Temporary Residence
Everyone knows what became of the members of Slint following theirsplit. From the Palace Brothers records to Aerial/Papa M to Tortoise tothe For Carnation, all have kept pretty busy and their individualprojects have gotten a fair amount of notice. That is, with theexception of Evergreen, who usually evoke a response of "who?" whenevertheir name is dropped outside of their native Louisville, KY. FormerSlinter Britt Walford joined the band in 1993, adding his powerhousesignature energy to the overall feel of the band which already held afair amount of gumption. Their self-titled debut and only release nowsees well-deserved reissue treatment from Temporary Residence,including two bonus tracks left off the original pressing. Based onSean McLoughlin's yelped meanderings alone, Evergreen deserve a listen,after which the listener (read: victim) will be forever entranced andotherwise sucked in by the infectious tempos and brutal punksensibilities. Those tired of the recent '60s and '70s rip-off revivalbands will feel an immense joy listening to this record, as their toestap, arms sway, heads thrash, and bodies flail against one another. Itsounds like its influences though with an added bit of modern moxy, andfits right along some of the classic records of the punk and post-punkgenres. "Petting the Beast," "Whip Cream Bottle," "Plastic Bag": allhave the ability to tear down walls with their naked aggression. Thenthe funky bass and shredding guitars of "Klark Kent" arrive to bringthe roof in after them. Things slow down a bit with "Sweet Jane" (no,not that one) and "Glass Highway" — both quite good — but it's oflittle consequence: the damage is already done and will return again on"Coyote" just in case there's anyone left alive. The two bonus tracksare both good fun, and fit right along with the rest in winningfashion. All in all, a horribly ignored release now ready for thespotlight, and deserving every bit of the attention.
Everyone knows what became of the members of Slint following theirsplit. From the Palace Brothers records to Aerial/Papa M to Tortoise tothe For Carnation, all have kept pretty busy and their individualprojects have gotten a fair amount of notice. That is, with theexception of Evergreen, who usually evoke a response of "who?" whenevertheir name is dropped outside of their native Louisville, KY. FormerSlinter Britt Walford joined the band in 1993, adding his powerhousesignature energy to the overall feel of the band which already held afair amount of gumption. Their self-titled debut and only release nowsees well-deserved reissue treatment from Temporary Residence,including two bonus tracks left off the original pressing. Based onSean McLoughlin's yelped meanderings alone, Evergreen deserve a listen,after which the listener (read: victim) will be forever entranced andotherwise sucked in by the infectious tempos and brutal punksensibilities. Those tired of the recent '60s and '70s rip-off revivalbands will feel an immense joy listening to this record, as their toestap, arms sway, heads thrash, and bodies flail against one another. Itsounds like its influences though with an added bit of modern moxy, andfits right along some of the classic records of the punk and post-punkgenres. "Petting the Beast," "Whip Cream Bottle," "Plastic Bag": allhave the ability to tear down walls with their naked aggression. Thenthe funky bass and shredding guitars of "Klark Kent" arrive to bringthe roof in after them. Things slow down a bit with "Sweet Jane" (no,not that one) and "Glass Highway" — both quite good — but it's oflittle consequence: the damage is already done and will return again on"Coyote" just in case there's anyone left alive. The two bonus tracksare both good fun, and fit right along with the rest in winningfashion. All in all, a horribly ignored release now ready for thespotlight, and deserving every bit of the attention.
