats, but Murcof's originals clearly standout as the best tracks here. If nothing else, Utopia performs its role by making a case for watching for the forthcoming album and possibly for picking up the back catalog.
4358 Hits
Piehead
Having listened to and zoned out on this release at least half a dozentimes, it should be obvious what it is that is so compelling about[sic]'s compositions of dusty long drones, deep ambient spaces andbump-in-the-night tension, but it's not. On the one hand, this isdifficult listening: all uneasy sounds and dischordant timbres rubbingup against one another to create an ambiguous feeling of dread. On theother hand, for those familiar with the work of like-minded artistslike those featured on the quasi-legendary "Isolationism" compilation,[sic] fits perfectly into a already-defined niche of dark, broodingambient characterized more by its claustrophobia than by its usereflection of space as an expanse. I could tell you that Gorilla Masking Tapeis a beautiful, haunting record, or that it's alpha-wave inducing atthe right volume, or that it's a perfectly quiet record for people wholead unquiet lives, but none of that really captures the force thatthese tracks embody. Perhaps the record's most defining characteristicis that it is indeed so malleable that it can be both loud and quiet,both serene and disturbed, both beautiful and terrifying and that itdoes all of this effortlessly. I often wonder what more can be saidabout music like this that is both barely there and a force of natureall at once, depending on your volume knob. I always think that it willbe impossible for someone to release yet another essential darkambient disc in a world where artists who do this sort of thing tend tohave voluminous discographies of equally affecting work already. Ithink that, and then I hear a record like Gorilla Masking Tapeand it suddenly all sounds fresh and important and essential again andI'm left wanting more. It doesn't get much better than that.
Having listened to and zoned out on this release at least half a dozentimes, it should be obvious what it is that is so compelling about[sic]'s compositions of dusty long drones, deep ambient spaces andbump-in-the-night tension, but it's not. On the one hand, this isdifficult listening: all uneasy sounds and dischordant timbres rubbingup against one another to create an ambiguous feeling of dread. On theother hand, for those familiar with the work of like-minded artistslike those featured on the quasi-legendary "Isolationism" compilation,[sic] fits perfectly into a already-defined niche of dark, broodingambient characterized more by its claustrophobia than by its usereflection of space as an expanse. I could tell you that Gorilla Masking Tapeis a beautiful, haunting record, or that it's alpha-wave inducing atthe right volume, or that it's a perfectly quiet record for people wholead unquiet lives, but none of that really captures the force thatthese tracks embody. Perhaps the record's most defining characteristicis that it is indeed so malleable that it can be both loud and quiet,both serene and disturbed, both beautiful and terrifying and that itdoes all of this effortlessly. I often wonder what more can be saidabout music like this that is both barely there and a force of natureall at once, depending on your volume knob. I always think that it willbe impossible for someone to release yet another essential darkambient disc in a world where artists who do this sort of thing tend tohave voluminous discographies of equally affecting work already. Ithink that, and then I hear a record like Gorilla Masking Tapeand it suddenly all sounds fresh and important and essential again andI'm left wanting more. It doesn't get much better than that.
5257 Hits
Matador
A is a definite article, a method of distinguishing an individual froma group, singling out the one particular subject that deserves all theattention. I don't know the true origins of that particular A, theabove definition would certainly make Carl Newman's self-amendeddesignation quite the aptonym. The Slow Wonderis an A, a defining article that raises Carl Newman from the crowdedhouse he built for the New Pornographers to his very own center stage.Newman is out this time with a collection of even newer rock and rollpornographers who are every bit as dig-deep tenacious and blissfullysonorous. The Slow Wonder is a further refinement of the ideas swirled across Mass Romantic and honed on The Electric Version.Newman has emerged from behind the curtain with a slab of popperfection, matching the heights of those previous records whileshowcasing a more personal stake in the music, as opposed to thecommunal conceptualism of the Pornographer records. "The Miracle Drug"is an assuring opener, almost alarmingly familiar with vocalist SarahWheeler backing up to fill in the Neko Case role (with such quality asto arouse curiosity as to what she might sound like out in front). Thesonic similarities only serve to demonstrate Newman's persisting talentin knowing what makes a great song and the ability to do so freshly, atwill. The melodious "On The Table" politely drips across the pianokeyboard with a dignified reserve before soaring into a kaleidoscopicrush of unbridled enthusiasm in the chorus. Amidst the crowd pleasersis "Come Crash," a gorgeous ballad that slowly probes the innerworkings of an obscure relationship. While never revealing too much indirect statements, the song instead pieces the story together throughthe shadows cast by the firework bursting bridge and shards ofconversation that slowly flicker and fade. It is a wonderfulcenterpiece to the album, and a more introspective side of Newman thanmost of us have been treated to. "The Town Halo" rockets the album skyhigh once again, thickly rooted in a repeating loop of strings, surgingforward in a thrust of accusatory questioning and boundary marking.Along with the closer, "35 In The Shade," the song surrounds Newmanwith a throng of background singers, lending their collective voices tothe music he has crafted. This aspect of the album seems perfectlynatural, as it is hard to resist joining in. Newman is a songwriter ofthe highest caliber, one who is capable of implanting a song deepwithin the psyche and coaxing it back out once again through the voicesof listeners. The Slow Wonder outputs nothing but unabashed joy through song and demands nothing less back.
