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I definitely didn't think I would enjoy an all vocal improvisation album this much, or on such a grand level. I simply love the acoustics of the room where Jason Kahn recorded in, where he is belting out such interesting and nondescript sounds where, "In the rooms of a former Swiss-com telephone relay station in Zürich. I decided to use the main room, which was entirely empty. Its linoleum floors, bare walls and many windows made for a very resonant space. Double glass windows sealed off the world outside but many sounds still emanated from somewhere deep in the bowels of the building." I wasn't terribly sure what a telephone relay station is, so I googled imaged it, and saw that it was what I thought it was after all. Lines of machines, with women (sometimes men too?) would sit in front of huge electronic boxes with wires and patches, crisscrossing each other, while the operator there would take people’s requests for phone calls and to be connected with others. To me, then, there is a sense of irony, or even a haunting simile that almost reminds me of an echo of conversations that might have taken place in the building in the distant past.
Zürich, makes me think of the Swiss Alps, and Swiss bank accounts, and as is with most if not all experimental/avant garde music to me, this album allows us, the listeners, to take the time off so to speak, from the corner of the room with headphones on and be simply enthralled by such sounds that never get much (if any) airplay, or are celebrated in any major media outlet, or even any indie ventures. Kahn’s vocals seem to take a meandering direction, so that it’s kind of like that snakes game, where you eat a dot and then gain a dot on your body until you hit a wall or something; then it’s game over and you start back again, as a smaller snake, until you eat more dots. Are these vocals sung out of a cathartic spirit? To me, it doesn't sound too much like that. It’s not an angry sound that Kahn makes, nor is it sad or a depressing sound.
In "Songline", Kahn’s voice takes the stage, and it is at times almost sarcastic and pitying. There’s a slight aching in his voice, and sometimes it makes him seem out of focus, or misplaced, but there is indeed something special/magical about the acoustics of the album, and his voice too. It’s as if you can hear it and perhaps yourself ravel distinctly from one end of the room to the next, or sometimes it remains isolated in what I can picture a photo booth, even though it’s just a telecom station, but still, images of old telephones and ways of telecommuting appear in my mind when listening to this album.
Maybe I shouldn’t go through my Facebook newsfeed while listening to Side D. Kahn’s improvisations makes my online life on the social media site completely asinine. Going on Facebook while listening to "Songline" is like putting on glasses, while scrolling through your News Feed, that will make you see things in a completely different light. People almost appear too distant, ones you thought who might have been your good friends etc.
Though I wonder why Kahn decided to do a double album of vocal improvisations. His musical output has mostly involved electronics of some sort, so it’s both refreshing and kind of surprising to see him make this record. It’s a perfect record for late at night, with headphones on, while listening to someone who has chosen to take a step in a direction that seems to be in a genre that is definitely often overlooked or over-analyzed. Like I mentioned, this is a good late night record, one that is not boring, or seemingly intrusive.
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Basinski and Chartier have collaborated a number of times in the past, and their disparate, yet complementary approaches to music have always complimented each other perfectly. An uncharacteristic vinyl release for Chartier (a digital loyalist), these two sidelong pieces embrace both loops and melody, coming together beautifully as a sparse, yet forceful piece of music.
Basinski is fond of using vintage, sometimes obsolete sound sources and a distinctively analog feel to the music he makes.Conversely, Chartier’s solo work may sometimes begin with field recordings or organic sources, but is most often subjected to a distinctively modern, digital toolkit to render the natural sound anything but how it began.
The first piece of Divertissement clearly carries Basinski’s penchant for loops, creating the foundation for a distant rattling noise and simple, yet diverse sound structures that build and dissolve.The duo carefully mix in a fleeting melody that gives a bit of beauty to the otherwise sparse soundscape.The piece may be sparse, but never is it simple or delicate:the understated nature of the piece carries an unexpected force and presence.Big open spaces and deep bass thumps eventually appear, before they end the composition on a spacy note.
While the first side was pretty consistent, the second sees the duo mixing in odd elements that may sound out of place on paper, but manages to work beautifully in their more than capable hands.The piece opens forcefully, with an almost choral tinged expanse of sound that begins powerful, and is then reigned in to a more nuanced, subtle passage.The feel is bleak overall, but Basinski and Chartier introduce shimmering melodies that come and go, sounding as if they come from another world.
