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Using motors and various pieces of metal, the sculptures of New Zealand artist Len Lye not only move but also emit strange sounds. Lye choreographs twisted sheets of metal and whirring surgical steel into compositional forms that belie their apparent randomness. No mere dusty museum pieces, the sounds his kinetic works produce are every bit as unearthly and unsettling as anything created electronically.
These recordings were made with a simple yet appropriate stereo miking technique that mimics the human ears and to me is the next best thing to experiencing these pieces firsthand. Although they weren’t originally intended to be heard independently of the sculptures, that there exist visual counterparts to these alien soundscapes only whets my imagination. A six foot tall section of shimmering metal hits upon a cork ball in “Blade,” inducing a sense of danger in me as the oscillations vary dramatically in speed and volume. The variation of this piece, “(Big) Blade,” has a similar effect, while the swirling crashes of “Flip and Two Sisters (Trilogy)” made me even more apprehensive, though enjoyably so. At the other end of the dynamic spectrum, “Grass” soothes with strands of flexible steel brushing against each other as the base of the sculpture tilts back and forth. “Fountain” achieves a similar effect, albeit by different means.
It’s easy for an album like this to rest upon the laurels of historical significance, but in this instance the aural pleasure it gives far exceeds such considerations.
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When I saw the latest incarnation of Current 93 in performance last June, I made it a point to personally tell David that it was by far my favorite lineup and show that I had ever seen of the group, and I meant it. This album is perhaps the most anticipated Current 93 release ever, and it is easily one of, if not, the best.
Current 93 has not released an album of this magnitude, with all new material, in 10 years. Like All the Pretty Little Horses, Black Ships Ate the Sky resembles a theatrical production. It is well-calculated and sequenced and has a dream team crew: a core featuring stellar musicians (like the addition of Six Organs of Admittance/Comets On Fire guitarist Ben Chasny and cellist John Contreras to the recurring players Michael Cashmore, Steven Stapleton, and Bill Breeze) along with a supporting cast of brilliant guest vocalists and noisemakers. Additionally, like All the Pretty Little Horses, Current 93 are not afraid to tackle a traditional folk piece multiple times.
Marc Almond opens the album with "Idumea," an 18th century hymn, which reappears later with other vocalists. His voice shines in top form here. This version serves two purposes: accompanied only by a simple acoustic guitar, it remains quite faithful to the original; additionally, its magnificence sets the bar high for the rest of the record. "Sunset," which originally came out on that one-track/two-song CD single sold last year in Toronto is David's first appearance. I can't help but think it's a subtle nod to the loss of band member (and more importantly a close, dear friend) John Balance, most explicitly by the line about not seeing "chalice or graal" (remember the short lived Threshold House offshoot Chalice, whose catalogue titles all began with "Graal"). Tibet goes from calm to fiery as the music picks up in pace and intensity with the multiple guitarists and driving drones on the following "Black Ships in the Sky," returning to a more reserved delivery on "Then Kill Caesar," which is accented by the haunting viola of Bill Breeze, echoing the sorrowful sounds he's performed during Coil's seasonal single series.
Bonnie 'Prince' Billy's version of "Idumea" ushers in the next act, accompanied by a banjo and Indian drone sounds. It's followed by two more Tibet-sung standards before the next version of "Idumea." Baby Dee's take is as jaw-dropping as just about any of her own harp recordings, accompanied only by a quiet viola. "Bind Your Tortoise Mouth" follows, the perfect marriage between the respective styles of Six Organs and Current 93. The acoustic playing is distinctly Chasny's and the baroque verses speaking of God and kittens are unmistakably the lyrical obsessions Current 93. Antony's "Idumea" is perhaps one of the only things on the record I'm not completely floored by: while it's passionate and pretty, it's brief and only features his multitracked voice, and not his beautiful piano playing that I adore so much.
Veteran Irish folkstress and child star Clodagh Simonds (Mellow Candle, Mike Oldfield) accompanies herself on harmonium for her incredible version of "Idumea," ushering in the 11+ minute opus of "Black Ships Were Sinking." Here's where it seems Steven Stapleton has taken over, chopping up strings, vocals, spinning things backwards, and stretching them out before Cosey Fanni Tutti's time-stretched take on "Idumea" seamlessly and quietly segues from the chaos into Antony's second contribution, the song "Dancing Dust." A piano and vocal piece, "Dancing Dust" is indeed one of the album's highlights, but, at under one minute, it is far too short! Pantaleimon's "Idumea" follows like a beautiful soothing lullaby a mother would sing while stroking her child's hair as they fall asleep, and the serenity ends.
