Stones Throw
This is one of those albums that is bound to prompt a zillion reviewsthat tell the big story of its history: how it was recorded over tenyears ago, how the artist (in this case, the MC, Charizma) died beforeit could be released, and how a friend (the DJ and label founder,Peanut Butter Wolf) eventually put it out as a memorial. It's a nicestory, and there's really no way around it, because there's no otherway of explaining the sound: Big Shots sounds old, and The Arsenio Hall Showcan almost be heard bleeding out of the speakers when it's on, which isa good thing, because it conjures up warm memories of the time rightbefore most rap got stupid. There's no gun-waving or bitch-slappinggoing on here; instead, there's a photo of the title big shots eatingcookies in someone's kitchen, and the lyrics match it. Charizmapractically sits you down on the front steps of his house to tell youabout all of the amazing -stuff- he's seen: ice cream trucks, theneighbourhood drug-dealer getting what's coming to him, the datingscene...! (Yes, an MC that goes out on dates!) Ten years on, the worlddoesn't seem nearly as friendly as it did, and albums as wide-eyed andenthusiastic as I Wish My Brother George Was Here are in shortsupply, making this bright, kind-hearted tribute to a good friend allthe more timely; the fact that the deckwork is fun and the vocals aredeft (Charizma got around the fact that "Explicit Lyrics" stickersstill meant something in '92 by cutting his own curses off mid-wordwithout breaking flow) just seems like a bonus. PS: There are plenty of other samples at the Stones Throw site.
This is one of those albums that is bound to prompt a zillion reviewsthat tell the big story of its history: how it was recorded over tenyears ago, how the artist (in this case, the MC, Charizma) died beforeit could be released, and how a friend (the DJ and label founder,Peanut Butter Wolf) eventually put it out as a memorial. It's a nicestory, and there's really no way around it, because there's no otherway of explaining the sound: Big Shots sounds old, and The Arsenio Hall Showcan almost be heard bleeding out of the speakers when it's on, which isa good thing, because it conjures up warm memories of the time rightbefore most rap got stupid. There's no gun-waving or bitch-slappinggoing on here; instead, there's a photo of the title big shots eatingcookies in someone's kitchen, and the lyrics match it. Charizmapractically sits you down on the front steps of his house to tell youabout all of the amazing -stuff- he's seen: ice cream trucks, theneighbourhood drug-dealer getting what's coming to him, the datingscene...! (Yes, an MC that goes out on dates!) Ten years on, the worlddoesn't seem nearly as friendly as it did, and albums as wide-eyed andenthusiastic as I Wish My Brother George Was Here are in shortsupply, making this bright, kind-hearted tribute to a good friend allthe more timely; the fact that the deckwork is fun and the vocals aredeft (Charizma got around the fact that "Explicit Lyrics" stickersstill meant something in '92 by cutting his own curses off mid-wordwithout breaking flow) just seems like a bonus. PS: There are plenty of other samples at the Stones Throw site.
Troum's final part in their Tjukurrpa series comes with its own warning right in the title. Those familiar (and fond of) the powerful drones this German duo is famed for might be taken aback by the prominence of both rhythms and pulsations all over the record.
There is a point where sound collages become something else. Dronesstop being merely drones and the cinematic passing of sounds build intoan architecture without shape or form. Christina Sealey, Richard Oddie,and Mark Spybey have consecrated the air about my ears and formedaround it a liquid curtain of sudden memories and vague communicationsfrom the mystical side of dreams. SOSisn't a drone record and it isn't just a collage of sounds, it feelsmore like a movie meant to convey some central ideas. Drowning bells,all-knowing monks, and the enchantment of sirens act as a thematicmarker by which ventures into the unknown take place. The sounds arenever reduced to a pure humming, nor are there any moments where theflooding of sound meshes into an unidentifiable mass. Sounds act asindividual instruments; whether it's the beat of a heart or therotation of blades on an enormous fan, there's always a sense ofgeneral organization between sounds. The group isn't afraid to includefamiliar sounds in their landscape of the strange. Everything fromdistorted radio signals and the cold delivery of a news anchor's voiceto what might be a digeridoo can be found somewhere in the haze ofsonic manipulation. Melodies unfold for small portions of time andrhythm can be picked out of certain pieces, but nothing on SOSrelies on either. I'm incredibly taken by this disc because I find itto be more than impossible to catergorize. Noise, drone, ambient, blah,blah, blah; none of it fits this disc in any way conceivable. Callingit a sound collage ignores the precise way the sequence of tracksplayed with my head and provided at least an illusion of structure andinsight. I wouldn't say this is something drastically new or unique;considering Spybey's long history with sound, I doubt that there aren'tsome familiar themes or ideas at work here, but the entire recordsounds and feels fresh. It deserves and, by way of mystical suggestion,demands repeat listens.