The alien melodies remain, weaving in and out of what becomes a wall of squawking, dissonant electronics.A recording of what sounds like a helicopter is added, along with what resembles distortion laden radio communications, creating a noisy, and very Earthbound, compliment to the melody.The result is a piece of brilliant depth and diversity, with the conclusion slowly fading away into darkness.
The worlds of analog and digital sound art come together splendidly on Divertissement, with neither side becoming too much the focus.Instead it makes for a rich, complex recording that uses both beautiful and ugly elements into a work that expertly showcases both William Basinski and Richard Chartier’s proficiency in shaping sounds in consistently new and innovative ways.
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On his previous album for 12k, Twenty Ten, Kenneth Kirschner compiled three full discs of material. On Compressions & Rarefactions, he ups that even more by including a download with the CD of three additional pieces, totaling over five and a half hours. It is a lot to take in, especially given Kirschner's understated approach to composition, but the result is more than satisfying.
Time, in its various definitions, is an integral part of Kirschner’s art and sense of composition.His works are only titled by the date on which they were composed, and their lengthy durations and repeating motifs indicate both the passage of, and the static nature of time.The artwork on this album continues the theme as well, capturing subatomic decay patterns and imagery of the Gum Nebula.
The first of the two pieces on the CD, itself titled Compressions is "September 13, 2012" is a half hour of glistening bells and ringing tones.Kirschner constructs strong melodies from simple, twinkling piano and subtle processing.Even though the melodies repeat, there is a feeling of movement throughout the piece, transitioning into notes of a higher register before returning back to the thicker, rich sounds from which it began.
The second composition, "April 16, 2013" is propelled by a twinkling, music box like series of melodies.Even though there is once again the use of repetition, there still seems to be a fast pace, with the passage of time clicking away faster than it would seem.He keeps the melodic structure rather consistent throughout the 24 minutes, but plays with the tone, sometimes making more soft and delicate, and at other times harder and almost percussive.
On the digital portion of the album, Rarefactions, the extra durations are used sometimes to increase the sense of movement, but at others to sound frozen and locked into place."July 17, 2010" has a more textural sound, as opposed to the melodic style that was prevalent on the CD.What sounds like the same sequence of notes is used to create an echo chamber of wooden percussion, a sharp, glassy passage of noise, and into what sounds like an impenetrable wall of alarm bells.
Kirschner reintroduces melody with "January 10, 2012," at first driving plucked strings that at times drift into shrill, sharp territory.There is clear similarities to the sound of "September 13, 2012," but further deconstructed.It becomes a study of tones, sometimes kept short as a conventional musical note, at other times stretched out to dramatic, infinite drones.On the two hours of "October 13, 2012" he punctuates the pure, clean sweeping sounds with passages of near silence.The tonal swells become varied, dissonant, and more powerful as the silence between them becomes longer.The use of repetition is heavy, but suits the piece perfectly.
Compressions & Rarefactions is another strong entry in Kenneth Kirschner's expanding, yet subtle discography.It is a disorienting release, due to his penchant for using lengthy durations and repetition, but with the subtle use of repetition and change.At times I looked away, then the next time I looked at the clock it was already ten minutes later, and other times the minutes seemed like hours.That psychological effect is a compelling part of this release, but its beautiful melodies and sense of composition stand strongly on their own as well.
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Fun is too often ignored when talking about experimental music. The language surrounding works by composers like Iannis Xenakis or Luc Ferrari is usually technical or mathematical, and sometimes political, but it’s rarely euphoric or exuberant. Which is a shame, because the flash of their audaciousness and the buzz of excitement their music generates is just as dignified and as worthy as the theory running beside it. Devin DiSanto and Nick Hoffman’s Three Exercises, which takes some inspiration from both Xenakis and Ferrari, is a lot of things. There should be no shame or reticence in recognizing that chief among them is fun. Recorded at St. Thomas the Apostle Elementary School in West Hartford, Connecticut, it spins amusement and pleasure from sources both unusual and mundane, with humdrum objects like ping pong balls and duct tape, and with homemade instruments like the one Hoffman tests in this video, which utilizes dynamic stochastic processes. Tucked away behind these sounds are ideas about the relationships between artists and audiences, structures and performances, and between spaces and sounds. Theory and technicality still figure into the mix, only they are inseparably attached to the noises that DiSanto and Hoffman deploy, and are as much a part of the fun as the chaos of the music.
