As a listener, one of the more celebrated things about some prolific independent artists gaining more deserved recognition would be the availability of previous material that may have originally been issued in limited quantities, or else did not have as wide a distribution as present. Formerly released as a three-track twelve inch EP limited to 1,000 copies, the Scott Herren project of Delarosa + Asora's 'Crush the Sight-Seers' has recently materialized on CD through Chicago's Hefty Records, home to Herren's Savath + Savalas. In keeping with the added value of some reissues, a bonus track has been included. The recurring distorted keyboard chatters and metallic percussion sample of the opening track "OSSABAW" blends into a sub-bass progression and laid-back, half-time groove with the odd break to mark off sections of the tune. The two-and-a-half minute "OSS.BW" is a multi-layered piece of eerie drones, synth squelches and chimes that could be the equivalent of sound painting through channel surfing at a mixing console. "Airbrush (clogged)" builds from distorted vocal snippets and reverbed static to a cordial bass line and mid-tempo electro-percussion groove with a gradually building back beat. Eventually it all falls away leaving the distant sounds of distorted keyboards and squelchy tape shuttling. "Vs. Boah" skitters from static pops, sound layers and vocal samples to a dark sounding danceable groove which builds in intensity after each lengthy break. A shift in the key signature makes from a great release from all the tension the track builds. Dropping out just shy of the five minute mark for two-and-a-half minutes of silence, the music returns with an echo to the drones and hisses of "OSS.BW" to close off. While this disc may be an acquired taste as it's not as groove-oriented or melodically friendly as other Scott Herren projects, I'd have to say that it still makes for a great listen for just those reasons too. As mentioned in the liner notes, another good thing about CD reissues of unmarked RPM vinyl is hearing the tunes at the speed they were intended to be played at without any doubt.
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The story goes like this: David Lynch wanted to use This Mortal Coil's haunting version of Tim Buckley's "Song to a Siren" for a pivotal scene in his classic film "Blue Velvet." Something about Elizabeth Frasier's ethereal, wavering voice and the echoing acoustic guitar was perfect for a particular scene in the film. For the rights to use the song, 4AD wanted a figure that was half the budget of the film he was making. Deeply disappointed that he could not afford the song, he asked the film's composer, Angelo Badalamenti, to write and produce a track that had a similar "feel". Badalamenti found a singer with the voice of an angel, Julee Cruise, an unknown who had been working off-off-Broadway, and with lyrics penned by Lynch, they composed the song "Mysteries of Love".Although not quite the equal of "Song to a Siren", they saw a lot of potential, and eventually Lynch and Badalamenti teamed up to write and produce an album for Julee Cruise. Lynch wrote the lyrics and guided the sound, and Badalamenti filled out the sound with his excellent ear for composition. The classic album "Falling Into the Night" is a pop treasure, combining 1950s rockabilly guitar with darkly atmospheric synthesized strings and Cruise's angelic, overdubbed vocals. The Lynch/Balamenti/Cruise collaboration went on for several years, and the songs ended up in Lynch's "Twin Peaks" and Wim Wenders "Until the End of the World". There was a follow up album a couple of years later, 'Voice of Love'. It wasn't nearly as good, but it still captured the sound that had originally inspired Lynch/Badalementi. They even built a huge rock-opera spectacle around Julee Cruise, 1989's "Industrial Symphony No. 1".
Not satisfied to wait for Lynch and Badalamenti to write her another album, Julee has chosen a different group of collaborators to work with for her new album 'The Art of Being a Girl.' If anyone had any questions about how much input Julee had into her music all these years, this album should clear everything up. She had no input at all. Lynch/Badalamenti were using Julee as an instrument, a breathy "little-girl-lost" voice to accompany their atmospheric tracks. This is the first album where Julee has co-written songs, and it is an incredibly average affair. Her collaborators (Mocean Worker, Khan and some guy named J.J. McGeehan), have used a lot of trite studio tricks in an attempt to distract the listener from the fact that the songs are boring. Julee makes the error of trying to recreate herself as some kind of world-wise feminist diva. It feels really forced, and the album sounds like every other downtempo "sexy" electronic pop album with faceless female vocals.