The feeling of glee that came over me finding something like this inthe bins at a cheap price was amazing. It's almost as if somebody hasbeen reading my mind as of late. German label Repertoire has snatchedthis gem from AON's back catalogue—their first 12" EP, originallyreleased on ZTT back in 1983—and slapped some bonus 12" remixes andincluded a DVD of videos. The Art of Noise were one of the first groupsto introduce sampling of non-musical sounds into musical rhythms andtextures and Into Battle,their first EP is a groundbreaking legend. The EP featured two minorhits, the chunky "Beat Box," which influenced a ton of 1980s acts andprovided the blueprints for a style later described as "big beat" inthe 1990s, and the 10+ minute lush "Moments in Love," most famouslyused as Madonna and Sean Penn's wedding march. Both were later compiledon other AON releases like Who's Afraid of... and Daft,but there was something that made this EP a bit more interesrting.Short pieces like "Battle," "Flesh In Armor," "Donna," and thesix-second "Bright Noise" add neat little transitions, which wassomething I had always kind of hoped other bands might take hint fromand make a 12" EP something more than just an ordinary 12" single.(Tragically, it didn't happen enough.) The CD is rounded out with two12" remixes of their arguably biggest single from the TrevorHorn-produced ZTT era, "Close to the Edit," both of which of which Ihad never heard and am likewise pleased by the addition of live pianoand other instrumentation not present in the original versions. The DVDwhich comes along with this is what nearly made me drool. Looking atthe package, it lists the videos for "Moments in Love," "Beat Box," and"Close to the Edit" (as well as the forgettable track "Metaforce" fromtheir reunion a couple years ago). Back in the 1980s, everything wasn'tas good as people think they remember, musically. MTV didn't actuallyplay a lot of cool stuff, as I vividly remember being bombarded withTom Petty, John (Cougar? not Cougar!) Mellencamp, and Bryan Adams. Itwas the show Night Flight on the USA Network where I firstsaw/heard/videotaped bands like Coil, Skinny Puppy, Cabaret Voltaire,Wire, and The Art of Noise. I have aging videotapes with videos like"Beat Box" recorded and the thought of it on a DVD was a divine gift.However, much to my dismay, "Beat Box" doesn't appear despite beinglisted (BASTARDS!) I do get to have the gorgeous video of "Moments inLove" with wigs, singing turtles, and ice-skaters in slow motion andthe award-winning classic of "Close (to the Edit)," where three guysand a little girl trash various musical instruments, so, I guess I getwhat I pay for. However, should this "Repertoire Records" (never heardof them before this) ever fix this mistake, I'll be quite happy andquickly try to exchange this version with them. 
Osama "Sam" Shalabi's new full-length album with his group Shalabi Effect is a bit of a departure from recent solo outings, which focused on improvisation and textured electronic instrumentals. The musicians assisting Shalabi on Pink Abyss are predictably drawn from the ranks of Montreal musical collectives and supergroups such as gy!be, Do May Say Think, Set Fire To Flames and Broken Social Scene.
After a string of arguably mediocre releases, Laibach return with anunparallelled strength and urgency that basically invalidates thescores of modern post-post-industrial electronic body music pollutingdark clubs and college radio programs with horrible lines about deadlylove obsessions or other similar whiny crap. Laibach have proven in thepast with albums like Kapital and Opus Dei that they are capable of forceful electronic masterpieces, and with records like Krst-Pod Triglavom: Baptism and Macbeth,their love for theatrical grandeur show their ability to step out ofthe mold with anthemic treasures. Teamed up with two of NovaMute'stechno champions Iztok Turek and Umek, the results are nothing lessthan stellar. While plenty of european guys dress in black proclaimingthat we can dance as the world crumbles, Laibach is hands down the mostconvincing. There's no equal for the gritty, low lead voice and choralvocals combined with the loud and punchy syntheitics on tracks like "DuBist Unser," and songs like the "Achtung!," "Hell: Symmetry," and thealbum's single "Tanz Mit Laibach" (a nod to DAF) could easily set anyrivethead-filled industrial dancefloor on fire. There are other usesfor the record too: I personally found myself saved by it on publictransportation, which I absolutely hate taking when the inclementweather prevents me from cycling in to work and the loathsome commuterssniffling, sneezing and forcing me to stand piss me off.Doublep-tracked vocals on songs like "Ende" are ear-ticklinglydelicious. English-sung songs can almost be too comical to bear, sometimes. "Barbarians are coming...they'll burn down your cities andDisneylands...they will turn into snakes and you're better off dead ifthey crawl in your bed" is almost laughable on the song "Now YouWill Pay," making me long for a German version so I don't shoot waterout of my nose. There isn't a dull milisecond and the album never losesits strength. Be very careful, however, as the music can be sohypnotizing, that potentially damaging loud volumes are quitedesirable. 