"Preparation/Introduction," the first song on Three Exercises, drops its audience into St. Thomas in media res. Devin and Nick have already arrived and are nearly finished arranging all of the instruments and paraphernalia featured on the cover of their album. Sounds from outside the building leak into the room, doors open and close, a car horn honks, and various devices are tested before a brief series of conversations ensue. "So yeah, it’s pretty straightforward," someone says. Then, "Did you have to walk around the building at all?" There’s an audience apparently, and instructions, and a whole lot of shuffling of paper and plastic.
Devin then announces the date, introduces both himself and Nick, and "Sequence 1" begins. A voice says, "Devin introduces Nick... and himself," and before the repetition can register, a blast of bass-heavy noise flies from the speakers. It stops suddenly and is followed by the sound of glass pebbles, echoing footsteps, and more voices, apparently describing the actions responsible for some of the sounds. The effect is dizzying. DiSanto and Hoffman perform, their audience describes, and the music is tied into a knot of observations, noises, objects, and actions. There’s a sense that every possible thing Devin and Nick could have included on the album is included: all the tools, the composition (if there is one, and if not, the instructions), the thoughts of the people hearing the music for the first time, the hum of amplifiers, the echo of the gymnasium itself. Even the preparations and notes for recording the album are a part of the album, in a direct, fourth-wall-breaking kind of way.
But there’s a lot of deliberation too. Sounds are cut and layered cinematically, as if to give the listener a chance to see the same thing from two different perspectives. When Justin Palmer and Sharon Glassburn, the two observers who narrate the proceedings, speak, they cycle through a variety of tones: bemused, quiet, like someone on a birdwatching expedition, tense, theatrical. In each case there’s a voyeuristic rush inherent in their speech. There's a secret or a ritual unfolding on this album and these participants are relaying it to the outside covertly. The album’s visual qualities grow out of these segments as well. Had each "Sequence" or "Exercise"  been thoroughly logged, Three Exercises might have become something like a documentary, but DiSanto and Hoffman stop just short of that, teasing the audience with tidbits rather than exhaustive descriptions. The parts are all relatively clear, how and why they fit together is left obscured.
There’s also a sensitivity toward the density of different passages and an appreciation for the sonic similarities among diverse groups of things, like basketballs, shoes, service bells, and synthesizer tones. The space they are in, it’s shape and size, solidifies as moments of high intensity and near silence pass, so that the way the music is arranged, the way the instruments are set up, and the distances between events and objects, all register clearly. To have so much happening on an album, and at the same time to have it all so thoughtfully laid out and superbly produced, is overwhelming in the best possible way. Three Exercises is a complex and stratified album, with a ton of depth and thoughtfulness built into it. Listening naturally elicits questions and insights, about how hearing or seeing a performance changes our reaction to it, or about how audiences help to complete a piece of music just by thinking about it. But it's a boisterous and playful enough record to thrill with its audible dimensions alone.
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In the mid 1980s, there was no internet, eBay, discogs, and if you didn't live in a metropolitan area, music was expensive. These two releases were the first affordable releases to surface on the North American continent from Cocteau Twins, and while neither were issued by the band themselves in this form, the arrangement of the collection and the pairing of the two EPs are flawless and remain a fantastic listen three decades later.
The Pink Opaque was the first disc in the short-lived partnership with Relativity in the USA, and features ten songs from 1985 and before. For me, it was the first CD I could buy from Cocteau Twins that was under $20 ($44.60 in the equivalent of 2015 dollars!). Perhaps it was designed by committee to be a sampler of other releases, and maybe my nostalgia skews my objective assessment of the running order, but the flow remains perfect.
Great albums tend to creep in, such as the opening of "The Spangle Maker," as it has a pulsating opening before the bombastic shimmer kicks in. It's a reminder that while Cocteau Twins are cited for their "dreaminess," guitar layers, and Liz Fraser's unique vocal style, their strict adherence to pulse is exceptionally important.
Along with single cuts such as "Pearly Drewdrops' Drops," "From the Flagstones," and "Aikea-Guinea," the collection features music from each of the first three albums, an exclusive remix of "Wax and Wane" as well as a compilation-only song, "Millimillenary," which has still managed to evade every Cocteau collection since. It perfectly wraps up as the clock at the end of "Pepper-Tree," from 1984 The Spangle Maker EP runs straight into "Musette and Drums" off 1983's Head Over Heels.