Several of the tracks attempt to mimic Julee's guest star turn on Khan's awesome track "Say Goodbye" from last year's 'No Comprendo'; none of them live up to these aspirations. The compositions are tired and riddled with cliché. The laughable, non-sexy spoken word segments in many of the songs don't help at all. As a final insult, there is a hidden track, a new version of one of Julee's best songs from the Lynch/Badalamenti years, "Falling" (recognizable to many as the opening theme of Twin Peaks). This tepid version adds nothing to the original song, and it just serves as a reminder of how great the song sounded when it was in the hands of more talented collaborators. Julee Cruise's talent is serviceable in the proper context, when the songwriting and production is top-notch. However, this underachieving album pales in comparison to her previous work as a bit player in the grand Lynchian musical drama.
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I love the way CDs are programmable. For instance, I can take a disc like this one, with a strong opening, "Clear a Space for the King," which conjurs up space aliens grooving on a flashy dancefloor and listen along with the calm and pretty "Sprinkling Time," completely avoiding songs like "Transylvanian Spy" with its irritating, tinny two-bar melodies and "Lonely Stars" with its obnoxious fake piano riff that makes me want to throw things across the room. Reading the song titles, the record label's web site, and the distributor's release notes, each account for this album almost completely contradicts the others: ranging from a fascination with science fiction to the imitation of stomach and digestive sounds to references of musique concrête. While most of the music here is decent, I can't justify it receiving as much over-evaluation. Clearly, the one-man person behind Wang Inc., Italian Bartolomeo Sailer, is a talented individual, with a meticulous amount of attention paid to every instrument sound in each of the fifteen tracks. Rarely are sounds recycled from track to track. Comical punchiness on tracks like "Sonic Killer" would appease many Sonig fans while "Forgotten Kurdish Workers" can easily appeal to any lover of the spaceship hum from a black and white film. A little more patience with the melodies and a lot more discretion when deciding what to omit might be nicer, however.
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Forgive my cliché use of a metaphor, but I somehow feel that when I listen to this disc, I'm looking at a fairly decorative car that simply doesn't go anywhere. Spaceheads have been churning out this same formula for years: a dubby pretense, a small amount of recycled and reused, two-bar repetitive sequences, some live drum playing and trumpet with loads of delay effects. The formula's getting old. While their music is undoubtedly pleasant enough for an escalator ride, and the band has earned a wide amount of respect as a performing duo, I've never felt their music was compelling enough to simply toss on the hi-fi and either bop along or pay much attention to. The rhythms and melodies exit the song in the same way each and every one of them came in, and the only lead instrument, the trumpet, does a lackluster job as tour guide. By the time this album reaches the fifth track, I swear I'm hearing remixes of the same song, over and over again. If it weren't for the insulting guitar riff on "Fog," or the horrible, tacky electronic drum fills and cheap 1993 Aphex Twin-ripoff on "Storm Force 8," I may have recommend using this music for quiet studies, creative writing, or other mentally requiring activities. Instead, I'm left thinking this album's only practical use could be to underscore a stuffy documentary on the British Rail system or a trip to the paper mill. Maybe lots of drugs might help my experience, but I just don't have enough cash to try that out right now.