No doubt in response to the reception of last year's Tasheyana Compost, Infrasound has reissued USAISAMONSTER's previous two vinyl releases on a single disc. Anyone pleased with Compost'smuddy conglomerate of duo-blasted noise rock and prog-metal will feelequally at home in the arms of this beast, the lager-soaked pilgrim toits successor's war-weary Cherokee. The slick guitar chops are stillthere, each song still a many-armed mini-epic, but Citizenspreserves every piece of fudged riffage, every rhythmic stumble, andevery indulgent stomp-a-long bit, imbuing each with uncorruptedconviction, a metalhead's glee. It's not that these early releases showthe group in crude or undeveloped form (they are tighter than ever), oreven that their newer full-length represents a "softening" of theirsound; Citizens merely proves that these guys were thrashing tothe SST catalog long before they discovered Hawkwind. The disc offersthe more accurate and more thrilling picture of a band whose reputationhas rightfully developed around a blaring, overblown live event. Theguitars are a little less likely to dip into the angular jazz-istpatterns scattered throughout Compost, preferring close-croppedriffs and assaulting repetition, breakdowns occurring only when thetension and release of the figures buckles under the speed of eachsong. Songs themselves cater less to the wayward theatrics of thesucceeding album, and while some acoustic troubadouring does crop up,these songs (especially those from 2001's Citizens of the Universe)are more like spliced chains of 2-min. thrash anthems, worked togetherwith the occasional staggered metallic breather. I feel comfortablesaying that if Compost was not your air-drums record of the year, this surely will be. For all of its force, Citizens stays fun throughout and should be welcomed by new fans who were dismayed to find the original records unavailable. 
Rising from the brittle crust of the same Northeastern coast thatbirthed labelmates USAISAMONSTER, Eloe Omoe is a duo of considerablyless refinement. While their aesthetic is likely to find support in theRuins/Lightning Bolt camp, the band comes off sounding so elementalthat I worry they have compromised themselves by cutting a record atall. This 12", their first release, contains five live tracks: meresnippets or little windows into what seem less like a few scatteredshows between '99 and '01 than random stops along an un-halting,nomadic traversal of New England, powered by a vaguely primitiveimpulse, unseen, unknown, and nearly lost on these recordings. Themusic is a tumbling, thoroughly abstract mess of effected bass rumble,draped with drum parts that descend, deconstruct, and fall apart toinvisible cues. All five pieces sound improvised, the two playersrarely coming together for anything "thematic" to emerge; the onlyclear indications that they are not playing in different rooms are afew abrupt stops and a unified effort to keep the songs in a kind ofperpetual collapse. The recording is understandably of poor quality,and, while bands like Lightning Bolt and USAISAMONSTER might haverigorous structures or goofy posturing to compensate, Eloe Omoe suffersmore openly. Theirs is really more of a jazzist take on the noise rockgame, and as such, the music's visceral, performative nature becomes alarge part of its appeal, lost on such a recording. Again, fans of agrassroots noise aesthetic will appreciate the record, Sam Rowell'ssqualling bass in particular, though I'd be interested to see how alittle studio tweaking would effect the group's sound, for better orworse. 