A is a definite article, a method of distinguishing an individual froma group, singling out the one particular subject that deserves all theattention. I don't know the true origins of that particular A, theabove definition would certainly make Carl Newman's self-amendeddesignation quite the aptonym. The Slow Wonderis an A, a defining article that raises Carl Newman from the crowdedhouse he built for the New Pornographers to his very own center stage.Newman is out this time with a collection of even newer rock and rollpornographers who are every bit as dig-deep tenacious and blissfullysonorous. The Slow Wonder is a further refinement of the ideas swirled across Mass Romantic and honed on The Electric Version.Newman has emerged from behind the curtain with a slab of popperfection, matching the heights of those previous records whileshowcasing a more personal stake in the music, as opposed to thecommunal conceptualism of the Pornographer records. "The Miracle Drug"is an assuring opener, almost alarmingly familiar with vocalist SarahWheeler backing up to fill in the Neko Case role (with such quality asto arouse curiosity as to what she might sound like out in front). Thesonic similarities only serve to demonstrate Newman's persisting talentin knowing what makes a great song and the ability to do so freshly, atwill. The melodious "On The Table" politely drips across the pianokeyboard with a dignified reserve before soaring into a kaleidoscopicrush of unbridled enthusiasm in the chorus. Amidst the crowd pleasersis "Come Crash," a gorgeous ballad that slowly probes the innerworkings of an obscure relationship. While never revealing too much indirect statements, the song instead pieces the story together throughthe shadows cast by the firework bursting bridge and shards ofconversation that slowly flicker and fade. It is a wonderfulcenterpiece to the album, and a more introspective side of Newman thanmost of us have been treated to. "The Town Halo" rockets the album skyhigh once again, thickly rooted in a repeating loop of strings, surgingforward in a thrust of accusatory questioning and boundary marking.Along with the closer, "35 In The Shade," the song surrounds Newmanwith a throng of background singers, lending their collective voices tothe music he has crafted. This aspect of the album seems perfectlynatural, as it is hard to resist joining in. Newman is a songwriter ofthe highest caliber, one who is capable of implanting a song deepwithin the psyche and coaxing it back out once again through the voicesof listeners. The Slow Wonder outputs nothing but unabashed joy through song and demands nothing less back.
7513 Hits
Though Steven Stapleton could not be bothered to play at the recent Toronto shows, he did come to the city to lurk about the concert hall, bringing along 500 copies of this 7" red vinyl single. As limited Nurse With Wound items go, this one is fairly inessential to all but the most rabid collectors.
5444 Hits
Durtro/Jnana
This limited edition, blue 7" vinyl single comprises two songs recordedlive at the October Gallery in London on October 5, 2003. Both of thesongs are done in the intimate "voice and piano" style familiar fromCurrent 93 releases such as Soft Black Stars and Hypnagogue,with Maja Elliott providing the musical accompaniment. Side A has DavidTibet tackling the singularly epic "Time of the Last Persecution," thetitle track from underappreciated singer-songwriter Bill Fay's materful1971 concept album. Fay's original version had all the dramaticorchestral swells of a sixties Scott Walker production, augmented bymind-blowing fuzz guitar and a truly monumental climax. For all theoverblown majesty of the original, however, the song holds up amazinglywell with the minimal arrangement by Tibet and Elliott. Tibet's voiceis a perfect instrument to portray the resigned dread of Bill Fay'sArmageddon scenario: "It is the time of the last persecution/And Caesarshall be raised/He will ask for his feet to be kissed by yoursister/And your children will fear at his name." It's as if Tibet andFay are spiritual songwriting partners, as both share the same affinityfor hallucinatory visions of Gnostic Revelation. Side B is a fine butunremarkable rendition of "Black Flowers, Please," a track off Swastikas for Noddyand a perennial live favorite. For the version of "Time of the LastPersecution" alone, however, this single is worth tracking down. -
This limited edition, blue 7" vinyl single comprises two songs recordedlive at the October Gallery in London on October 5, 2003. Both of thesongs are done in the intimate "voice and piano" style familiar fromCurrent 93 releases such as Soft Black Stars and Hypnagogue,with Maja Elliott providing the musical accompaniment. Side A has DavidTibet tackling the singularly epic "Time of the Last Persecution," thetitle track from underappreciated singer-songwriter Bill Fay's materful1971 concept album. Fay's original version had all the dramaticorchestral swells of a sixties Scott Walker production, augmented bymind-blowing fuzz guitar and a truly monumental climax. For all theoverblown majesty of the original, however, the song holds up amazinglywell with the minimal arrangement by Tibet and Elliott. Tibet's voiceis a perfect instrument to portray the resigned dread of Bill Fay'sArmageddon scenario: "It is the time of the last persecution/And Caesarshall be raised/He will ask for his feet to be kissed by yoursister/And your children will fear at his name." It's as if Tibet andFay are spiritual songwriting partners, as both share the same affinityfor hallucinatory visions of Gnostic Revelation. Side B is a fine butunremarkable rendition of "Black Flowers, Please," a track off Swastikas for Noddyand a perennial live favorite. For the version of "Time of the LastPersecution" alone, however, this single is worth tracking down. -
3918 Hits
Durtro/Jnana
Another of Durtro's limited edition goodies available at the recentToronto shows, this is a CDEP of David Tibet singing two of hisfavorite tracks from Simon Finn's Pass the Distance album, with Finnhimself on guitar and Joolie Wood on flute. While Tibet obviously hasaffection for this material, and he is careful not to trod upon itsmemory, he is perhaps a little too respectful with these coverversions. Rather than try to match or exceed Finn's soul-shatteringvocal climax on "Jerusalem," Tibet instead covers the song in hisfamiliar "speak-sing" style, barely cracking his voice for thepenultimate chorus. Also, for some reason known only to him, Tibet hasdecided to cut "The Courtyard" in half, singing only the first part ofthe song. The pretty acoustic backing and flourishes of flute are niceenough, but I don't think they work nearly as well for this material asthe kitchen-sink production of Finn's classic album. The only advantageof hearing Tibet tackle this material is the fact that it renders thelyrics much clearer and easier to decipher, as they are not coveredover by layers of reverb and detuned guitar acrobatics. Still, this EPhas the stink of a vanity project all over it, and while it's fun tolisten to the first few times, I'm not sure it's of any particular useto Current 93 fans or Simon Finn fans.