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The concept is interesting for a compilation to say the least: three bands recording songs that are influenced by or created under the influence of alcohol. It could be an absolute disaster, but here it works quite nicely. Then again, the artists featured here are no slouches (even though they may be out of their element a bit).Silber
Remora, a.k.a. Brian John Mitchell, usually creates ambient drone-rock, but chose an acoustic guitar as a starting point for his contributions. Jon DeRosa used to present more experimental fare with Aarktica, but his Pale Horse and Rider—making a recording debut here—has a more country flavor with that modern troubadour appeal. And what more can I say about Rivulets? Nathan Amundson, fresh from his full-length debut and EP, adds the longest tracks here with aplomb. The results of these three different projects are quite stunning as well as incredibly maudlin in nature. DeRosa is a fresh voice with heartbreak on his mind, and his songs are incredibly affecting. On "Bruises Like Badges," he explores the mindset of the casual victim who thrives on the attention of others, as his voice trembles and begs for her to hide the conversation pieces from him. The seven-minute "You've Been Keeping Secrets Again" is the best of the lot, with DeRosa providing his own haunting harmony. Remora's songs are less polished than the others, and far more eclectic, though still solid. They're also the spookiest, as the titles would suggest ("Oblivion," "Hope is Gone"). On "Joy Division," he approaches madness: "We both know I always wanted you forever / I don't want to put a rope to my throat / but I'm listening to Joy Division." Scary. Rivulets just add more reasons for accolades to the set, with simple songs that are far beyond the length my tolerance affords other artists. Amundson never loses you, as his earnest tunes have an inescapable gravity with every guitar strum. He seems to be growing more comfortable with his voice, too, even if the vocals are mixed way in the background. The climax on "Anaconda" with its "I knew you would leave" is especially touching. And there are a few missteps all around (Amundson misses more than one note on "Gimme Excess," for instance). The simple charm of the release gets you over that real quick. Just don't listen too long, as it's liable to depress you.
 
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- Remora - Joy Division
- Pale Horse and Rider - Bruises Like Badges
- Rivulets - Anaconda
 
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While pushing the normally suppressed and inaudible whirs and clicks of the mechanical innards of your favorite turntable into the foreground, Michael Gendreau has curiously pushed the attention on the actual sound output of his recording to the back. My zen-like state of concentration aside, it was virtually impossible for me to listen to the opening piece (one of two long tracks that makes up the album) without wondering where the sounds came from, how they were recorded, and what this all said about listening to the playback device instead of the playback. The use of a turntable to produce sounds other than those reproduced from a vinyl record is far from novel, but Gendreau spends a full 16:18 trying to beat the idea of these hidden sounds into our head. A constant drone that could be the inside of the tone arm amplified to a low roar, reminded me a great deal of the results of a naive experiment I once conducted by placing a microphone in front of a fan and letting it record for half an hour. It's interesting for about two minutes, then you realize that your ears have intentionally filtered this kind of sound out all of your life for a reason: it's boring. The second (and longer) of the two pieces finds Gendreau more actively affecting the results of his micro-scale recordings. Clocking in at 35:45, it's still not a piece for anyone deeply engaged in the Nintendo Generation, and the piece could easily be broken into smaller, more digestible segments. Structurally, it works like listening to a record as the record player's various internal sound quirks are explored episodically like grooves in a record that isn't there. The absent needle and wax are referenced in the way the track picks up an idea, exploits a sound or natural rhythm for a while, then drops the idea and skips onto the next. After nearly an hour of listening for the compositional touch that Gendreau added to make these more than simple field recordings, I came to realize that maybe the music was not, in itself, the point. The only question that remains for me is this: why wasn't this released on vinyl? Read More