Tiny Dynamine and Echoes in a Shallow Bay were both issued on the same day as EPs, also in 1985, and once again issued on CD in North America at an affordable price, this time through Vertigo in Canada. Each EP features four stunning songs that everybody reading this has probably heard a billion times at this point. These EPs, along with Victorialand, released the following year, marked a shift in their sound, favoring multiple layers of lush guitars and long, spacious, shimmering echoes.Even Vaughan Oliver's artwork seemed to indicate all three releases were a set.
Tiny Dynamine is certainly the brighter of both, with the gorgeous "Pink Orange Red" and sparkling sounds of the opening guitars in "Ribbed and Veined," while Echoes opens with the more sinister-sounding "Great Spangled Fritillary" and continues with the haunting "Melonella."
Three decades later, I can't listen to one of these EPs without the other, and two sides on a single LP is a better listening experience than getting up and flipping a record over after only two songs.
I can only speculate that the meticulous attention to detail by V23 from day one has facilitated reissue artwork, and these vinyl reissues both feel and sound like they should. The sleeves are sturdy with a heavy stock, and the records look beautiful themselves, with deep, thick grooves. There has been quite an uproar about Cocteau Twins remasters, but for my ears, these both sound fantastic.
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The origin of this collection is a bit peculiar: originally sold through television commercials by the Polygram TV division in 1995, reclaimed by Beggars two years later, and now presented on LP for the first time, 20 years later. Essentially this is just about every Numan song a curious listener could want, featuring singles and popular album cuts. Aesthetically, however, the quality control in the art department could have taken a closer look.
These songs, collected from the Beggars period of Numan's catalog are flawless. The power is simple: strong hooks, straight up lyrics, and a driving force. It didn't matter if the instrumentation was keyboard-based or guitar-based, the conviction was pure.
The earliest songs are definitely Tubeway Army tunes, the snotty punk of "That's Too Bad" and the more awkward "Bombers" appear sandwiched in between more signature sound Numan pieces. While keeping this order remains somewhat faithful to the original release, the evolution isn't entirely appreciated. "Down in the Park" and "Are Friends Electric" are coupled with the LP cut "Me! I Disconnect from You" and the B-side "We Are So Fragile" to present an accurate representation of the beginning of 1979, where despite being credited to Tubeway Army, the sound is more in line with what Numan was going to do, billed as a solo act. It is in this period that the master template was first established.
Rounding out the rest of the 1979 content is that song everybody knows (thankfully absent is the unnecessary 1995 remix on the prior incarnations of this collection) with fan favorite album tracks "Metal" and "Films." Both of the latter songs were surprisingly not singles, as they are of equal caliber, and possibly even more massive in sound than the big hit. Along with the ballad "Complex," these four songs adequately represent Numan's 1979 masterpiece, The Pleasure Principle. For this moment in time, the template worked perfectly. Vocals weren't overbearing--in fact none of these songs even have a chorus--less was truly more. With the evolution of Numan, and many other notable '80s acts, the music became more bland with increased instrumentation and wordier songs.
1980 is represented with "This Wreckage," the only single from Telekon, along with two non-LP singles, "I Die, You Die" and "We Are Glass." While they contain some decent hooks, the sound is much more mild, and less immediate. Arguably the energy picked up again with the punchier "She's Got Claws" from Dance, and the inclusion of the Numan-sung songs "Stormtrooper In Drag" (released on Paul Gardiner's album) and "Love Needs No Disguise" (released on the album by Dramatis), all from 1981, are certainly fan pleasers.
The three singles from 1982, all from I, Assassin are featured. While the instrumentation sounds like it would work: Numan lifted the signature snare drum from Prince and employed a Mick Karn-esque fretless bassist, all of these songs simply seem a bit too busy and unmemorable. The album's only song that seems to end up in live sets (and arguably the album's best song), "This Is My House," was never a single and disappointingly absent. 1983's album Warriors only produced two singles, the title track and "Sister Surprise," both featured here, and even more bloated than before, the former with a pointless guitar solo and the latter with an unwelcome saxophone. Once again, everything's all shuffled in, so it's almost impossible to avoid the nonsense.