The next act is basically the nightmare trilogy and climax: the angry dissonance of "Vauvauvau," as blistering distorted noise battles with Tibet and acoustic guitar; David Tibet's painfully direct version of "Idumea," where we actually finally believe the lyrics which address the singer's own mortality; completing with the chugging, metal-edged "Black Ships Ate the Sky," rock guitars pounding away as David gets it all out, screaming over the death of friends, the dogma of duality of messiah versus destroyer; David as the protagonist, losing control while screaming for answers: "Who will deliver me from myself?" It's an utterly frightening and cathartic track.
Peace follows with the final songs, Tibet's reflection and resolution on "Why Caesar is Burning II," ending with Shirley Collins' version of "Idumea," which is appropriately the version which sounds most like a finale.
It seems as if everything is in line for Current 93: as if their time has finally come. The musical trends of modern folk have exploded in popularity in sequence with Current 93's mastery of the genre. David Tibet and Current 93 are the true leaders and have set an almost impossible example to follow.
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The irony of Vol. 2 of the Exchange Session is that, even though the three songs are longer, the music is far more controlled, composed, and tighter, as opposed to the improvisational and somewhat looser sound typically associated with long pieces.
Domino
In the 20 minute opener, "Hold Down the Rhythms, Hold Down the Machines," it seems that Hebden and Reid find their groove after only a remarkably very brief intro. Reid's bass drum is pounding a thundering beat while Hebden's got an array of loops only about a minute in, and by the four minute mark, vibe/marimba-like sounds are driving the melody. A steady rhythmic pattern at seven minutes is fun to groove to and by the eighth minute, each begin to let things spin almost out of control, before bringing it back in line for the last half of the song. What I most enjoy is towards the end when Kieran's grooving along with Steve, adding a few bass-note loops to his mix of gadgetry.
Thumb piano, wind chimes, bells, and low rustles usher in "Noémie," and here's where I can see the comparisons to Miles Davis (as proclaimed on the sticker on the front) can arise. The foundation is laid and on top of it, samples of wind instruments and what could be an alto sax trickle in and out: repeating, exploiting, and diverting from a theme. But the Davis connection doesn't last long. "Noémie" is like a journey through uncharted terrain. The first part is calm and assuring: both Hebden and Reid thankfully choose to remain in a sedated mode for a good, long period, keeping focused without letting things erupt predictably. Things pick up but it doesn't feel like we're anywhere different for a while, it's as if we're moving along through the same scenery as before, only a bit faster. Only towards the end do things become spooky, ominous, as if we've wandered off course into some dark regions, but we do soon return to the sanctity of the home base by the end of the journey.
"We Dream Free" sounds more like a band than any other piece as it opens with what could easily be a double bassist and guitarist playing along with Kieran and Steve. Peaceful, decorational sounds like glistening bells and chimes come in and out and as Steve drives up the pace and intensity, Kieran keeps on the mark, maintaining a bass line (which is probably difficult given the gear he's actually working with). Unlike on Vol. 1, this record's closer calms to a halt and actually comes to an end without getting lobbed off abruptly.
Hebden and Reid have once again issued a great archive of their fond session work, but haven't covered any new ground with Vol. 2. Those who were not a fan of Vol. 1 won't be won over by any drastic differences. I think with this one, however, I'm personally more satisfied, like the tunes are something more substantial that I can sink my teeth into easier, and I'm not itching for a resolution.
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As one half of Birds of Delay Steve Warwick makes dirt sediment peppered petroleum noise. With his solo Heatsick project it’s all about exploratory drone, hitting every frequency on his way through. From a growling rusty Harley opening that builds and quickly plummets, scrambling for a handhold, this continues its hi-energy search for the full twenty minutes.
It’s the range of sounds and the speed in which they’re found, assimilated, used and streamed out on this release that makes it work. The hand manipulated high-end sorties feel like pillaging punk attacks on a white canvas. A sense of watchfulness and hand-manipulated purpose goes into the strings of tones and pulse lashing whines, with no movements feeling like tea break feedback accidents. When, for a few short seconds on Submerged, the drones’ shift into a mechanoid altered feel, the feel is short-lived, blanching winds give nothing the chance to settle here.
Even tough a few of these skinny throbs transform into siren calls through thirty cubic feet of transparent oil the sounds are far from being submerged into the mix or waterlogged down with effects. They are free to lash, splurge, spread and blast across the record; slashes of swooping violence that scream and whinny. More than just a series of rise and fall patterns, this grinds against sleek surfaces sounding both flustered and direct as it splinters, melts and pierces.