A few weeks back, I tried to describe the new Swollen Members disc bycalling it "juvenile", and the word applies to the latest effort byKingston dancehall psychos Ward 21, too, but not in the same way atall: where Swollen Members sound so earnest about their high-schoolpimpin' fantasies that you really have to cringe, the lyrics to a Ward21 song like "Coochie Zone", which shouldbe offensive, end up being balanced off by production and a publicimage so completely off its gourd that you just sort of have to cackleand nod your head to the beat. "But Taylor," my Inner Liberal ArtsMajor chides, "aren't you just belittling the efforts of hardworkingJamaican musicians to keep the world from noticing your microscopicoppressor's wee-wee?" "Shut the hell up, Inner Liberal Arts Major," Ireply, more than a bit self-conscious about how cold it is in here,"These nutcases use the word 'cocky' as a noun about every third track;how seriously do you really think they want to be taken?" My Inner ArtsMajor slinks off to wonder exactly what a "cocky" is, and I spend thenext 70 minutes digging the fact that it's possible to make a dancehallrecord with bagpipe noises, tacky '80s dance-pop riffs, and lyricsabout Michael Jackson's flaming Pepsi hair. Plenty of other, moretraditional sounds are put to use on U Know..., too, and Itired of the constant falsetto squawking of the album's title wheneverthe mix got thin, but the lunatic elements are hard to dislike, andthey're definitely the focus of the group's sound, so until Weenone-ups them by locking themselves in King Jammy's studio and making abrilliant album out of reverb-soaked farting noises, this is going tobe my Crazy Jamaican Album of choice.
As the first solo record from any member of Faust, a band heralded as one of the great "collectives" in rock history, LifeLikeis worth the wait not because it offers a glimpse back in time or evena fuller understanding of how Irmler's organ fit the Faustian puzzle.While the trained ear might recognize some of his distorted stabs andflourishes rising from the depths, LifeLike keeps any evidenceof Faust's shambled pastures to a minimum, focusing instead on Irmler'ssprawling textural achievements. He plays organ and keyboard throughmost of the disc, blending gritty, droning waves through slightpassages of clean melodic playing and more impressive flights oferupting noise. To his already beautiful playing, Irmler adds a wealthof field recordings, often perfectly accompanying or mimicking hissynthetic textures. The effect is close to a fusion of the vintageprogressive synth sound of early Tangerine Dream with the morestreamlined collage techniques of today. Pieces of rolling thunder,muffled conversation, city noise, and even tribal chanting add to themystery of these sound vistas but never in a way that is alarming ordisorienting. Everything inches back to Irmler’s comfortable keyboardand treated organ swells, creating music that only becomes absorbing ifallowed. Several motifs are repeated throughout, giving LifeLikea definite cinematic quality, especially recalling old science fictionsoundtracks, something reinforced by the warm gloss coating the record.The occasional hammered pattern or distorted uprising is enough tobring the music back to the surface, but for the most part, LifeLikeserves most effectively as the background to bouts of luciddaydreaming. I feel a smug pleasure that my experience with Irmler’swork runs counter to that of Ralf Bei der Kellen whose indulgent essaymakes up the liner notes to LifeLike. Der Kellen describes themusic as a kind of aural biography that, through the act ofdocumentation, helps listeners to hear ordinary sounds in new ways. Forme, there is nothing so consciousness-grabbing or life-affirming in LifeLike;but, I did not ask for such things. Irmler has made a beautiful,consistent, and highly visual record that will hopefully not be hislast.
There's something to be said for a slow burn in a song: not letting itall go to start with but to let it build slowly, adding kindling orwhatever fuels it to satisfaction, then unleashing the full controlledburn on whatever suits the fancy. For such a young band to havemastered that art as skillfully as Seekonk is amazing, but thisPortland, Maine ensemble has done just that. Formed about a year and ahalf ago, these multi-instrumentalists concoct heavy slow rock thatwaits a perceived eternity before letting loose, and it's aggravatingin that special way. When it does release, this music has the ease of abird taking flight, gliding through the air with efficiency andmajesty. Album opener "Move" fools right away, sounding almost ploddingand lackluster, but when the last third of the song kicks in andvocalist Shana Barry lets loose with "I was born in the sky above," Iget it. "Swim Again" impresses with laboring beat and chiming guitar,while Patrick Corrigan and Dave Noyes blend beautifully with Barry'srasp to create a delicate hypnotism until the hammer falls. ThenBabylon, as all voices sing as one, and the song is a wonderousthunderstorm of noise and melody. Two tracks in and I'm already needinga rest. So one comes in the form of "Hate the Sun," which doesn'texplode with energy like the others even though it is quite pretty. Thealbum slows down a bit, but then picks up again in the middle of "20Degrees" and stretches its legs, trying out some different sounds andtempos. "You Got What Was Coming to You" is perfect scary, and thelyrics are sardonic and dismissive, the climax of the record, beforetwo more relatively solid tracks that hit all the right switches. Onlyone concern: Barry left after recording was completed and has sincebeen replaced by Danielle Hylen. Only the live show will tell for sure,but I hope she can carry these tunes and then some. Otherwise, thisdebut is too amazing a high note to have it wasted away.