The second in Die Stadt's ambitious reissue project covering 18 of Tietchens' early releases, 1980's Biotop sees the artist venturing further into the quirky pop idiom that his debut Adventures in Soundonly hinted at. Each track is a rich, two-minute exercise in Tietchens'inimitable melodic style, filtered through vintage synths and drummachines, receiving their own portraits in the liner notes. Tietchenshas also imagined a troupe of synth-wielding goofs as his backing band(Das Zeitzeichenorchester?"the time-signal orchestra"), all with namesthat are anagrams of the composer's, including Stu 'The Cute' Sins.This brand of humor helps to foreground the music inside, which, forall its melodicism, comes with a noticeable sense of detachment. Whilesimilar in mood to the surreal, coldly cinematic electropop of hiscontemporaries, Der Plan, and modern-day wunderkind Felix Kubin,Tietchens' Biotop pushes the pop further into space, weavingheady, claustrophobic atmospherics in and out of each robotic beat anddated synth whirl. This music does show its age, but it almost works in favor of the strange environment conjured. Even at its most bouncy or sweet, Biotopkeeps a bizarre, grainy distance, invoking the kind of antique futurismgroups like Trans Am wish they had it in them to create. Tietchens hassaid that, at the time, he was intentionally writing songs with no basslines, in order to erase any commercial potential the record mighthave. Listening today, however, I'm thinking his plan may havebackfired as many of these songs approach what I'd imagine radiojingles of the future to sound like. Coincidentally it was Tiechens'mentor Okko Bekker who said that the sparse and concise nature of thesesongs reminded him of radio time-signals, kind of like old-fashionedstation-IDs. For such a (relatively) straight-forward piece of work, Biotopstrikes me, ironically, as lacking the personality that makes many ofTietchens' more inaccessible, recent releases stand above the rest.That said, the album is a fascinating, elusive little creation,valuable apart from its status as a document of the brilliantmusician's formative years. 
The fourth CD release from Asmus Tietchens and Thomas Köner's collaborative project Kontakt der Jünglinge, nis the duo's strongest work to date. Like their other releases, thedisc is drone-heavy, consisting of one 40+ minute live improvisation,dominated by huge bell tones and what sound like recordings of rushingwind, delayed, looped and exploded along a slow evolution. Whileprevious efforts warranted descriptors like "barren" and "bleak," basedon their preference for more acute, concr?te-associated sounds orsparse assembly, n is the first Kontakt der Jünglinge releaseto which these words apply in a comprehensive way. Tietchens and Könerwork together in seamless fashion, arranging sounds that define theboundaries of spaces rather than concentrating on details or eventswithin. The piece succeeds in avoiding the more recognizable orassociative sounds that appeared on earlier releases while creating arich, more easily inhabitable sound-world, in this case something likea vacuous region of deep space. The title, a break from the lineartitles of the first three collaborations (1, 0, -1),also suggests that this fourth disc deals with sounds of a moreelemental nature or offers a purification of the ideas posited by itspredecessors. Just words, yes, but very few things can fill a room likethis.
Devoted followers of cult obscurantist acts like Nurse With Wound havebecome accustomed, over the years, to their favorite music being issuedin absurdly limited "special" editions, created to be hopelesslyobscure within a month of their release. I couldn't recount all of theinstances when I have heard of a new release being offered in alimited, numbered edition of 100 handmade copies on transparent vinyl,with unique art objects, the first 10 orders including an exclusivebonus 7" smeared with the artist's bodily fluids, and one extra specialcopy containing a golden ticket entitling the holder to visit theartist's home and take liberties with their pet. As frustrating asthese ultra-limited releases can be, ardent devotees still hold out thehope that with vigilance, cunning and a fair amount of cash, they canpossess their own piece of the dream. Now, the lovely, talented andextraordinarily perverse folks at Bronson Unlimited Records have justupped the ante and blown all hope into the stratosphere with therelease of one of the more unique limited editions in recent memory. Goat Woundis a tribute to the work of Nurse With Wound - 25 artists from aroundthe world anonymously contributed an original untitled piece as anaudio tribute to Steven Stapleton. The tracks are divided among six 3"compact discs with individual, reversible interlocking puzzle panelcovers, a Goat Wound postcard and a pewter goat statue, all ofwhich is housed in a handmade, art inlaid wooden box. The catch: Thisis truly a one-of-a-kind tribute to Steven Stapleton, and only StevenStapleton. As unbelievable as it sounds, Goat Wound is limitedto only one copy, which was shipped directly to Cooloorta Farm upon itscompletion. No one, not even the label itself or the artists involved,will ever be able to own a copy of the set. In addition, the 25 artistshave each relinquished all copyright claims to the work on Goat Wound,freeing Steven Stapleton to use the music as raw materials for futuresound sculptures, should he choose. The only relic that remains for thecurious public is Bronson Unlimited's fantastic 