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On this four song EP, Tartufi finds a safe formula and sticks to it. Unfortunately, the formula only succeeds on the first song and makes clutter of the others. "Midnight Tracks" has it all—the back and forth fuzzed guitar interplay, the dual vocals, and the multiple changes in direction. The song is performed well, though it’s somewhat standard fare. Those that follow are essentially more of the same.
Acuarela
Almost every track on this EP runs at least five minutes yet never manages to say much. Not that the group isn’t trying. "Slow Man" spends the first two minutes building up to a climax that stops shy of its mark and doesn’t quite satisfy. "Ashes" ends with a meandering jam that dilutes the impact of the rest of the song. The best parts of every song are the instrumental sections. Not that the vocals are bad, but they’re not a highlight, either. Gruzden and Angel’s voices harmonize well but they don’t venture outside of their limited comfort zone. The melodies themselves aren’t particularly memorable, nor are the lyrics. In fact, the middle two songs have such similar arrangements that they are difficult to tell apart. Rather than exploring different ways of singing or different styles of playing guitar, the band simply adds sections onto the end of each song to cumbersome effect. They seem uncertain as to what they want to say or how they want to say it, using addition when subtraction might best reveal their intentions.
 
Maybe live these songs feel more inspired, but recorded, the band’s calculations are their undoing.
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An original Hook & Hastings tracker-action (non-electric) pipe organ originally constructed in 1881 owns the entirety of this record. The chanting, reminiscent of what Native American and Indian chants I've heard bend space-time, revealing an ether of energy and ideas coursing beneath the visible spectrum. Performed live, this album sounds more like a ritual than a product; it is a distinct and meditative experience that pounds down the doors of the visceral and floods the extended world with a pure, white light.
Beta-lactam Ring
Beta-lactam's website provides an excellent and brief history of the Old Church's unique instrument. Installed in 1883 in Portland, OR, this mechanical pipe organ has seen multiple restorations since the 1960s, but was not satisfactorily restored until 1997. The instrument's voice, a soft and powerful bellow, has thankfully survived over 100 years to make this recording. I always enjoy hearing unique and strange instruments and though pipe organs are not difficult to find, one of this caliber, still resting in the church it was constructed in, is an apparently rare find. On top of that, its sound is distinct from many pipe organs I've heard, resonating with a wooden, hollow timbre unlike the tones generated by electric pipe organs I've had the pleasure of hearing.
Chao Organica in A Minor could properly be considered a historical document if it weren't for the unusual chants and didgeridoo-like echoes that spread across its belly. The album is split into two tracks: one over 20 minutes in length and the other over 40. Both tracks are undeniably minimalist in nature, utilizing nothing more than the organ and a solo vocal performance. As much of a treat as the organ is, the vocals are a key element to the performance, lending it a supernatural and religious tone appropriate to the environment it was recorded in. Given the right circumstances and frame of mind, it seems like that supernatural contact could've been made with the help of this performance. Each track generates slow, extended melodies. The focus is almost obviously on the textures that the vocals and the organ produce. It's hard not to think of Coil's Time Machines when listening, but the inclusion of the wordless chants adds a dimension to that comparison that renders it null and void. Far from sounding like an improvised performance, every minute of each track provides carefully constructed moments of brilliance.
It's difficult to imagine that this isn't an esoteric recording of a ritualistic performance meant to summon the will and power of every audience member. The music acts like a camera, focusing my thoughts and ideas into coherent wholes. It organizes moments and slows them down, making them visible, available for careful analysis and steady meditation. Around the 22 minute mark in the second, untitled track, near silence falls. A space is opened up for due consideration, for analysis and repose. It's a striking bit of silence that seems to last forever. As the track continues and the faintness hint of organic wind begins to creep over the album, a feeling of renewal washes over the music. It's one of those excellent silent moments in music, where the silence makes just as much difference as the music itself does. The only difference is that, as the album begins, a strange new element strikes me; there are now vocal samples bleeding through the hum of the organ. It is difficult to hear, even more difficult to understand, but it nearly dates the album. Suddenly there is a significance lent to the album.
I imagine a sepia toned desert and a plot of land occupied only by a church. The fear of the outside world crowding in around the congregation and a speaker in charge of exorcising all the negative aspects of what lay outside the fellowship's grasp. The album pulses to a silent end, leaving things uncertain, but somehow more bold. The grass and leaves outside look greener, the sky a deeper shade of blue. The world seems to resonate with the vibrations of the album's closing aura, removing this music from performance and fixing it in the realm of pure existence.