ATTENTION BLUNT SMOKERS AND BASS AFICIONADOS: Put down that spliff and take notice! Larvae has come to warp your minds and clutter your eardrums with some low-frequency sonics. Clocking in at an understated 46 minutes, Fashion Victim, the project's debut album, provides a somewhat noisy take on the bong-worthy dark urban sound (formerly known as illbient) produced by acts like Scorn, DJ Spooky, and Witchman. Taking equal parts Scott Herren and Mick Harris, "Refuse" opens this album with stuttering samples, bold bass tones, and head-nodding drum loops.
The debut release from this Italian artist is a fine CD of minimal,dark music constructed from electronic drones that is alluringly bleakfrom start to finish. From the beginning I'm transported below thesurface of some bustling city, the distant rumbling and grinding ofmachines and life filtered by miles of rock before it echoes through acavernous chamber. The sense of space is tangible; the sounds are coldand distant, contributing to the overall sense of isolation andloneliness, but the presentation is captivating. Though somewhat gloomyand definitely evocative of shadowy places, these wonderful sounds arefar from stifling. Layers upon layers of audio constantly shift andexpand, the steady wind-like howling becoming far-off wailing andreverberated clatter. In the third track the persistent noises take ona more musical character, with a glistening, almost organ-like tone,and the patient progression, slowly revealing beautiful new elementsonly to put them aside, make this a fascinating piece. "SpiritualDarkness" also features a great looped "melody" hidden underneath therecordings of dripping water and low rumbling. The concluding trackmixes in some tribal-sounding drumming over the drones for a different,but fitting, result. Although I find myself longing for somethinglighter and more open sounding by the album's end, I feel like I'vejust taken part in an amazing experience.
From meager beginnings can emerge potentially fantastic results. Assuch, Gridlock started out rather simply as a Skinny Puppy-influencedindustrial band, releasing their first album The Synthetic Formon the now defunct Pendragon label. Since that debut, however, the duoof Wells and Cadoo have moved their sound further and further away fromthat scene as well as that style. While never giving up an appreciationfor crunchy distorted drumwork, Gridlock has definately progressed fromthe inherent ugliness of that former sound, as displayed here on Formless,their most beautiful album to date. Many times a reviewer will throwthat term around carelessly (beautiful), but I'm not fucking aroundhere. The tracks that make up this album are lovingly unearthed bits ofoverdriven percussion fragments and processed digital signals from theland that Autechre forgot. Anyone who recalls the days when thataforementioned British duo were still creating marvelous musical worksof note (Incunabula and Amber, for example) will appreciate the damaged textures found on Formless(Check out the junkyard sonics of the opener "Pallid," or"Chronometaphor" for example.) Going further, "Displacement" borders onthe tribal, with its ritualistic rhythms supporting the contrastingcascades of violence and melody. A standout among the bunch, "Return"begins with fractured rhythms taking a subtle backseat to entrancingambient glimmers for the first two minutes, before a booming bass drumblasts through in true Gridlock sneak-attack fashion. On top of that,the inclusion of some breathy female vocals proved to be the realsurprise here, making a brief appearance as more of an instrument thana true human element. Recognizing that the end is near, Atomontageexudes desparation by crackling, beeping, roaring, and, inevitably,whimpering its way towards the inevitable closer, the lengthy and aptlynamed "Done Processing." Like most of Gridlock's albums, this oneproves difficult to interpret and enjoy if heard as individual songsinstead of as the urban apocalyptic soundtrack it really is. Equallydevastating and uplifting, Formless offers up a proposed future for post-industrial and experimental electronic music that demands to be heard.