Of all the tracks included on the Brazilian volume of the excellent Love, Peace, & Poetrypsych comp series, Sound Factory's "Let's Go" is by far the strangest.The song tries at a fairly generic, surf-influenced groove, but comesoff sounding more like a cautionary tale against heavy acid use, ahideously top-heavy mix capped off by singer Kevin Brennan's falsetto,so bad it's honestly not even funny. The song is a sad but perfectintroduction to the band's single, thoroughly obscure album, reissuedlast year by Shadoks. Sound Factory cannot be explained away asan amateur psych record or even as a novelty for the collectors marketalone. Something about the group protects them from seeming either tooincompetent or too generic for the adventurous listener. Seven of thesongs are covers (Cream, Traffic, Jefferson Airplane, and Blind Faithamong others), lending the automatic charm that comes with foreignersborrowing so directly (and almost exclusively) from theBritish/American rock canon. Portuguese accents get bent awkwardlyaround Robert Johnson's wail, and a Tropicalian lilt is brought to thestodgiest of thick, white rock, shoddily-played and cheaply-recorded;while it might be easy to call this music unoriginal, it's impossibleto say it's no fun. Missteps like "Let's Go" transcend camp valuebecause they are almost too obtrusive or annoying for even a committednovelty enthusiast to stomach. Novelty gets left behind for a stranger,more rarified appeal, as if the group's unintentionally off-kilterapproach prevents them from being so quickly placed or dated. A fewmoments of truly exceptional musicianship further complicate things.The guitar and bass players are undoubtedly skilled, their inventiveparts frequently coming into odd juxtaposition with clumsier sections.Brennan's solos are at times masterful Hendrix-isms, made more enticingby their frequent burial deep in the mix, and drummer Trajano's shakycroon gives two Steve Winwood classics a fragility that, professionalor not, lends a new beauty to the tired songs. The result is a recordcharming for its amateur-ish exuberance but also thrilling in the waythe band conquers its limitations, managing an addictive, ifidiosyncratic sound. - 
For 20 years, Matthew Bower's Skullflower has been widely influentialin the noise scene, evolving a signature sound over time to incorporatethe amplified drones, repetition and ?ber-psychedelic noise thatcharacterizes the recent works. Bower's sister group Sunroof! usessimilar distortion-pushing strategies, but serves as an outlet forgentler, trancelike, even transcendent applications of dissonance andnoise. Cloudzis perhaps Bower's most meditative album yet, taking a clear step backfrom atonality and adding fuller instrumentation that threatens to addmelody and rhythm to the abstract sound sculptures. 2003 was a banneryear for Matthew Bower, with the release of Skullflower's trance-metalmasterpiece Exquisite Fucking Boredom, the subsequent tour with Vibracathedral Orchestra, and now Cloudz, which is probably Sunroof!'s strongest album yet, with the possible exception of 2001's double-album Bliss. Cloudzclimbs into a rarefied strata; noise that is blissed-out and beatific,but also intense, shamanistic and loud as hell. "Machine" creates acushion of distortion that lifts a scattered piano melody into the jetstream, before transforming into a maze of electronic blurps, redolentof the giant god-computer in the sky detailed by Philip K. Dick in hisGnostic exegesis. Further into this astral temple of cumulonimbusgnosticism comes the urgent dot-matrix rhythms of "Grasshopper,"followed quickly by the ratcheting beats and lysergic reverberations of"Viva." "Zero" is a bright evocation of Krautrock, something like aNeu! track scrubbed with steel wool: motorik beats smeared withhigh-pitched glitches and squiggles. "Universal Acceleration" is afloating steam calliope bubbling up into the heady, stoned atmosphereon a pillow of Nintendo sound effects. "Tornado Rose Canoe" is thehighlight, a senseless electric guitar solo that shoots straight forthe third-eye and throws off all manner of hallucinogenic streamers."Silver Nazi Suicide" is this set's most challenging track, a richlydetailed 12-minute excursion into carnivalesque bells, horns andshakahuchi that absolutely hypnotized me. The insect drones of"Primavera" and the clean, hicupping digital washes and vocoderizedchanting of "Silver Zero" end the disc on a note of futuristic nirvana.After being pushed into the loftiest firmaments of this heavenly templeof drone, I've been ushered into a binary landscape of mantra-spewingrobot gods. After a few more spins of Cloudz, I hope to master their language. 