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The Hushush label website refers to the latest release from Vromb as "the first chapter in an electronic opera for ultratonical machines." If that works for you, by all means, go for it. While there's a narrative background to this release that is expressed vaguely in the artwork and printed inserts which accompany it, I can't help but wonder if such accoutrements sometimes detract from otherwise interesting music. After all, it's the sound here that we can all experience without the cultural baggage of language, theories of music, and so on,... Structurally, the songs here build as one might imagine: generally growing from a small, discrete set of sounds into a much louder and less easily defined set. Distant hums and hisses grow into swelling storms of overtones and drones. Rhythm is provided alternately by the natural pulse of tones and by looping effects employed to stretch discrete sounds over time, causing the album undulate as the energy is pulled in and released. Vromb's digital collage can transform from a mild ambient rumble like a radio left on in another room to high-pitched skree not unlike I would imagine a cranial drill would sound in short time. The ebbs and flows here work to keep anything from being too much of a particular thing for long. The tracks with a stronger rhythmic sense employ repeating synthetic patterns which echo a minimal techno aesthetic, whereas the quieter moments recall any number of electroacoustic compositions of the last several years. While the idea that there is a story that underlies this album might add to the repeat-play value, it is ultimately not a factor in determining what Vromb is after here: namely a thorough excursion through the realm of digital microsound, with a focus on the dissonance of that sonic landscape. If any of that, (or the story of Professor Heurel Gaudot) interests you, this is probably a good record to add to your collection. Read More
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Mick Harris has helped to define more genres than many artists can claim to have released respectable albums. From his longest running moniker, Scorn, devotees have come to expect a certain formula: mix equal parts sparse electroacoustic ambience with driving, fractured breakbeats. Add woofer-thrashing bass frequencies and spoon out with a dash of painfully dry humor. Scorn's work has been one of a gradual stripdown of all that was non-essential on early albums like Colossus and Evanescence, and the move towards minimalism has alienated many in its wake. Scorn's last full length for Hymen, the blisteringly straightforward 'Greetings From Birmingham' showed that Harris had all but exhausted the possibilites with dead slow beats and low-end rumble. With 'Plan B' however, Scorn returns to form in a way that's a bit unanticipated. While stripping down to just the barest of bones, 'Plan B' manages to merge Scorn's minimalist anger with something that had been left behind somewhere around 'Evanescence;' the groove! 'Plan B' is a constant head-nodder from its opening assault of speaker-blowing bass feedback to the finale that stops abruptly like someone ending a strenuous workout by hopping off the exercise bike. You'll need a decent pair of speakers or headphones to really make sense of this, as a great deal of the depth comes from the way Harris manipulates the low-end often in nonsensical ways. Melodies are carried by fluctuations in filter cutoff, looping piano figures, and the occasional tonal scrape or stab. Meanwhile, Scorn's sense of humor remains in-tact. A lesser artist would take this formula and add a 'spooky' sample from Aliens, but Harris cuts the assault of beats and bass with occasional samples that lighten up the work and relieve it of the deadpan seriousness that so much of this kind of music adheres to. Equally at home in a set of post-industrial beat mayhem or an underground hip hop dj set, 'Plan B' might just give you an excuse to shake it a little. Read More
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This memorable live collaboration between one of the world’s most explosive drummers and a titan of the UK jazz scene bizarrely came about from a random meeting at an airport in Portugal during Corsano’s lengthy tour with Björk. As expected, the result is some absolutely incendiary free-jazz flame-throwing, but with some unexpected surprises thrown in too.
Identical Sunsets opens (rather unusually) with a brief solo bagpipe performance by Dunmall. It's quite an odd and unrepresentative way to begin the album and I’m still not entirely sure what to make of it, even after several listens (maybe Chris wasn’t either, since he sat it out).It is certainly a bit fascinating and unique to hear an incredibly talented musician furiously shredding on a damn bagpipe, but it is not an instrument that lends itself particularly well to rapid flurries of notes—it can get a bit shrill.
Thankfully, Paul sticks exclusively to his saxophone for the remaining three songs and things get a lot more exciting.Corsano, characteristically, puts on a skittering and rumbling tour de force and Dunmall holds his own quite nicely (no mean feat).It must be extremely tempting to resort to atonal skwonks and howls when there is such a volcanic percussionist absolutely leveling the place behind you, but Dunmall remains in complete control throughout.His runs are appropriately frenzied and cathartic given their backdrop, but generally still quite melodic and intelligently connected.The rare quiet moments are quite compelling too—particularly the section in "Living Proof" where Paul coaxes ghostly multiphonic moans and overtones from his sax.The duo display quite an intuitive connection throughout their set, as they always seem to shift gears before any passages begin to drag, seamlessly flowing back and forth between visceral raging and ominous simmering.