I've got to wonder sometimes why Mark Kozelek still tries at all.Always the bridesmaid and never the bride, his critically acclaimedalbums with Red House Painters never quite hit the commercial glorythat was almost guaranteed with that kind of press. Relegated to indiedarling, he's had quite his issues with record labels, but stillcontinued to churn out album after album of heartfelt and memorablesongs that leave an indelible mark felt long after the record isfinished playing through the speakers. After the turmoil surroundingthe release of Old RamonI would expect anyone to hang it up, or at least take some time offfrom it all. Perhaps that's what Sun Kil Moon is: Kozelek's hanging upof the Red House Painters for good or time off. Either way, theaesthetic has not changed much and that's fine by me. This debutrelease by the band is a phoenix rising from the ashes, proclaiming areign of glory that has potential to last eons. "Glenn Tipton" is acontinuation of the familiar acoustic Painters sound, with fancifullyrics about Sonny Lister and old movies. When the bass kicks in thewhole thing just gets lovely, evoking a gentle bouncing sway from eventhe tightest individual. Then the lyrics turn dark, about buryingvictims and digging through their pockets, but the performance is stillso honest and bear that the heart reaches out anyway, like when peoplesend love letters to prisoners. "Carry Me Ohio" is the same level ofstunning, a tale of not being able to love someone back and theemptiness that can sometimes come as a result, and Kozelek just shineson "Last Tide" and "Floating," which bleed together effortlessly.There's crunch, too, in "Lily and Parrots" and "Salvador Sanchez," alldistortion in guitar and vocals that could never detract. The epic "DukKoo Kim" is the album's keynote address, though, which some may haveheard but not in this fourteen-minute incarnation that buries itself ineffects and changes and some gorgeous guitar work mixed in withmandolin and xylophones. With every record, Kozelek seems to get moreand more mired in his own psyche, exploring different synapses andpockets of memories to dredge up just the right mixture. "PanchoVilla," an acoustic revisiting of "Salvador Sanchez," shows thisexploration and experimentation wonderfully, as the meaning of the songcompleting changes with the new presentation and vocal inflection. Thisranks up there as my favorite record of Kozelek's, surpassing anyPainters work, and it's for this reason that I hope Sun Kil Moon sticksaround for awhile, even if just for a few tracks here and there. It'sbeen worth the wait.
Who knew that getting rid of Sachiko M's piercing sine waves and addinga percussionist to the group could actually result in an album that's less catchy than the last one? That's not to say that Peek-Ara-Boois bad, because it definitely isn't, but beyond the first track (thinkgarage rock guitar line played on koto), there isn't a lot on the discthat will provoke huge idiot grins. What is found is a quiet collectionof lullabies, twangy folk songs, clattering percussion, and Haco'spiercing sine waves, which are really only distinguishable from SachikoM's in that they're generally busier. For such an odd mix ofingredients, the recipe turns out well more often than not: some willthink the sounds occupy a space a bit too close to Enya/LoreenaMcKennitt/Kim Robertson territory, but then it shifts out of dreamlandand into loud-tuneless-improv gear for a while, soiling the pants ofthe Quinlan Road crowd in the process. It's not a particularly cohesivealbum by any means (writing credits are all over the map, with sometracks being credited to the group as a whole and others to individualmembers, and it shows... er... sounds... whatever...), but as aninteresting grab-bag of sounds, it was worth my fourteen bucks. 
A friend of mine used to claim that a few CDs in his collection"contain every frequency." Whether this somewhat meaningless statementwas intended as an endorsement of quality was never clear; perhaps theywere just useful for testing audio equipment. This CD certainly fitsthat category, with the duo of Japanese musicians playing over 20instruments, exploring improvised, outer-space textures and abstractmelodies blanketed under shimmering waves of power electronics. Theoccasionally harsh assault isn't surprising given Guilty Connector'scollaborations with the likes of MSBR, but in the context of this duo,the noise serves as a backdrop and counterpoint to Tabata's guitar andsynthesizer rather than the brutal focal point. Though their aestheticis similar to fellow psychedelic groups like Acid Mothers Temple, thisCD steers clear of the over-the-top rock freakout, instead exploringprimarily rhythmless, atmospheric pieces more rooted in freeimprovisation and noise. Tabata does throw in some backward guitarriffing on "Le Schiaue Esistono Ancora," amid the continuous clatter ofcymbals that grow progressively more distorted; it's a mysteriouslyemotive and vaguely Eastern sounding track. Another standout is "Tempusest quaedam pars aeternitatis," which begins with a heavily processedguitar sound that blends perfectly with the filtered electronic noiseas it is delayed and continues ringing. It's certainly not easylistening, but there's so much going on throughout this disc, bothabove and below the surface, that it's definitely interesting. Thepersonalities and styles of the two players fit well together makingthis an excellent recording. 