Another of Durtro's limited edition goodies available at the recentToronto shows, this is a CDEP of David Tibet singing two of hisfavorite tracks from Simon Finn's Pass the Distance album, with Finnhimself on guitar and Joolie Wood on flute. While Tibet obviously hasaffection for this material, and he is careful not to trod upon itsmemory, he is perhaps a little too respectful with these coverversions. Rather than try to match or exceed Finn's soul-shatteringvocal climax on "Jerusalem," Tibet instead covers the song in hisfamiliar "speak-sing" style, barely cracking his voice for thepenultimate chorus. Also, for some reason known only to him, Tibet hasdecided to cut "The Courtyard" in half, singing only the first part ofthe song. The pretty acoustic backing and flourishes of flute are niceenough, but I don't think they work nearly as well for this material asthe kitchen-sink production of Finn's classic album. The only advantageof hearing Tibet tackle this material is the fact that it renders thelyrics much clearer and easier to decipher, as they are not coveredover by layers of reverb and detuned guitar acrobatics. Still, this EPhas the stink of a vanity project all over it, and while it's fun tolisten to the first few times, I'm not sure it's of any particular useto Current 93 fans or Simon Finn fans.
4176 Hits
Durtro/Jnana
Current 93's recent concerts in Toronto saw the release of a smalltreasure trove of limited EPs and 7" singles. One of most unexpected ofthese was a five-track CDEP of new material from Simon Finn. If anyhave heard about Finn's activities in the years since he recorded thelegendary Pass the Distance,it's been through rumor and innuendo, and generally falls along thelines of: "Recorded one album then disappeared. Now a[psychotic/drug-addled/lobotomized] hermit, living in [a one-roomshack/his mother's basement/a sanitarium]." Well, the truth might bestranger than the cliché in Finn's case, who moved to Canada, gotmarried and became a soybean farmer, apparently. After David Tibetbecame obsessed with Pass the Distance a year or so ago, hetracked down Simon Finn at his Canada home, and arranged not only forthe reissue of of that seminal LP, but also this EP of new material anda few live gigs opening up for Current 93 for three nights in Toronto.If anyone had asked me to rate the chances of the elusive Simon Finnresurfacing in 2004 to play a series of live shows, I'd have rated thema low zero. I would have further doubted the sanity of someone whosuggested that Finn would ever record new material. Though it couldpotentially be a big embarrassment, Silent City Creep isactually quite good. It's somewhat surreal to hear Finn's voiceunmitigated by the murky echo and bizarre instrumentation to which I'dbecome accustomed. Instead, Finn's voice and gentle acoustic guitarcome through clearly, in five songs that reminded me of Tom Rapp (ofPearls Before Swine), with their Dylanesque melodies and apocalypticlyrics fraught with symbolism and mythological references. On "WalkieTalkie," Finn bemoans the isolation caused by the mediation oftechnology into human communication: "And we all go walkie talkie/Thenwe all go run and hide/Between the cracks of our illusion/From ourdepredated lives/And we hold on to our cocks/And we hold on to ourcunts/To assert we're still alive/And to tell our backs from fronts."Strangely, Silent City Creep does not feel more "mature" than Pass the Distance.In fact, it feels as if Finn hasn't missed a beat, picking up rightwhere he left off over 30 years ago. It makes me wonder if all of thosestories about Syd Barrett might be exaggerated.
Current 93's recent concerts in Toronto saw the release of a smalltreasure trove of limited EPs and 7" singles. One of most unexpected ofthese was a five-track CDEP of new material from Simon Finn. If anyhave heard about Finn's activities in the years since he recorded thelegendary Pass the Distance,it's been through rumor and innuendo, and generally falls along thelines of: "Recorded one album then disappeared. Now a[psychotic/drug-addled/lobotomized] hermit, living in [a one-roomshack/his mother's basement/a sanitarium]." Well, the truth might bestranger than the cliché in Finn's case, who moved to Canada, gotmarried and became a soybean farmer, apparently. After David Tibetbecame obsessed with Pass the Distance a year or so ago, hetracked down Simon Finn at his Canada home, and arranged not only forthe reissue of of that seminal LP, but also this EP of new material anda few live gigs opening up for Current 93 for three nights in Toronto.If anyone had asked me to rate the chances of the elusive Simon Finnresurfacing in 2004 to play a series of live shows, I'd have rated thema low zero. I would have further doubted the sanity of someone whosuggested that Finn would ever record new material. Though it couldpotentially be a big embarrassment, Silent City Creep isactually quite good. It's somewhat surreal to hear Finn's voiceunmitigated by the murky echo and bizarre instrumentation to which I'dbecome accustomed. Instead, Finn's voice and gentle acoustic guitarcome through clearly, in five songs that reminded me of Tom Rapp (ofPearls Before Swine), with their Dylanesque melodies and apocalypticlyrics fraught with symbolism and mythological references. On "WalkieTalkie," Finn bemoans the isolation caused by the mediation oftechnology into human communication: "And we all go walkie talkie/Thenwe all go run and hide/Between the cracks of our illusion/From ourdepredated lives/And we hold on to our cocks/And we hold on to ourcunts/To assert we're still alive/And to tell our backs from fronts."Strangely, Silent City Creep does not feel more "mature" than Pass the Distance.In fact, it feels as if Finn hasn't missed a beat, picking up rightwhere he left off over 30 years ago. It makes me wonder if all of thosestories about Syd Barrett might be exaggerated.