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This is another outstanding emission, the best to date, from the increasingly obviously talented Black Sun Productions collective. With the help of draZen there’s a process of musical distillation going on that sees Massimo and Pierce channelling a sound that’s definitively theirs.
A sense of otherness saturates Im Gegenteil (meaning ‘in the opposite direction’ or ‘the wrong way’) which sees a fine balancing act of elements with one distinctive mood. The tribal rhythms, melodic electronics and deft use of space combine with a sense of loneliness creating an air of solipsistic solace. The lone piano notes of "A Well Hung Monk" sit untouched within the whines of streaking sound trailing around them and the last minute’s muffled percussion. Both "Clear Skies and Dark Skies" and "god?" are perfect bindings of draZen’s wide screen world and Pierce’s underground delicate menace.
The closing track "Das Gegenteil" subtly moves in increments through metal and plastic cylinder violence. Tablas reverberate into an industrialised pelvis grind that speeds from a bubbling pulse towards some messy sweat flecked end. Throughout "god?," the most accessible track with its catchy daylight hook and countering synth, a sample cries out in German ‘Is there a god for us as well?’. If Black Sun Productions do have a god it’s likely to be an old and licentious one; the black sun slowly continues to rise.
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Yay, more prog-punk from Ft. Thunder; this stuff never gets old!Wizardzz features the bassist from Lightning Bolt playing drums and Rich Porteron some retro-futurist keyboard strata, playing into a miniaturized, cartoonversion of L’Bolt doing abbreviated Yes-ian sci-fi vista burners.
Punk ascendants in the stripped-down indulgence of theiraesthetic only, Wizardzz are for anyone who always wanted Lightning Bolt to putmore of the airy shimmer in their melodies and maybe get a little disco in thebackground. Brian Gibson is surprisinglyas chop-ful a drummer as Brian Chippendale of the Bolt, giving every one ofthese songs the propulsive, stomping edge they need to stay fun and keep out ofretro-wank regions. This record shouldbe essential for anyone who loves Lightning Bolt drumming because Gibson’sstyle is so similar to that of Chippendale while also opening up a bit, pushinginto lighter, more infinity-tinged acid patter under the washing electric coolof the keyboards.
Porter nearly outshines the drumming, dropping gliding,shimmering melodies in addictive, reductive homage to synth heroes likeTangerine Dream, while at once charging ahead into spacey dance beats that aresometimes neck-and-neck with Gibson’s pulse-playing. Unlike some Lightning Bolt, everything soundsthoroughly composed, never pursuing freak-outs that might boil over and ruinthe cartooned mood. True, some of thisstuff sounds very video-gamey and ‘twee’ in that sense, but once you’re insideit’s hard not to deny that kind of adrenaline fully its work. As a cornerstone, Wizardzz end the album witha particularly energetic live song recording, proving that just the two can doit all in real, kept time—pretty damn ecstatic and fun. Also, if you’ve ingested this one and wantmore Wizardzz, know that a short live video recording comes included with theDVD release of Gibson’s animated feature Barkley’sBarnyard Critters: Mystery Tail(Load), which may or may not include scoringby the band.
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Looking back on her fascinating but uneven back catalog, it struck methat the pixie-ish, world-weary chanteuse known as Little Annie "Anxiety" Bandez has pretty much always been at themercy of her producers. Throughout her career, the one constant hasbeen Annie's voice—that smoky, Marianne Faithful drawl andsardonic, campy delivery—but the sound settings in which her vocalshave been placed have been wildly variable, depending upon the producer.Durtro Jnana
Penny Rimbaud's approach was to weave a ragged punk collage of dirtymusique concrete and industrial noise to match Annie's apocalyptic beatpoetry. Adrian Sherwood took the On-U-Sound approach to a new level forMs. Anxiety, placing her brutal and pithy hysterics amidst a baffling,complex network of techno and dub mutations, bursts of noise andunexpected audio collisions. Guest spots on other artists' workproduced varied results, but Annie often still sounded lost inhostile surroundings, with the notable exception of her hilariously disturbingmonologue on Coil's "Things Happen" from Love's Secret Domain.