While I praise the completeness of the collection, despite the aesthetic downfalls of the later material, I do have an issue with the artwork. It's a reminder of the double-edged sword of vinyl reissues: trying to find original art files that are of high enough resolution that an LP can be tastefully printed. This, sadly wasn't the case. The edges on the cover photograph are exceptionally pixellated, almost embarrassingly so. Additionally, the extensive biography and photographs from the previous editions is missing, which would have been an appreciated icing on the cake. For the early singles and fantastic early album cuts, it does sit well in the vinyl stacks.
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Stanza
Companion piece to Sonnet LP (krank193)
Recorded 3-9 February 2015 at La Berceuse, Seattle WA
with guitar and cassette tape
Original CD edition included with handmade edition of Sonnet, limited to 25 copies, followed by a 2nd run of 10 copies.
Stanza II
Recorded May 2015 at La Berceuse, Seattle WA
with guitar, magnetic tape and voice
Also coupled with Stanza for release by BARO Records and Beacon Sound (Portland OR) as a C60 cassette, September 15, 2015
More information can be found here.
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Operating out of London’s Cable Street studios, on the vacated docks of empire and in the shadow of Canary Wharf, Moon Zero is the project of producer and composer Tim Garratt. This self-titled debut album is the culmination of the exploratory drone work of his first EPs. Drawing on the micro-polyphony of classical modernism and analogue-leaning contemporary electronic music, it's the finest incarnation yet of an aesthetic that’s both minimal and cinematic: an unhurried, massive tapestry of sound built from minute processes and hidden melodic lines.
The music spools out of Garratt’s mind in the form of extensively screwed up synthesizers, bowed cymbals, liquidated instruments and detuned tape loops. Bounced between effects chains, music software, mixing desks and tape, his materials are then inflated and tampered with, in different venues of a particular significance or suggestive atmosphere. The results are enigmatic, hypnotic and register a note of mourning. They are mercifully free of the obligatory club references of electronic music that’s destined for a different mood but nonetheless confines itself to bygone ‘post-club’ tropes. “I was listening to a lot of William Basinski, Bowie's Low, Swans, Messiaen, Stars of the Lid, Cluster, Eno… Carl Sagan,” remembers Garratt.
Recorded at St George in the East in Shadwell, London, religious themes pervade the album, drones imported from ancient sects and the never-silent industrial era – a convergence that is mirrored by the dead history of the Thames and present-day flows of money and data outside his Limehouse studio.
Out September 25, 2015.
More information will soon be found here.
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For some reason, this seems to be one of the most weirdly overhyped albums of 2015 (at least in the underground/indie/experimental music spheres that I travel in), suggesting that: 1.) people absolutely cannot get enough Grouper, 2.) people are desperate to find a new album to be excited about, and 3.) widespread cultural amnesia has set in.  That is not a knock on the band though: Liz Harris’s garage/indie-pop trio is certainly enjoyable, but it is disorienting to see such a jangly, pretty, and breezily lightweight affair be so celebrated at a time when no one seems to clamoring to name-drop Tallulah Gosh, Opal, The Shop Assistants, or any similar late '80s/early '90s indie pop bands as major influences (though they totally should be).  In any case, The Original Faces certainly has its appeal–despite being inherently a modest event with very low-key aspirations, it is not every day that I get to hear Harris let down her guard and bash out fun indie-pop confections with her friends (imaginary and otherwise).
This is Helen's debut album, though they previously surfaced with a 7" single in 2013 (co-released on Harris's own Yellow Electric imprint and bassist Scott Simmons' Meds label).  Both of the songs from that single reappear here, so those new to the party need not panic.  Rounding out the trio is Eternal Tapestry drummer Jed Bindeman, whom Liz amusingly began playing with several years in an attempted "thrash band" that ultimately became Helen (which is definitely not a thrash band).  Naturally, there is also a seemingly fictitious fourth member ("Helen," of course) credited with backing vocals.
The Original Faces can be divided into roughly two types of songs: fuzzy dream-pop and jangly C86/K Records/Flying Nun-style pop, though the two strains are united by Harris' characteristically reverb-swathed vocals and the rhythm section’s muscular and propulsive pulse.  While some of the dreamier/fuzzier pieces like "Dying All the Time" and "Grace" whip up quite a pedal-stomping guitar squall and lush vocal harmonies abound throughout the album , the bulk of Helen's songs adhere to a very simple "ok- we have a cool bass line, a melody, and some chords for the chorus…1..2..3..GO!" garage rock template.  Consequently, a lot of the songs are quite short and do not offer much in the way of development.  Instead, they offer rawness, spontaneity, and quite a few great hooks.