6809 Hits
Durtro/Jnana
As the current indie scene now falls into lock-step formation rallyingunder the banner of "new folk," I find it interesting to reflect on thefirst folk renaissance, the one that took place five years ago. Youprobably never heard about it because it took place largely in my head.After years spent obsessively listening to and collecting records byCurrent 93, Death in June and Sol Invictus, there weren't many placesfor this jaded listener to go other than the strange, misunderstoodworld of sixties British psych-folk — a loose outcropping ofpsychedelia that incorporated medievalism, folk and free jazz withesoteric lyrical influences and ethnic instrumentation. This music isthe clearest antecedent to the "apocalyptic folk" that resurfaced inthe eighties English underground. Most have at least heard of theIncredible String Band or John Renbourn, but for every famous,influential artist from this period, there were scores of ignoredobscurities like Comus, The Trees and Jan Dukes de Grey. With the helpof an evil book called The Tapestry of Delights, the adventurous (read:compulsive) collector could choose his next Holy Grail and crusadeforth to seek it for his collection. For me, the best of these elusiverecords will always be Pass the Distanceby Simon Finn, an obscure 1970 one-off from London's Mushroom label. Itwas a unique album, not just for its unorthodox musical content, butalso for its extreme rarity, legal action having forced its withdrawalfrom the market not long after is release. Simon Finn's album puzzledme during my original folk renaissance, and five years later — withthis new remastering and rerelease on Durtro/Jnana — it still evadeseasy categorization. Finn's songwriting and vocal style belong to alate-60s tradition of melancholy, doom-laden propheteering, but ontracks like "Jerusalem" and "Big White Car," he displays an unmatchedvocal fury, passionately belting out his words with throat-strippingferocity, building to a pair of frighteningly shattering crescendos.Adding to the album's unique sound are the contributions of the youngmulti-instrumentalist David Toop, who since the recording of Pass the Distance has distinguished himself as a preeminent musical critic, a frequent contributor to The Wireand the author of several books. Toop and percussionist Paul Burwellwere apparently given free reign by producer Vic Keary to use Finn'sstandard folk material as a blank slate for experimentation andimprovisation. This results in a series of loose, chaotic settings forSimon Finn's songs, Toop often climbing up and down the scale of amandolin or a harmonium with utter disregard for melodic sense.Producer and engineer Keary adds another level of mystification, usingheavy echo, stereo panning and excessive phasing to create a sense ofdislocation, muddying the waters of Finn's apocalyptic stream ofconsciousness. This rerelease, overseen by David Tibet and Simon Finn(emerging from more than 30 years of total silence), improves the soundsubstantially from the Japanese bootleg CDs, and adds four bonustracks, which don't share the same mysterious qualities as the materialon the original LP, but are welcome nonetheless. Also included areinformative liner notes from Finn, Toop, Keary and Tibet. This shouldbe a fine replacement for my well-worn vinyl copy.
As the current indie scene now falls into lock-step formation rallyingunder the banner of "new folk," I find it interesting to reflect on thefirst folk renaissance, the one that took place five years ago. Youprobably never heard about it because it took place largely in my head.After years spent obsessively listening to and collecting records byCurrent 93, Death in June and Sol Invictus, there weren't many placesfor this jaded listener to go other than the strange, misunderstoodworld of sixties British psych-folk — a loose outcropping ofpsychedelia that incorporated medievalism, folk and free jazz withesoteric lyrical influences and ethnic instrumentation. This music isthe clearest antecedent to the "apocalyptic folk" that resurfaced inthe eighties English underground. Most have at least heard of theIncredible String Band or John Renbourn, but for every famous,influential artist from this period, there were scores of ignoredobscurities like Comus, The Trees and Jan Dukes de Grey. With the helpof an evil book called The Tapestry of Delights, the adventurous (read:compulsive) collector could choose his next Holy Grail and crusadeforth to seek it for his collection. For me, the best of these elusiverecords will always be Pass the Distanceby Simon Finn, an obscure 1970 one-off from London's Mushroom label. Itwas a unique album, not just for its unorthodox musical content, butalso for its extreme rarity, legal action having forced its withdrawalfrom the market not long after is release. Simon Finn's album puzzledme during my original folk renaissance, and five years later — withthis new remastering and rerelease on Durtro/Jnana — it still evadeseasy categorization. Finn's songwriting and vocal style belong to alate-60s tradition of melancholy, doom-laden propheteering, but ontracks like "Jerusalem" and "Big White Car," he displays an unmatchedvocal fury, passionately belting out his words with throat-strippingferocity, building to a pair of frighteningly shattering crescendos.Adding to the album's unique sound are the contributions of the youngmulti-instrumentalist David Toop, who since the recording of Pass the Distance has distinguished himself as a preeminent musical critic, a frequent contributor to The Wireand the author of several books. Toop and percussionist Paul Burwellwere apparently given free reign by producer Vic Keary to use Finn'sstandard folk material as a blank slate for experimentation andimprovisation. This results in a series of loose, chaotic settings forSimon Finn's songs, Toop often climbing up and down the scale of amandolin or a harmonium with utter disregard for melodic sense.Producer and engineer Keary adds another level of mystification, usingheavy echo, stereo panning and excessive phasing to create a sense ofdislocation, muddying the waters of Finn's apocalyptic stream ofconsciousness. This rerelease, overseen by David Tibet and Simon Finn(emerging from more than 30 years of total silence), improves the soundsubstantially from the Japanese bootleg CDs, and adds four bonustracks, which don't share the same mysterious qualities as the materialon the original LP, but are welcome nonetheless. Also included areinformative liner notes from Finn, Toop, Keary and Tibet. This shouldbe a fine replacement for my well-worn vinyl copy.