Starting in the mid-'90s, Annie's new team of collaborators andproducers put the singer on more solid, less experimental footing. Can"Khan" Oral and Kid Congo Powers of Gun Club sexed it up and camped itup for their Legally Jammin' releases. Larry "Electroclash" Tee andJoseph Budenholzer used traditional instruments to cushion Annie'sincreasingly more understated vocals, lending the singer asophisticated, downtown NYC jazz-room feel. This new album, Songs From the Coal Mine Canarytravels down this same path, with sophisticated jazz ensemblearrangements for every track, placing Annie's voice front and center,with all of its wounded imperfections and evocativeness intact.
A sticker proudly proclaims "Produced by Antony," perhaps trying to catch the eyeto Mr. Hegarty's newfound legion of rabid fans for album sales, asLittle Annie herself remains unjustly obscure. To be fair, this isn'tjust a cynical sales tactic, as Antony's presence is felt throughoutthe album, which features his piano playing, backup vocals, andsongwriting skills on several tracks. The tracks that Antonyco-wrote with Annie, especially "Absynthtee-ism" and "If I Were a Man,"have very much the same quiet torch song vibe familiar from Antonyand the Johnsons material, but the spotlight here belongs to Annie.This is simultaneously the album's biggest weakness and its greateststrength. Those who don't connect with Annie's subtly disarming lyricsor her savvy, time-ravaged vocals might find the album a bit slight.It's probably true that songwriting has never been Annie's strength,and though she is bolstered here by very talented collaborators, therearen't really any showstoppers on the album. Attentive fans willeven notice some repetition, a couple of songs that are reworked frompast releases.
But that's not the whole story, as Songs From the Coal Mine Canaryis much more than just the sum of its parts. There is something aboutthe way in which the introspective love ballad "Diamonds Made ofGlassine" merges with the dark, Angelo Badalementi-style jazz backingthat makes it sound like liquid city moonlight poured into a cocktailglass. The upbeat but devastatingly apocalyptic "End Is Near" explodesinto being and careens towards a thrilling Nine Simone-styleconclusion, with Annie giving an impassioned vocal performance, toughfor a singer who can't help but sound languorous and tossed-off. Thereare moments that hint at the scathing punk screeds of her past, butmostly this is a mature, sophisticated Annie, an impossibly coolcharacter, a lady of the evening haunting an out-of-the-way gay bar inNYC, filling everyone's ears with stories of past exploits and bitterregrets.
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Om isn’t looking to approximate thebombast of their father band Sleep. Although Sleep made at least one epic-length stoner metal anthem, Om triesto jump right for primordial spiritual minimalism, composing albums from 20minute undulant bass and drum dirges, ridden by bassist Al Cisneros’ chant-singingof nonsense adjectives and Tolkienian compounds that are luckily not loudenough in the mix to rise into meaning.Something about the strictness or the purposefulness of the form turnsme off. Everything is heavily composed,tight as a drum, to the point where, played loud, the instruments churntogether rather than rocking forth, a suitable aesthetic for Om’s purpose, butat odds with the notation and timbre of the sounds played, which are still verycaustic, attacking, very metal, full of laboring, intricate hammer-ons...lotsof notes played, not a lot of space between them.
I expect that if they are going to play thisway, with this same Sleepiness, then a logical progression exists leadingtowards freak-out, towards frayed edges, squalls and randomized sound, toward adopesmoker’s predictable decent into hands-up surrender to impulse. Ican’t ignore a degree of excess in the band’s execution; no matter theall-over-ness of the compositions, they teeter into a stubbornness thatdegrades their mood. …And they just plug away. I am no metalhead, but I enjoy my share of that, and certainlyminimalism, as a descriptor and genre-type, but I gained nothing from theseveral times I sat with this. It’s likelistening to a metal record skip mid-verse; the crescendos are surprisinglysmall and uninvolved, the bass distortion gathering everything into a blanketof sleepy sameness.
Though I hesitate todescribe something with such grounding in minimalism as predictable, it’s aword that communicates the dysfunction between Om’smethod and what I gather as their purpose. Granted, this purpose might feel served for someone who listens only tometal; however, I’ve never met such a person, or at least one whose taste was indiscriminantenough to let this stand for some kind of holy minimalism. Also, though I tried to turn it up, I’ve neverseen Om live, a potential mind-changer, as this kind ofmusic is always better when it’s shaking your chest. That said, maybe live is the only way theycan be appreciated; at barely over 30 minutes and boring, Conference of the Birds offers little argument.
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SubRosa continues to delve into the hidden history of electronic musicwith the fourth instalment in this series. This is the most accessiblevolume so far with less emphasis on pure noise, the compilers stickingmainly to less abrasive pieces and brooding electronic pieces from thelast seven decades.