Having heard a bit about this band in the positive, I was expectingsomething exciting and spaced-out. I certainly received the second halfof that deal with this disc, but whether or not it's exciting dependsentirely on tolerance for strange vocals. Pacalirte Sorban Cumanosfeatures a duo of guitarists that weave spiral nausea out of thin air,a fairly straightforward but pounding drummer, and the most annoyingsinger I think I've ever heard. Perhaps within a different context thelyrics and delivery would somehow fit and make for a mind-bending ride,but the chanting and headless meander of half-words simply don't workwith the tuneless and perpetual descent that the guitars create. Casein point: "7 Apoloca Baluba" is a childlike combo of simple chordstrumming, what could be a flute but is actually a very cleverly playedguitar, and plodding drums. The effect is enchanting as long as thosemoans and groans coming from the singer are ignored. They sound as ifthey don't belong or are inserted at a later time without the singereven listening to what was composed prior to his contribution. "TriloPampeho" would be a hellish delivery of tribal drumming and machinerydrone, but again the vocals (which sound as if they are trying toimitate a certain song from The Police) cut into the mix and end upmaking everything wash away in a feeling of confusion and foolery."Fincoll (que norar)" is the one place where the singer truly standsout and delivers a performance worth checking out. It sounds as thoughit may all be coming from a dilapidated church in the middle of adesert: very faint organ wanders away in the background while themumbling and passion-esque warble of the vocalists (invoking "AveMaria" here and there?) raise to the sky in a stream of smoke andsizzling ash. Some of the cosmic sounds pulled out of the guitars forthis record are truly amazing. It's certainly a unique release, butthose vocals need to fit into the mix: when they do, it soundsoutstanding, but otherwise it's a mess that's difficult to sit through. 
With the homemade aesthetic as marketable as ever, and luminaries of the cassette noise underground priming for the next JANEmagazine feature, it's a surprise the 80's industro-punker annals havenot yet been thoroughly stormed for reissue. Digitizing the past can befun and will sometimes produce a posthumous legend, but all too oftenthe process does nothing more than make undeserving, even undesiringheroes of the old, and uninspired imitators of the young. At presentit's hard for me to listen to a Wolf Eyes record without hearing aco-worker rattle on about the glory days of SPK, and my enjoying SPKgets complicated by a guard against someone else's glamorization. Mysalvation comes with reissues that can show me "new" things, like alost inspiration or the missing link in the evolution of a style, butwith an added suspension of recognition. In other words, the best musicmust allow me to lose myself, must first lead me astray, or wipe theslate clean, before revealing its true character. Luckily, this BoyDirt Car reissue, containing the group's best full length and theirside to a split with fellow Milwaukians F/i, is forged of such raresteel. Wintershows me a time when bands playing indulgent static dirges or whistlingthrough vocal effects formed just another dark corner of the localhardcore scene, a time when anyone could plug in a broken keyboard,start mumbling about the highway at night, and become genius for a day.Formed from a couple members of Die Kreuzen and some like-minded,Branca-inspired youths, Boy Dirt Car was fertile ground for a marriageof punk and industrial philosophies, coming to climax in '86-'87 withthese two releases. The unfortunately-named band took its blueprintfrom the slowed-down doom punk of bands like Flipper, shattering it toinclude the open spaces and electrified edges of early Neubauten. Oneof the most striking qualities of the music is how little the grouprelies on anything more than guitars to construct their elaboratetapestries of noise. Songs like "Forms Forced Surrender" and the brutaltitle track show evidence of either several moments of collectivebrilliance, or several dozen painstaking overdubs. Elsewhere, tracksrange from the Null-ian meltdown of "Invisible Man" to the opening"Smear," a delicate wound of crisp delay, amp buzz, and metallicpercussion. While the homemade vibe exists throughout, it neverencourages a preoccupation with process, instead reinforcing a sense ofyouthful exuberance in the music. Listening to Winter, thisexuberance and a kind of punk-ist abandon are hard to ignore, makingthe few moments of lyrical cheese, bad poetry, and guitar wank easy toswallow. As with any great punk band, clich? and indulgences soonbecome part of Boy Dirt Car's rather addictive appeal, and ultimatelythese humorous missteps help to form more of an accessible foundationfor the group's frequent excursions into righteous, blistering noise.