9826 Hits
Strange Attractors
The destruction is set to maximum and the bullshit is set to minimum onPaik's latest full-length, a continuation of the dreamy soundscapesthey most recently displayed on a split with Kinski and Surface ofEceyon. Never have they sounded more pure and raw than this moment, atorrent of distortion and volume that seems at the same time to becoldly calculated and yet to have no plan at all. There is a peaceamong the ruins, where the band almost seems to accept a fate they havenever relished before, nor asked for. But there is ferocity yet, almostas though the fight is with themselves. Not that this ever adverselyaffects any song, or is explicitly stated, but Paik neverthelessdisplay a struggle that elevates them, gives them purpose, andultimately conquers all. Repitition sometimes wears, displaying astasis or lack of ideas that sidetracks but never derails thecompositions: it merely extends them perhaps a bit far past the pointof relevance. They eventually snap out of it and change course,dropping headlong into the maelstrom of their own creation. For a trioto make rock music that blisters and cracks like this is quite anachievement anyway, but Paik excel at it as a practice. The album'sopener, "Jayne Field," is a steady rocker, with almost pots-and-pansdrums and guitar noise that shimmers as much as it shreds. Just as itfades, an abrupt guitar riff buts in, and the playful noise thatemanates skips right along, like a soundtrack for that kid that neverhad it figured out but secretly plots the demise of those who underminehim. By the time the swirls and echoes expand the palette, the storyhas chaned, and the kid gets the girl and all he ever wanted. Here andthere Paik grate their collective teeth, muster the energy to go on,and make it seem like it will be painful for everyone involved. Itnever is, as the band continues to explore and expound, creating thebest music of their careers every time. -
The destruction is set to maximum and the bullshit is set to minimum onPaik's latest full-length, a continuation of the dreamy soundscapesthey most recently displayed on a split with Kinski and Surface ofEceyon. Never have they sounded more pure and raw than this moment, atorrent of distortion and volume that seems at the same time to becoldly calculated and yet to have no plan at all. There is a peaceamong the ruins, where the band almost seems to accept a fate they havenever relished before, nor asked for. But there is ferocity yet, almostas though the fight is with themselves. Not that this ever adverselyaffects any song, or is explicitly stated, but Paik neverthelessdisplay a struggle that elevates them, gives them purpose, andultimately conquers all. Repitition sometimes wears, displaying astasis or lack of ideas that sidetracks but never derails thecompositions: it merely extends them perhaps a bit far past the pointof relevance. They eventually snap out of it and change course,dropping headlong into the maelstrom of their own creation. For a trioto make rock music that blisters and cracks like this is quite anachievement anyway, but Paik excel at it as a practice. The album'sopener, "Jayne Field," is a steady rocker, with almost pots-and-pansdrums and guitar noise that shimmers as much as it shreds. Just as itfades, an abrupt guitar riff buts in, and the playful noise thatemanates skips right along, like a soundtrack for that kid that neverhad it figured out but secretly plots the demise of those who underminehim. By the time the swirls and echoes expand the palette, the storyhas chaned, and the kid gets the girl and all he ever wanted. Here andthere Paik grate their collective teeth, muster the energy to go on,and make it seem like it will be painful for everyone involved. Itnever is, as the band continues to explore and expound, creating thebest music of their careers every time. -
3892 Hits
To innovate, one must not only stand on the shoulders of giants but recognize that they do so, if only to learn how to provide a solid footing for others. Boston-based Cul De Sac are innovators of the highest caliber, and the members have made astounding music for years, utilizing elements of any number of styles, genres, and movements. On their last few releases, guitarist Glenn Jones has led them into a deep relationship with the output of Takoma records and their troika of acoustic guitar virtuosos John Fahey, Robbie Basho, and Leo Kottke. Their adaptations of Takoma sounds and ideas mixed in with often visionary electronic, world music, and post-rock juxtapositions have made for truly wonderful pieces of work. This Is The Wind That Blows It Out marks the first solo release by Glenn Jones, and he revels in the startlingly evocative sound produced by the six and twelve string guitar.
4922 Hits
Piehead
Mnemosyne's debut album builds slowly with a solid if sleepy foundationof guitar, bass, and drums that wouldn't sound out of place in theKranky or Constellation stables. The Toronto trio is fronted (if that'sreally the right word) by experimental guitarist Aidan Baker, whosevoice on the title track rises just barely above a whisper in a stylereminiscent of early Labradford. But from there, Mnemosyne depart fromthe somnambulant formula of muted minimalism by swelling guitars upwith distortion and kicking in drums and crashing cymbals. The resultis a bit darker, more psychadelic, and more varied than their post-rockforebares, but it also results in something that probably has a muchwider appeal. It wouldn't be far off to imagine my stoner friends fromHigh School who went to Pink Floyd laser light shows getting seriouslyinto Mnemosyne's hypnotic twirls of guitar and dubbed-out percussion,but recovering goths will also appreciate the atmosphere of tracks like"Dark Grove" and "Unreal Space." Thankfully, Mnemosyne seem lessconcerned with whether they are impressing the weepy Projekt crowd orthe Drag City chin strokers, and they carry on making moody,genre-hopping space rock. Occassionally, as on the 12 minute albumcloser "Aqualisp," the instrumentation gets a bit too dry and literal,causing the psyche-improv to drift uncomfortably close to jam-bandterritory where it feels like every instrument needs room for a solo.Luckily, Rodin Columb's straightforward bass holds everything togetherjust long enough for the band to get back on track as they rip into theloudest creshendo (saved somewhat predictably for the end). Though theynever really achieve all out ROCK,they do manage to crank the volume, distortion, and delay on everythingto give the album's trip a final dose of hash-fueled paranoia. AlhoughMnemosyne can easily be seen as a confluence of influences that havedone this sort of thing before, their own take on a soundtrack for thatbad-acid trip is well worth exploring. It somehow manages to be bothfamiliar and disorienting at the same time which is kind of creepy, butgood.