So far, this split series has been a smorgasbord of tasty morsels thatleft me coming back for more. It had to happen sooner or later thatthere would be a dish that I'd want to pass on, and that's the casewith Life & Times.The Shoal have gotten the closest to becoming one with the other bandon this edition, but the results are not particularly remarkable ornoteworthy. In fact, a lot of it comes off like filler, or a perpetualwait for something that may or may not ultimately arrive. The firsttrack, though featuring some nice atmospherics and vocal effects, isnothing more than an introduction of what the listener is about tohear, as well as a thank you for listening thus far. It's unnecessary,as most are probably buying the EP on the name recognition of CerberusShoal alone, and it's a bit heavy-handed in areas, like a long-windedSunday gospel about the importance of holding your head up. After that,the music assumes the shape of a low gurgle and whisper routine, slowlyraising over a low chirp into the peaks and valleys of various melodicexperiments. I had grown fond of the bombast of previous collaborationsand thought maybe this was just a temporary departure, but it continuesfor the whole release, never quite forming a congruous whole. There ishope on the third track, "Continuumed," as structure seeps in and atrue song emerges, but then the fourth track offers more of the samesonic tinkering. Unfortunately, the end result sounds like just someknob twiddling and experimentations with effects and small chordprogressions and melodies rather than a true collaborative effort onsweeping compositions like the previous CDs in the series. I was leftmissing the latter, and though their is obviously a great deal ofcreativity and talent at work, it just didn't affect me the way I'dhoped it would. 
Hindsight is 20/20: wide-eyed dreamers of yesteryear once marveled atthe thought of flying cars that would dominate our world's skyways andfreedom from the ever-present red menace that threatened to consume orway of life. How na?ve, they were. Today we lurch around in behemothsport utility vehicles and the followers of Lindon LaRouche still annoyus at many urban street corners. Now, those fantasies seem somewhatoutmoded, antiquated, and quaint. So too, I feel, is much of the realmof progressive rock that cropped up in the 1970s. What aspired to finddepth and insight in what had before been trashy rock music too oftenmushroomed into purple prose and exercises in rambling fantasy imagery.Case in point: Kyrie Eleison, yet another compilation of recordingsfrom a "lost" band, overlooked in its time and ready for their momentto shine. Rather than coming off as an artifact to be studied andappreciated, The Complete Recordingsreveals itself to be much more of a fossil, thin and desiccated,utterly without context, and to put it simply—with no meat on itsbones. Tentative, Phantom of the Opera organ tones lull along the slowmelodies that buffer up against distorted guitar and thick thuddrumming. Nothing particularly remarkable stands out, even in theirgrandiose solo sections where the members launch into perfunctory apingof obvious influences like early Genesis. The lyrics are mystifying,but not in a majestic way, merely in that they don't seem to have beenworked with much. The influences now seem more akin to Led Zeppelin's"Ramble On" and "Gollum, the eeeevil one." On "A Friend," they blow thelid off of this whole civilization sham with lines like "You know you're caught in the trap / A trap of human beings / Calling yourselves society / A trap," a decidedly dark albeit banal claim that they fail to back up with the preschool sing-a-long style lines that follow: "If a friend is happy / It's pleasure for you / If a friend has lost something / It's a loss of yours too."Anarchy and fraternity all in one song, it's something that most bandswould not be able to pull off—and Kyrie Eleison is one of those bandsthat can't. They stumble further in their quest to encapsulate what iswrong with our societal trap on another track, declaring "You can hate the world / It will hate you / 'cause it's wars is hate / And hate is a war / You are a wonderer."(I copied that from the lyric sheet, that's not a mishearing.)Somewhere in the middle it seems to lose any kind of syntax or meaning.From "Reign": "I'd like to kick you in your bums / But brothers would take their giant guns / Shoot brutality into my brain." For sure a daft line, but not a terrible capsule review of this overblown compilation. The Complete Recordingsseems like another example of basement diving music archivists lookingto pass off the chaff of its era as a maligned work of wonder. Trackdown the lyrics sheet if you can, as it can be rather amusing. - 
Thalia Zedek is a true original, with a voice hewed by years on the road fronting aggressive outfits, her musical stylings born out of influence but still uniquely hers. Her latest is a dynamo: a strong step forward on a new label and a powerful piece of work overall.