Sometimes being straightforward and relaxed is the best thing amusician can do. Forget all that maniacal drum programming, ridiculoussound sequencing, and use of hyper samples featuring chipmunks oncocaine: let melancholia sweep up and over the horizon like a silkblanket and drown the world in night. Boy Robot does just that; theirexcellent song-writing combined with slick rhythms and just the rightamount of surprise makes Glamorizing Corporate Lifestylea hypnotic and delectable trip. Burning keyboards rebound and stretchacross space under the influence of drifting or lurching melodies thathum and soar slightly out of reach. Imperial horns sound just beyondthe next hill and the march of toy soldiers breaking the edge of sightsound monstrous as the clutter of sound swarms over the hills. Butthese soldiers aren't out to destroy; "Don't Panic It's Organic" is abouncey little piece more than a hounds-from-the-gates-of-hell wave ofdoom. The excellent melodies buried and transformed under reverb andecho mesh into each other and give birth to a firey piece ofdance-alicious pyschadelia that neither could have produced alone. BoyRobot doesn't always need a solid beat to sound wonderful, though."Loving You Makes Me Nervous" sounds like a children's junkyard full ofdefunct jack-in-the-boxes, miniature train sets, and plastic flutes.Yet, it's so very simple. Nothing here is overdone, there's nothingoutrageous taking place: melodies fade in and out of eachother, rhythmschug along, and deep, sensuous tunes are born out of simple and naturalmovements of sound. It's the use and choice of sound that makes adifference; bells, electronic xylophones, rubber band bass slaps, andthe cranking of gears all blend into eachother effortlessly; it's allas gentle as a taking a slow breath. Beginning with the welcoming"Likely Silly and Waterfull," progressing through the cyber-epic of"Old Habits Die Hard," and ending with the ghost-house story of "WhenBroken Consider It Sold," Glamorizing Corporate Lifestyle knows no boundary and sinks right into my bones. Everything should be so playful and resplendent as this.
Those who have heard the gorgeous music coming from Ida are alreadyprimed and ready for Nanang Tatang, and chances are will find plentythere to appreciate. Mukiis the latest music coming from husband and wife Daniel Littleton andElizabeth Mitchell, Ida's core, and is laden with the same elementsthat make their music so compelling, as well as some interestingadditions here and there. Nanang Tatang's debut features downtemposongs and beautiful harmonies with quiet and sparse compositions, aswell as wild tracks and a new appreciation for drone and an oftenelectronic pulse. Gladly, for these two, it's the simplest things thatwork the best, and Muki is a welcome addition to their growingcatalog. Glitch beats and processed instruments create a lovely bed forMitchell and Littleton to play around on, and whether a song featuresone or the other solo or both singing their trademark gorgeousharmonies, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up in awe of it all.Even though the format hasn't really changed all that much, there is afreshness to some of the arrangements and a forward-thinking stancethat shows their passion for trying new things hasn't dimmed. Thisappears to be a very personal record for the couple, almost a renewalof vows to each other, where they are the only collaborators needed notout of necessity but desire. Mitchell sings "You saved me from myself"and there's a sincere respect, not a desperation, in her voice; and theonly time the lyrics address the downside is in retrospect, as thoughthose times are long gone. It's a lush and sanguine recording, and eventhough complainers would have the same nitpicking joy here (too mellow,not enough percussion, etc.), let them stay away. This one is almostcustom-made for those who would appreciate this at face value: a loveletter to someone who supports you like no other.
There's a letter in this month's Wireabout a snarky review of a Muslimgauze disc, and predictably, theargument is all about politics. Inflammatory track names and linernotes, though, seem like lousy things to base a review of instrumentalmusic on, particularly in a world that's able to shrug off Snoop'slyrics for the sake of Dre's beats. As for the -music- on Red Madrassa,there's a lot of stuff that Muslimgauze fans have heard before: thepeacocks are back, as are some of the more prominent vocal samples anddub rhythms from the albums released in '98 and '99. Basic elements oftwo new tunes are mixed and matched with the old favorites to create 68minutes of gradually shifting material, and it works pretty well asactive-listening or background music. Jones' signature (jarring) rhythmchanges, bursts of distortion, and the head-nodding grooves that can goon forever are all here; this far into the process of mining what'sleft of his tapes for viable albums, though, it's also not surprisingto find a couple of moments where it sounds like he was just pissingaround with his gear. Red Madrassa won't change anybody's mind about his music, but if it's been a while since the last fix, this one should be pleasing. 