Mnemosyne's debut album builds slowly with a solid if sleepy foundationof guitar, bass, and drums that wouldn't sound out of place in theKranky or Constellation stables. The Toronto trio is fronted (if that'sreally the right word) by experimental guitarist Aidan Baker, whosevoice on the title track rises just barely above a whisper in a stylereminiscent of early Labradford. But from there, Mnemosyne depart fromthe somnambulant formula of muted minimalism by swelling guitars upwith distortion and kicking in drums and crashing cymbals. The resultis a bit darker, more psychadelic, and more varied than their post-rockforebares, but it also results in something that probably has a muchwider appeal. It wouldn't be far off to imagine my stoner friends fromHigh School who went to Pink Floyd laser light shows getting seriouslyinto Mnemosyne's hypnotic twirls of guitar and dubbed-out percussion,but recovering goths will also appreciate the atmosphere of tracks like"Dark Grove" and "Unreal Space." Thankfully, Mnemosyne seem lessconcerned with whether they are impressing the weepy Projekt crowd orthe Drag City chin strokers, and they carry on making moody,genre-hopping space rock. Occassionally, as on the 12 minute albumcloser "Aqualisp," the instrumentation gets a bit too dry and literal,causing the psyche-improv to drift uncomfortably close to jam-bandterritory where it feels like every instrument needs room for a solo.Luckily, Rodin Columb's straightforward bass holds everything togetherjust long enough for the band to get back on track as they rip into theloudest creshendo (saved somewhat predictably for the end). Though theynever really achieve all out ROCK,they do manage to crank the volume, distortion, and delay on everythingto give the album's trip a final dose of hash-fueled paranoia. AlhoughMnemosyne can easily be seen as a confluence of influences that havedone this sort of thing before, their own take on a soundtrack for thatbad-acid trip is well worth exploring. It somehow manages to be bothfamiliar and disorienting at the same time which is kind of creepy, butgood.
3956 Hits
Twenty Hertz
The last time these two got together to make some music, I was thoroughly blown away by the results. Behind Your Very Eyesis an amazing piece of cinematic drone work that set a new mark tomeasure these kinds of records by. Drone music is notoriouslytwo-faced; either it works or it doesn't. There really isn't any middleground for the music to tread on so far as enjoy-ability goes. That'snow changing with the release of Confluence. Colin Potter andPaul Bradley recorded the first track as a kind of cluster: the soundsare reworked from studio rehearsals and so on until they are made tosound harmonious. The two following tracks are remixes of this firsttrack. This all sounds fine, but Confluence is amazingly unevenas a record. Where Colin Potter and Paul Bradley succeeded before wasin their radically transformative flow of sound. I feel a bit uneasycalling their music "drone" because their stream of noise and samplessimply never sat still long enough to drone away into the darkness.Potter and Bradley both used, in the past, a wide palette of musicaland non-musical sounds to create an emotional and sensational (relatingto the senses) experience. The first track on here, however, is afairly monotone mix of wind tunnels, chimes, and various effects thatare far too related. Diversity can often lead to a kind of unity thatbecomes recognizable upon repeated listens, but no such quality isevident on "Confluence 1." That being said, the track is relaxing andheads and shoulders above other similar songs. I know, however, justhow good Potter and Bradley can be and so I am disappointed by the lackof change and difference on this song. "Confluence 2" and "Confluence3" both suffer from the same problem as "Confluence 1" though indifferent ways. "Confluence 2" sounds as though it is based on onesound source alone. That source is then pitched, slowed down, and spedup to create different degrees of textural tension and shiftingmelodies. A few minutes of this sort of thing would be great, but thesong is over seventeen minutes long and just drags a bit too much.There are some creepy samples to be found here and there (readilyrecognizable as slightly morphed versions of sounds that are on"Confluence 1"), but they do little to add to the appeal of the song."Confluence 3" is the aquatic closer on this record and it is the bestof the three tracks. The sounds here are more open, moretransformative, and they resonate in a way that creates the sort ofethereal heaviness that always attracts me to Potter's work. Thepreviously silenced noise samples are now front and center and theirdevelopment works well with the tones that surround them. The churningreminds me of the sound of coffee running through a grinder for somereason (a manual one, not electric) and its wavering quality is verycomforting. This record sounds a bit haphazard and unfinished and thevery nature of its creation suggests that there could've been more roomfor development. The album could have certainly used it; it has a lotof potential, but needs to be thought out more carefully.