The world was probably not quite ready for the french electro punkgroup Métal Urbain in 1977. Not only were lyrics in French probably ahard sell outside of their native country, but a punk rock band with adrum machine couldn't have been the most popular sound with traditionalpunk rock nor anti-punk crowds (too many guitars for the ThrobbingGristle/Suicide/Cabaret Voltaire fans and too electronic for SexPistols/Wire/Clash fans). However, with gritty, blistering guitars andbrutal confrontational vocals, it's a sound and a formula echoed in the1980s by early Pop Will Eat Itself records, Pussy Galore, andespecially Steve Albini's Big Black. Still, no efforts were made bypeople like Shimmy Disc or similar labels to curate obscure tributealbums making Métal Urbain cool again. In fact, even their secondrelease, the 1977 7" single of "Paris Marquis"/"Clé de Contact," (RoughTrade's catalogue number 001), has ironically yet to appear on any ofthe bazillion Rough Trade "punk"/"post-punk" compilations released inthe last few years. Thankfully neither the group nor Carpark's newsub-label Acute aren't going to let them be completely forgotten. Thegroup reformed last year and played dates in both NYC and Montréal andhopefully plan to play some more this coming year now this collectionhas surfaced, collecting everything the group released before theirsplit along with some unreleased tracks for the first time in NorthAmerica. It's always interesting to find out which band's release wasso strong that it made somebody launch a record label and when I heardof this reissue, I pulled out my record of Les Hommes Mortis Sont Dangereux,an LP +7" collection released posthumously in 1981, to find the USCelluliod release catalogue numbers CEL1 and CEL2! Anybody who owns Les Hommeswill probably note that this disc is almost a complete reissue with thesame cover artwork. Groups like this who chose not to sound like therest of the pack (there's two guitarists, no bass, and a drum machine),while didn't achieve the widespread popularity in their day have aunique ability to sound completely fresh nearly three decades later.Catchy tunes like "Lady Coca Cola" and "Hysterie Connective" areperfect examples of how this band had the ability to be both viciousand infectious at the same time. Even the unused tracks like "LittleGirl of Love" could easily pass for a bitchin' Sigue Sigue Sputnikprototype with its fuzzy rockabilly guitar riff. This is a fantasticreissue that can serve as an example for well thought-out reissueprojects, spanning their entire recorded career on one disc with abooklet of fascinating stories, pictures, and details of each of the 24songs. In 2004, Acute is threatening CD reissues of two post-MétalUrbain projects, Dr. Mix and the Remix and Metal Boys. In the meantime,it's never too late to play catch-up with the original lineup. 
2003 ended too abruptly for me to get in a review or even a mention ofwhat has slowly become my favorite noise record of that year, thusnamed because it resists any academic sub-classification, remaininghighly listenable, though irreducible. The delay was due, ironically,to my inability to describe Royal Paintwithout making it sound entirely derivative. I could compare Mr. Kites,whoever this solitary and staunchly anti-technologian (no computers,keyboards, effects) abuser of arcane electronics may be, to Amps forChrist as he does incorporate his share of garbled folk and naïve popreferences. It would be easy, also, to write about the layered enginedrones that characterize several tracks, and while these are impressivein their assemblage, and charming by way of a persistentone-dimensionality, there is nothing to make Kites stand out against somany artists who've treated the same sounds to more elaborate, deeplyinvolved investigations. Kites' exploits the code of homemade ethics bydismissing obsolete technologies that even the most whitebread ofDIY-ers have grown to accept, but he does this without coming off likethe Jandek of his particular niche. Royal Paint includes someof the blind Jandekian resilience, but it's also a compelling listenthroughout, neither in spite nor because of its simplicity. Thenine-minute opener, "Staring into the Sun," works as a kind ofpurifying ritual, a screaming match between feedback generator andprickly static (Kites' weapons of choice), my ears as helplessmediators. Seven minutes in and the disc's ragged logic begins to takeshape; these fluctuations and skewed intervals trace the skeleton of apop song. The following three tracks, moving from a neo-pagan campfirestomp through a bit of faux-Celtic acoustic plucking with a few sheetsof white noise to cleanse the palette, only support my suspicions; thesongs offer the directness of pop with none of its easy rewards. Whilelabelmates Hair Police use traditional instruments to destroy the"song" from the inside-out, Kites works through his own bizarreprimitivism to reconstruct it. This is not noise for noise's sake. Thecomfortable or recognizable moments on Royal Paint do not allowfor a sarcastic tone or some humorous bent, dampening the truly painfulparts, of which there are many. The occasional sing-a-long bit andmelodic tinkering set up bizarre juxtapositions to make their shrillcounterparts seem more complex and hard to ignore. It might seem easyto dismiss Kites as just one more jaded punk cashing in on the homemaderenaissance, but Royal Paint gives this "simple" music a colorful and intimidating face.