Unsurprisingly, the best songs are the ones with the best hooks (that is how pop music works, generally), though there is one inspired exception: the gorgeous opening piece "Ryder."  After an opening minute of tape-warped guitar strumming, "Ryder" unexpectedly explodes into something that sounds like the crescendo of a Shangri-Las' hit as produced by Flying Saucer Attack’s David Pearce: an indistinct blur of guitars, tape hiss, and lush, floating vocal harmonies over a roiling backdrop of urgent bass and plenty of crash cymbal.  Lamentably, it only last for about a minute, but it is absolutely wonderful while it lasts. The album's other high-water mark is "Allison," yet another slice of dream-pop bliss.  While it does not stray from the rest of the album in any significant way, it boasts an achingly beautiful chorus, as Harris's descending vocal melody harmonizes into warmly melancholy heaven.  Some of the more sparse and jangly songs are quite good too, particularly "Right Outside" and the bouncy debut single (of sorts) "Covered in Shade."  I am always a sucker for tambourines.
Notably, The Original Faces is the rare album in which all of its flaws can also be perversely read as assets.  For example, the album is only about 30 minutes long and roughly half of its songs clock in around 2 minutes or less.  Those short songs are often the best ones though, as Helen's very limited palette greatly benefits from such a no-frills, "get in, kick ass, then get out" approach.  These 12 pieces may not be particularly substantial, but they compensate by rarely overstaying their welcome. Another potential issue is that Harris's vocals are so soaked in reverb that they basically become just another instrument, completely obscuring the lyrics and undercutting her presence as a vocalist.  It sounds beautiful though, and Simmons and Bindeman do their best to make up for the blurry, barely there haziness of the vocals (the drums and bass are atypically loud and prominent for this style of music).  More importantly, those swooning, woozy vocals are what make this a distinctive project rather than a straight homage: Helen is basically just three cool people with great record collections having a fun time, but they still manage to make their influence-showing party their own thing (and they are every bit as good as most of the bands that they are celebrating).
For what they are: a fun side-project for three friends who are very busy with other bands and activities, Helen are surprisingly good.  Also, the informality of this project is hugely endearing (it took them 4 years to get together a half hour of music and their sole press photo was hurriedly taken with a dying camera after they convened for pizza on a rare occasion where all three members were in the same town at the same time).  Consequently, it is unwise to expect too much from Helen, but they are definitely an easy band to like (and they have excellent taste).  While I probably will not remember much about The Original Faces in a couple months, I will just as likely be endlessly revisiting a few of the highlights on playlists and mixtapes for years.
 
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It has been roughly 10 years since Thighpaulsandra’s last solo album, which is notable because it definitely feels like an entire decade-long backlog of ideas has been poured into this sprawling and overstuffed release.  Fits of great inspiration, masterful songcraft, baroque orchestration, meandering filler, and plenty of very ill-conceived motifs all tirelessly vie for their moment in the sun over the course of an exhausting 2-hour tour de force of intermittently wonderful and oft-grueling excess.  The Golden Communion is simultaneously a celebration of the joys of unfettered imagination and the perils of complete creative freedom.  There is probably an absolutely perfect LP buried in here somewhere, but Thighpaulsandra certainly does not make it easy to find.
The Golden Communion might be single most bizarre and uncategorizable album that I have yet heard in my entire career of music criticism, as it is simultaneously hugely ambitious and absolutely impossible to figure out what exactly Thighpaulsandra was trying to achieve.  This album is all over the place and nearly impossible to categorize.  That said, The Quietus amusingly compared it to an Andrew Lloyd Webber rock musical, which certainly seems apt, if unintentionally cruel.  To me, it feels more like an intended career-defining opus by an artist intent on making a huge statement, yet constantly derailed by multiple-personality disorder, resulting in endless jarring shifts in tone and vision.  I have no idea if that kaleidoscopic aesthetic was by design or not, but Communion nevertheless does feel like the work of several different artists with very different visions.  The personality that I like best (The Sophisticated '80s Pop Visionary) sadly surfaces in earnest just once (in the sinuous and burbling "The Foot Garden").  He does not even manage to turn up for the entire song either, as the piece opens with over 4 minutes of hallucinatory and discordant electronic meandering (the Mad Scientist personality?) before the actual song kicks in.  Once it actually comes together, however, it is absolutely wonderful, resembling the best song that David Sylvian never wrote.