3485 Hits
Acute
When financial ruin, explosive internal tensions and abortive,drug-fuelled recording sessions finally claimed the life of Frenchelectro-punk group Metal Urbain, Metal Boys rose from their ashesPhoenix-like and went on to a celebrated and influential 20-yearcareer, applauded by critics worldwide for their originality anddaring. Well, not quite. In fact, the Metal Boys only lasted a coupleof years, they are celebrated by no one, and they could only muster onealbum, recently rescued from total obscurity by Carpark subsidiaryAcute. Acute smartly released a career-spanning retrospective of MetalUrbain earlier this year, but they not-so-smartly follow-up with twolackluster latter-day efforts by Metal Urbain refugees (Dr. Mix and theRemix's inessential Wall of Noiseis also due out soon on the label). It's hard to say what the problemis exactly with Metal Boys, the project of Eric Debris and CharlesHurbier from the original lineup of Metal Urbain. Perhaps it's theircurious lack of identity, as they schizophrenically shuffle through ahandbook of genres, unable to settle on anything. The opening trackshares the energetic, motorik stomp of Metal Urbain, but its quicklyfollowed by "Suspenders in the Dark," a blind stab at theSuicide/Throbbing Gristle sound that borders on parody with ridiculousEnglish-language vocals such as "The rain stops my tits from growing"and "I saw my mother fucking a nuclear missile." It's unclear whyBritish singer China didn't alert the French duo to the grammaticallyawkward, hokey lyrics they were asking her to sing. Other tracks (andeven the album's sleeve artwork) seek to emulate such electro-dandyoutfits as David Sylvian's Japan or early Duran Duran, but thesongwriting is stunted, songs are often far too long, and the stylisticinconsistencies all conspire to make Tokio Airport one of themore laborious listens I've had in a while. Amateurish, Kraftwerk-esquesynthesizer ditties like "Carbone 14" might be charming on some work ofoutsider bedroom-electro, but from musicians who used to be involved increating challenging, enduring rock music, it seems rather unfortunate.The pessimistic, cold-war futurism of the album's lyrics and thegroup's angular, dandified bearing are conceits directly lifted fromtheir new-wave contemporaries. A pair of bonus tracks originallyintended for release as a 12" single, "Disco Future" and "Outer Space,"sound like low-rent versions of classic TG tracks "Adrenaline" and"Persuasion." So, the Metal Boys are not the logical continuation ofMetal Urbain, but rather simply an odd historical footnote that mayappeal to borderline-autistic completists, but are generallyunremarkable otherwise. -
When financial ruin, explosive internal tensions and abortive,drug-fuelled recording sessions finally claimed the life of Frenchelectro-punk group Metal Urbain, Metal Boys rose from their ashesPhoenix-like and went on to a celebrated and influential 20-yearcareer, applauded by critics worldwide for their originality anddaring. Well, not quite. In fact, the Metal Boys only lasted a coupleof years, they are celebrated by no one, and they could only muster onealbum, recently rescued from total obscurity by Carpark subsidiaryAcute. Acute smartly released a career-spanning retrospective of MetalUrbain earlier this year, but they not-so-smartly follow-up with twolackluster latter-day efforts by Metal Urbain refugees (Dr. Mix and theRemix's inessential Wall of Noiseis also due out soon on the label). It's hard to say what the problemis exactly with Metal Boys, the project of Eric Debris and CharlesHurbier from the original lineup of Metal Urbain. Perhaps it's theircurious lack of identity, as they schizophrenically shuffle through ahandbook of genres, unable to settle on anything. The opening trackshares the energetic, motorik stomp of Metal Urbain, but its quicklyfollowed by "Suspenders in the Dark," a blind stab at theSuicide/Throbbing Gristle sound that borders on parody with ridiculousEnglish-language vocals such as "The rain stops my tits from growing"and "I saw my mother fucking a nuclear missile." It's unclear whyBritish singer China didn't alert the French duo to the grammaticallyawkward, hokey lyrics they were asking her to sing. Other tracks (andeven the album's sleeve artwork) seek to emulate such electro-dandyoutfits as David Sylvian's Japan or early Duran Duran, but thesongwriting is stunted, songs are often far too long, and the stylisticinconsistencies all conspire to make Tokio Airport one of themore laborious listens I've had in a while. Amateurish, Kraftwerk-esquesynthesizer ditties like "Carbone 14" might be charming on some work ofoutsider bedroom-electro, but from musicians who used to be involved increating challenging, enduring rock music, it seems rather unfortunate.The pessimistic, cold-war futurism of the album's lyrics and thegroup's angular, dandified bearing are conceits directly lifted fromtheir new-wave contemporaries. A pair of bonus tracks originallyintended for release as a 12" single, "Disco Future" and "Outer Space,"sound like low-rent versions of classic TG tracks "Adrenaline" and"Persuasion." So, the Metal Boys are not the logical continuation ofMetal Urbain, but rather simply an odd historical footnote that mayappeal to borderline-autistic completists, but are generallyunremarkable otherwise. -
3771 Hits
Room 40
While the debate over what is or isn't 'real music' is tired, there arestill releases now and again that call that nagging question to mind,just as a reminder of the very far extremes of music that exist beyondeven the peripheral vision of most CD-buying folks, and this iscertainly one of them. For roughly 18 minutes, English treats us towhat could be a foley recording session for a major motion picture ifsome of the sounds weren't layered and overlapped through time. There'slittle emotional or psychological reward for making it through those 18minutes, and the theme of "Ghost Towns" isn't explored in anysignificant way that stuck with me, but the disc works like a trainingguide for careful listening. While some of the mixing techniques are abit obvious (a humming sound slowly pans from stereo right to left;distant sounds slowly fade in while closer sounds pop into the mix),most of the time the sound isn't drawing attention to its manipulation,and that's a good thing. In a very traditional Music Concrete sense,this work is about the sounds themselves in space; sound as an objectto be perceived. To that end, the record can be enjoyed vastlydifferently in different settings where gongs, distant trains, torturedpianos and chewing potato chips aren't usually familiar. The onlytraditionally musical timbres included are a gong and some mutedpercussion at the beginning and a piano that is being banged on andplucked at ferociously towards the end of the piece. The bookendinstruments hold together a string of recordings from amplifiedroom-tone to all of the scraping and crackling sounds that these kindsof records generally include to keep listeners guessing. I can imagineLawrence English performing this piece on a stage full of seeminglyrandom objects and tape machines with loops of field recordings. I cansee him scurrying back and forth between the pile of leaves, the birdcage, and the broken crash cymbal as a well-dressed art crowd looks onand wonders "is this really music?" The wonderful point of music likethis is, however, that none of it matters in the end. The sounds areobjects, you are free to browse them at your leisure. There will besome you find quite pleasant and others that are objectionable, whilestill others may leave no impression at all, and if you have anycomments please leave them with the curator.