Songs of Norway is the duo of Aaron Moore and Nick Mott of Volcano TheBear. The two musicians actually formed six months before the formationof the Bear in 1995, though they have just now gotten around toreleasing their first album. For their debut LP Despite the Cloakon the Beta-Lactam Ring label, Moore and Mott employ their intuitionfor improvisation across seven tracks of minimal free music, utilizingguitar, violin, trumpet and assorted percussion. "Good Morning GreatLegend" is filled with atonal pulls of the bow which bend, curve andswoop unpredictably while randomly struck gongs and drums form apercussive response, of sorts. On "Miles of Beef," the mosquito buzz ofthe violin flits ponderously over Moore's senseless drums, until thetrack takes a sharp left turn into primitive scrapings and tumblingfound percussion. This willfully messy non-formula continues for theduration of the album. Sometimes, as on "Would I Witness CrustaceanEvolve," the players seem genuinely collaborative and theirconversations yield interesting results, but the overwhelming majorityof Despite the Cloak sounds disparate, as if the Moore and Mottwere completely ignoring each other, each trying to voice their ownseparate agendas. "Leopard Hairs" adds weird esoteric textures with oddwhispers and the vibrating aumgns of guest Stewart Brackley, who alsocontributes double bass and trumpet to a few other tracks. DanielPadden's clarinet adds interest to "Inner Arms and Necks" which takes afew minutes to get anywhere, and when it does finally arrive, I wasforced to ask myself if the wait was really worth it. "PartridgeCarnival" ends the disc with Aaron Moore's high-speed drumming, whichrolls energetically while Nick Mott attempts to coax some DerekBailey-isms out of his strings. While Despite the Cloak mightappeal to hardcore improv enthusiasts, I couldn't be more indifferentabout it. I realize that free playing has a built-in defense againstaccusations that it lacks melody or harmonic sense, but Songs ofNorway's purposeful unpredictability is all too predictable. As a duo,Moore and Mott lack that essential spark of collaborative energy anddramatic compositional intuition that makes Volcano The Bear's music soimpressive. It's the same problem that I find in a lot of new musicgoing under the banner of "free music" or "free folk" — groups such asSunburned Hand of the Man, No Neck Blues Band and Jackie-O Motherfucker— I sometimes get the nagging sensation that these musicians justaren't trying very hard. 
Guignol is French for "puppet," and the word is often used to connote aclassical theater form involving large marionettes enacting heroic orcomic tales. It's a name that perfectly describes the music on Angela, David & The Great Neapolitan Road Issue,which is vaguely theatrical, strangely comic, and largely informed byan odd concept involving French instrumentation and dadaist lyricaltactics. Lest we forget, surrealism as an aesthetic, theatrical andliterary movement began in France in the early 1900's, and Guignol'smusic, though modern, seems a bit stuck in this time and place, perhapsbecause it was recorded over a summer in the French countryside. Thegroup is comprised of Jeremy Barnes (of Bablicon), Aaron Moore andLaurence Coleman (both from Volcano The Bear). Assisting on a fewtracks is Aaron Moore's VTB and Songs of Norway cohort Nick Mott, andKorena Pang. It's a mysterious little enigma of an album, seeming atonce intimate and detached. Much of the album seems primitivelyrecorded and loosely improvised, but the beauty and intimacy of Moore'svocals on the opening track "Of Houses and Canals" recalls thefragility of Robert Wyatt's on Rock Bottom. The lyrics aredisjointed and surreal, bringing to mind the spaced-out whimsicality ofsolo Syd Barrett. Much of the instrumentation is minimal, withclattering percussion and warm organ tones. Its idiosyncrasies arebeguiling, and much of the album washes over like a gentle afternoonhallucination. Even the occasional areas of tension and noise seemoddly pastoral. Jeremy Barnes brings with him that same intuition forseemingly accidental psychedelia that has made every Bablicon album soengaging. "Angela and David" and "Discover Guignol's Band" are the sametrack, repeated twice, one after the other, and as strange as thatsounds, it seems rather charming in context. The spare production andcarefully chosen instrumentation lends many of the tracks theatmosphere of medieval France, enhancing the music's anachronistictendencies. Though its charms are ephemeral, Guignol's album is anenticing ambiguity. 