Of course, the downside to two guys wildly improvising at some club in Cheltenham is that it still ultimately sounds like two guys wildly improvising at some club in Cheltenham.An album like this probably won’t have much cross-over appeal for people that don’t already like free jazz (bagpipe fans aside), though Corsano is considerably more frenzied and muscular than most other jazz drummers.This is certainly well-traveled stylistic territory, but it is rarely done with such a perfect balance of musicality and go-for-broke intensity.Chris and Paul both deliver some truly impassioned and virtuosic performances here, making for one very impressive and satisfying album.
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This memorable live collaboration between one of the world's most explosive drummers and a titan of the UK jazz scene bizarrely came about from a random meeting at an airport in Portugal during Corsano's lengthy tour with Björk. As expected, the result is some absolutely incendiary free-jazz flame-throwing, but with some unexpected surprises thrown in too.
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This reissue of ACR’s Factory Records swansong captures the band at the height of their popularity and influence, spearheading (along with New Order, Quando Quango, and others) the dancification of the celebrated Manchester indie scene. While inventive, funky, and certainly a proto-Madchester touchstone, it doesn’t hold up quite as well as their Simon Topping-era earlier work (perhaps because dance music evolves a hell of a lot faster than punk). Of course, I am very much predisposed to "tense and brooding" over "funky and fun," so I may not be the target demographic here. Still, I suspect that this is probably the sort of classic album where you had to be there to fully appreciate it.
When I listened to Force for the first time, I was reminded of an amusing scene in Until the Light Takes Us in which an exasperated Gylve from Dark Throne patiently explains to an interviewer that he knows exactly how he wants Dark Throne to sound and the fact that he loves underground dance music does not mean that it will wind up on his next album.At this point in their career, A Certain Ratio exemplified the exact opposite of that sentiment—they were a band of post-punk magpies, exuberantly gobbling up and assimilating new influences as fast as they appeared.Whether or not this approach worked for them is pretty contentious, as this album garnered rave reviews from the mainstream British music press (Melody Maker proclaimed it "a glorious achievement") and certainly made a lot of people happy on Manchester’s dancefloors.To my ears, however, it is merely another frustrating step way from their excellent Sextet album.
There are three big problems here.The first is that doing things first is a relative achievement, rather than an absolute one.Being one of the earliest British rock bands to incorporate Latin rhythms, jazz, electro-funk, hip hop, samplers, and NYC dance music into their sound was undeniably fresh and hip in the early ‘80s, but just sounds kind of primitive and dated now.Secondly, the actual songs are not especially great.A lot of effort clearly went into the beats and the arrangements, but the lyrics and vocal melodies are often pretty weak ("C’mon, c’mon, c’mon- get ready!") and it sometimes sounds like vocalist Jez Kerr can’t decide whether he wants to sound like Joy Division or Wang Chung.Finally, the band seems extremely fixated on making sure that the beats are as rib cage rattling as possible.This means that almost all of the songs are mid-paced stomps and that the slapping and popping bass lines are perfectly synced to the drums, rather than being allowed to flow or propel the groove.It’s certainly tight and packs some punch, but also makes the songs sound pretty similar and sacrifices fluidity.I strongly prefer the looser, more laid-back grooves of Force’s predecessor, I’d Like to See You Again.
Nevertheless, A Certain Ratio definitely achieved something here.If Force is a bit of a well-intentioned but clumsy Frankenstein of an album, it’s still a pretty inspired one. Fans of their darker early work will probably only like "Naked and White" (the outro of which boasts some absolutely spectacular drumming), but the band shines brightest on funky instrumentals like the muscular single "Mickey Way" and frequent show-closing Latin dance party "Si Firmo O Grido." Those two vamps have a sense of fun and vitality to them that makes it obvious what the band would rather be doing.Unfortunately, that particular direction was never fully explored, as Force was the last album to feature one of the band’s main creative forces (and strongest musician), as keyboardist Andrew Connell was pulled away by the demands of his more commercially successful Swing Out Sister project.Though the passing of time hasn’t been especially kind to this conflicted and transitional effort, it was nevertheless a very forward-thinking album (in its context) and played a significant role in the evolution of the Manchester sound and dance music in general.Which, of course, is much more than I've been doing lately.
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