While the debate over what is or isn't 'real music' is tired, there arestill releases now and again that call that nagging question to mind,just as a reminder of the very far extremes of music that exist beyondeven the peripheral vision of most CD-buying folks, and this iscertainly one of them. For roughly 18 minutes, English treats us towhat could be a foley recording session for a major motion picture ifsome of the sounds weren't layered and overlapped through time. There'slittle emotional or psychological reward for making it through those 18minutes, and the theme of "Ghost Towns" isn't explored in anysignificant way that stuck with me, but the disc works like a trainingguide for careful listening. While some of the mixing techniques are abit obvious (a humming sound slowly pans from stereo right to left;distant sounds slowly fade in while closer sounds pop into the mix),most of the time the sound isn't drawing attention to its manipulation,and that's a good thing. In a very traditional Music Concrete sense,this work is about the sounds themselves in space; sound as an objectto be perceived. To that end, the record can be enjoyed vastlydifferently in different settings where gongs, distant trains, torturedpianos and chewing potato chips aren't usually familiar. The onlytraditionally musical timbres included are a gong and some mutedpercussion at the beginning and a piano that is being banged on andplucked at ferociously towards the end of the piece. The bookendinstruments hold together a string of recordings from amplifiedroom-tone to all of the scraping and crackling sounds that these kindsof records generally include to keep listeners guessing. I can imagineLawrence English performing this piece on a stage full of seeminglyrandom objects and tape machines with loops of field recordings. I cansee him scurrying back and forth between the pile of leaves, the birdcage, and the broken crash cymbal as a well-dressed art crowd looks onand wonders "is this really music?" The wonderful point of music likethis is, however, that none of it matters in the end. The sounds areobjects, you are free to browse them at your leisure. There will besome you find quite pleasant and others that are objectionable, whilestill others may leave no impression at all, and if you have anycomments please leave them with the curator.
3119 Hits
Vertical Form
Keeping it simple and writing good music go hand in hand quite a lot.The guitars, drums, vocals, and other instruments on this album speakthat rule clearly and demonstrate that excellent music doesn't alwayshave to be radically new or different. Mike Fellows writes rock musicwith just a bit of folk and country influence. His guitar picking andharmonica playing is simple and structured around smooth songstructures fronted by a broad and gentle voice. Bits of piano andelectronic drums highlight this otherwise straightforward attempt atwriting a good album. There's no flashy production, no outrageousarrangements that call for ten-plus instruments to flood the mixsimultaneously, and, most importantly, there isn't an air ofpretentiousness surrounding anything Fellows has to say. All of hislyrics recall stories told on the front porch with a cold one in handand a beautiful, moonlit sky up above. So what is left if there isn'tany of the extra stuff mentioned above? All that's left is really allthat matters: good song-writing and a clear sense of direction. WhileFellows never draws his voice out like some famous country croonersmight, his instrumentation is clearly a throwback to when country androck weren't opposites at all. This love for acoustic instrumentation,easy rhythms, and clear, distinct melodies could've gone terribly wrongif it weren't for the fact that Fellows never lets a strong stray toofar away from its origins and never bothers trying to extend songsbeyond their proper range. Limited Storyline Guestis just over a half-hour in length and of its nine songs, only threebreak the four-minute mark (and just barely at that). The songs openstrong and stay strong from start to finish, expanding on the themesthat Fellows open them with. Besides all of this, the songs are simplygorgeous and have a whimsical edge to them that makes them all the moreattractive. "Way I Love" and "AM" have, in particular, unforgettablemelodies that have stuck in my head since I first played the CD. Imight be able to chalk my appreciation of this album up to nostalgia,but repeated listens have proven that the songs can stand repeatedlistens and, in most cases, the tunes become stronger after being givena few chances. There's not a bad song on the album and after awhileFellows' voice becomes one of the most addictive elements of the album.I'm going to take this outside with me and play it while I watch theworld go by. It's a good relaxing album with no extras added because noextras are needed.
Keeping it simple and writing good music go hand in hand quite a lot.The guitars, drums, vocals, and other instruments on this album speakthat rule clearly and demonstrate that excellent music doesn't alwayshave to be radically new or different. Mike Fellows writes rock musicwith just a bit of folk and country influence. His guitar picking andharmonica playing is simple and structured around smooth songstructures fronted by a broad and gentle voice. Bits of piano andelectronic drums highlight this otherwise straightforward attempt atwriting a good album. There's no flashy production, no outrageousarrangements that call for ten-plus instruments to flood the mixsimultaneously, and, most importantly, there isn't an air ofpretentiousness surrounding anything Fellows has to say. All of hislyrics recall stories told on the front porch with a cold one in handand a beautiful, moonlit sky up above. So what is left if there isn'tany of the extra stuff mentioned above? All that's left is really allthat matters: good song-writing and a clear sense of direction. WhileFellows never draws his voice out like some famous country croonersmight, his instrumentation is clearly a throwback to when country androck weren't opposites at all. This love for acoustic instrumentation,easy rhythms, and clear, distinct melodies could've gone terribly wrongif it weren't for the fact that Fellows never lets a strong stray toofar away from its origins and never bothers trying to extend songsbeyond their proper range. Limited Storyline Guestis just over a half-hour in length and of its nine songs, only threebreak the four-minute mark (and just barely at that). The songs openstrong and stay strong from start to finish, expanding on the themesthat Fellows open them with. Besides all of this, the songs are simplygorgeous and have a whimsical edge to them that makes them all the moreattractive. "Way I Love" and "AM" have, in particular, unforgettablemelodies that have stuck in my head since I first played the CD. Imight be able to chalk my appreciation of this album up to nostalgia,but repeated listens have proven that the songs can stand repeatedlistens and, in most cases, the tunes become stronger after being givena few chances. There's not a bad song on the album and after awhileFellows' voice becomes one of the most addictive elements of the album.I'm going to take this outside with me and play it while I watch theworld go by. It's a good relaxing album with no extras added because noextras are needed.
4147 Hits