There's nothing more refreshing than being deceived by music. I thoughtit was going to be an electronic-fueled record of funked up rhythms andsome glitched guitar; but it, like a chameleon, slowly changed intoother creatures. There are only two musicians in this band and thereare no overdubs or machines that makes all the fabulous noises. Chromeis a live album of bone-annihilating rhythms, sharp and preciseplaying, and spaced out jams that would make Can and Neu! quite proud."Look, You're On TV" and "Cold Sweat Part XVI" start the album out withsome snappy drum chops and drugged-up guitar playing that fallssomewhere between firmly psychedelic and absolutely jarring. Whatfollows gyrates between cavernous soundscapes and mathematicallydesigned metal screams. It's in the middle, where the drums sound likea steam engine chugging down the line and the strings hum like massivebells, that Nice Nice is most captivating. Sure, there are a widevariety of sounds here and it's amazing that just two guys are capableof doing it all in a live environment, but they both have a knack formelody and rhythmic tension that make jam sessions like "Nein" and "OnNeon" so unrelentingly beautiful. Where Nice Nice stick closest totheir melody and their sense of beauty, they succeed the most. That'snot to say it isn't fun as hell to have my head beat into my shouldersby their wild changes in style, but their ability to craft narcoticmelodies and hypnotic rhythms (see "We Go Towards," especially) standout as their best trait. That being said, Chrome comes awayfeeling like an amazing treat. There's a variety of music here thatfits together well as a record; it's a cohesive experience withoutfeeling dull or repetitive and yet it manages to move between sonicallyopposite poles. If two people can make such a variety of music on thesame record without sounding too scattered, it leaves me wondering whatall these other duos are doing with their silly guitar solos andamateurish rhythmic capabilities. 
Genre names obviously come to stand for different things over time,usually by becoming broader and broader as they go. What happens,though, when they start to encompass sounds that are pretty muchantithetical to their own roots? It's hard to know what to make of Mostfor exactly that reason: this bunch of 40-something musicians is waytoo good at playing its instruments to really carry the amateur charmof old punk rock, but it can also belt out throat-shredding bulldozersongs like "Shikaku" (from their self-titled first album) on a moment'snotice. Curiously, now that they're specifically identifying theirmusic as "punk," key and tempo changes and other conspicuous signs ofcapable musicianship have started creeping into the works, and thereare even a couple of choruses on Most Mostthat could have been lifted from a Blondie album. (Now that I thinkabout it, that probably says something about how Most fits under thepunk umbrella, too.) The results of my distracted first listening keeptelling me to say that Most Most is a mellower affair than itspredecessor, but it really isn't: it just isn't compressed to hell andmastered at the same ear-splitting levels. Phew manages to rip it upfar better than she ever did as a star of the '70s Japanese punk scene;twenty-five years on, she's given up the dorky beret while keeping thehowling just enough under control that she doesn't sound like an agingmember of some therapeutic drum circle. She's far deadlier and morefocused than Debbie Harry now, and while she'll never exude death likePatti Smith always has, Most have become more than just impressive...they're almost inspiring now. 
Strange that Z'EV, probably the most recognizeable name in theavant-garde solo-percussionist ranks, with a relatively extensivestring of records behind him, felt the need, in 2003, to release a 3"disc of live recordings from 1993. If nothing else, Live 1993is a lovingly recorded document, captured by friend, collaborator andbrilliant musician in his own right, Fast Forward, at the PerformingGarage New York City. The disc is two tracks, each featuring Z'EVbeating on a variety of objects, ranging from sheets of metal to whatsound like large industrial canisters. Both pieces are dominated byringing metallic hits, with the drummer's complex overlays creating anequally elaborate lattice of quivering drones, the negative spacesurrounding each action nicely accented and enlivened. Z'EV's skills asa polyrhythmist and a composer are apparent here, as on all hisreleases; each track is a concise and expertly controlled example ofhis unique tribal-industrial sound. For a solo performance, thefocused, hypnotic effect achieved is very impressive; however, I see noreason why this music couldn't have been left in the heads of those inattendance. In the context of Z'EV's output thus far, this disc isbeyond inessential; as a 3" disc, it is not long enough to successfullyapproximate the live experience, something that, for an artist likethis, is nearly impossible anyway. New listeners could do better withone of Z'EV's many studio full-lengths, chances to see him workingnon-percussive instruments into his always-interesting sonic palette.