Another one of Thighpaulsandra's more appealing sides is The Pastoral English Psych-Rocker from the Late Sixties, which surfaces in "Valerie."  Following almost 2 minutes of requisite synth noise, the piece suddenly blossoms into a beautifully melodic Beatles-esque piece in the vein of "Eleanor Rigby," but Thighpaulsandra’s restless imagination makes yet another surprise appearance after a few minutes, resulting in a typically wild series of transformations.  First, it explodes into rousing a church choir reprise of the chorus; then sidesteps into a baroque, candy-colored prog-rock synth fantasia; then closes with something that lies somewhere between Sylvian and suave '70s pop a la 10cc.  Each new twist is executed beautifully, but it amounts to a very disorienting (albeit still enjoyable and unique) whole.  Happily, yet another of Thighpaulsandra’s appealing guises is (of course) that of Former Coil Member, which manifests itself in the closing epic "The More I Know Men, The Better I Like Dogs," which culminates in an increasingly chopped loop of John Balance’s recitation of the title.
The rest of The Golden Communion’s ten pieces are a definite mixed bag, however.  The stomping glam rock-meets-industrial rave-up "Did He Fall?" is quite good, for example, offering strong up hooks, ample personality, a fun groove, and wonderfully surreal film dialogue interlude.  Later, "Devil in Every Hedgerow" takes the dark pop sensibility of "The Foot Garden" and gnarls it into an abstract nightmare.  Other highlights includes the brilliantly ruined orchestral crescendo of "The Sinking Stone" and the sultry and subtly psychedelic vamp that erupts during the 25-minute title piece.  Elsewhere, "Salute" bizarrely erupts into a fried-sounding stoner metal groove with questionable results.  Much less questionable is "On The Register," which brings back those same distorted guitars for a legitimately bad and wince-inducingly meat-headed shout-fest (though I was grudgingly amused by the distinctly non-radio-friendly chorus of "You're a fucking pedo!").
While "On The Register" is the only uniformly unfortunate piece on the album, The Golden Communion is nevertheless a deeply flawed opus.  It is also quite a compelling one though.  In fact, my honest and unfiltered opinion can only be summarized as "what the hell just happened?"  The problem is essentially that Communion is a victim of its own insanely ambitious vision and scope, as the album took a decade to finish and features quite a shifting and varied array of collaborators.  In fact, there are more than a dozen credited contributors involved to various degrees, most notably the god Pan, though Peter Christopherson turns up as well.  Also, Thighpaulsandra seems terminally incapable of doing anything succinctly, maddeningly couching all of Communion's best moments amidst plenty of digressions and filler. This album could easily be half as long without anything being missed.  Still, parts of it are legitimately dazzling and sound like absolutely no one else.  Therein lies the proverbial rub: Thighpaulsandra is a restlessly creative supernova, but one who is badly in need of both focus and an editor (or at least a very opinionated foil).  Ultimately, The Golden Communion is absolutely singular in ways both bad and good.  Those looking for something far outside the ordinary will definitely find a lot to like here, but they will likely also find a generous accompanying helping of exasperation.  Proceed with caution.
 
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Hello There,
Michael Gira of Swans here.
I thought that you might be interested to know that the 2xCD live SWANS handmade fundraiser event/portal of support for our (in)glorious efforts is now up at this link. The live 2xCD is called The Gate. I believe it captures the live SWANS experience effectively. The woodblock print is by Nicole Boitos and I draw all over each one and sign it as well. Each one is unique. They're numbered 1 - 2500 and won't be available elsewhere... The upcoming album (as yet untitled) will be the last with this core group (comprised of my beautiful friends Norman, Christoph, Thor, Phil, Christopher and myself) and the subsequent (marathon) tour in 2016 will be our last together. As such, I am determined to make this album the most fully realized, cataclysmic, subtle and nuanced, heartfelt and inspirational, truthful and luminous recording that we have yet undertaken. As always, your valued (and quite necessary) support in this perhaps quixotic endeavor is sincerely appreciated. I love you! I thank you!
- Michael Gira / Swans
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