One of our favorite local groops, the psychedelic electro-acoustic trio Bronze, are back, with a new, lp-only full-length release on the Not Not Fun label, the long-awaited follow up to the lp they put out on RVNG in 2011. World Arena's eight tracks build upon Bronze's unique sound, one that combines propulsive live drums and layers of synth with melodic, mantric vocals and experimental, home-built electronic embellishment.
Influences-wise, they probably start with underground gothy new wave '80s post-punk (we're thinking LA's Red Temple Spirits and all the bands that THEY were inspired by, from England), but also reach back to '60s psychedelic proto-electronica like Silver Apples (whom we've definitely mentioned before in connection to Bronze) and Bruce Haack circa Electric Lucifer. For some more modern references, then perhaps throw in a little Animal Collective or Gang Gang Dance to bring it up to date.
The songs here are dense and percolating, throbbing and moody, with singer Rob's gently out-there vocals (and lyrics) floating over it all.
While for those of us who have seen Bronze live know that they probably can't ever make a record that would quite capture that mind altering experience (just watching Joe 'play' his electronic gizmo is a trip), this is fine document of their unusual electronic raga compositions for at-home enjoyment.
And after we get this week's list done tonight (March 14th 2014 for all you folks in the future readin' this) we're looking forward to seeing these guys live, just down the street at the Elbo Room, opening for none other than the Space Lady!!! Perfect.
Can't think of a Bay Area band at the moment that's been so consistently capable of blowing us away live more than Bronze. Something so damn refreshing and exhilarating about their approach to rhythmic psychedelic post-punk, a sound overflowing with dizzying synths and syncopated rhythms that totally transport us to another dimension. So psyched we were finally able to get our hands on this, their debut recording. A beautifully packaged clear 10" with a bronze tinted embossed cover (there is a crazy limited edition version with an actual bronze cover! that we might get in at some point, but don't hold your breath!) but the classy packaging is just icing on the cake as it's the two wonderful songs in these grooves that dazzle and delight.
The sounds of underground luminaries like Silver Apples, Public Image Ltd., Suicide, and Throbbing Gristle are the launching point for Bronze's mind melting excursions into swirling and sizzling sonic mystery and melody, but they really do take those influences and craft a sound all their own. Not to be missed live, Bronze's stage presence and delivery are so damn action packed and captivating, and this debut recording offers a really nice glimpse of that fiery disposition. This is a band that truly deserves to get some world wide attention. So damn good!
Latest on Dom Fernow's (Prurient, Cold Cave, etc.) Bed Of Nails label comes from Kris Lapke, aka Bronze Age, whose three song 12"s is a fierce slab of Teutonic gothic techno, pulsing four on the floor synth squelch, backed by ethereal swirling melodies, peppered with low end percussive stutter, dense and driving and super hypnotic, definitely an extension of Fernow's Vatican Shadow, albeit much more intense. The second track is probably our favorite, a creepy slab of dour techno pop, a rhythmic drag that churns and chugs, moody, murky, morose, dubbed out, rife with plenty of skitter and hand clap rhythms, it's a dark drowsy pulsing techno trance out, that we almost wish went on for way longer.
The side long third track is super spare, still plenty housey, but with a seriously anthemic vibe; it's propulsive and stuttery, a bit spaced out, but still driving and hypnotic.
And since we accidentally spun this at 33 instead of 45, we can tell you it sounds even better slowed down, the side long track becomes some lost Burial jam, a gorgeous washed out dub dirge, while the other two sound like doomy Depeche Mode and murk step creepiness respectively! Either way, super rad.
Guitars of the willowy twang and trippy spaced-out kind converge, as do bright programmed beats and acoustic percussion in this new instrumental group from San Francisco. Heavy waves of reverb-drenched post-rock chord progressions crash over slinkily plucked melodies. A soaring and at times quite hypnotic 25 minutes. Nice!
This new Brookhaven album unwinds like a slow waking from a dream. Nine hazy, mesmerizing instrumental beauties. In turn Transitive Verses brings to mind four 'M's -- M83, Mogwai, My Bloody Valentine and Morricone -- but wholly without being imitative. On this, their follow-up to 2001's Everything That Rises Must Rise, they've taken their music to a whole new plane. Some elements have been retained such as their warm shimmery guitar twang and their blend of acoustic drumming and programmed beats plus some lingering shadows of post-rock-ness, while others have been set aside for the time being. For one thing, although there is a heavier synthesizer presence on this album, this is definitely less woozily spacey than their previous work, and much more composed. Whereas much of Everything Rises took a gradual meandering path that drifted in and out of focus seemingly at random, their new material seems more fully realized, with each song following a more defined arch. The results are ultra dynamic, but somehow still thoroughly gentle at the same time. Wonderful!
This amazing and absolutely incomparable recording of Cedric Im Brooks finally gest reissued by Astralwerks via Honest Jons. Those of you who've picked up copies of the Trojan Nyabhinghi Box Set have already gotten a taste for Mr. Brooks. Born in Kingston in 1943 Cedric Brooks had been involved in Jamaica's music scene since the early sixties, playing both clarinet and saxophone for several groups and recording some successful instrumentals for Coxsone Dodd, along with working as a session musician at Studio 1. It was two subsequent events that really sharpened Brooks' musical aesthetic though: the first was a trip to the United States where Brooks almost had the opportunity to join Sun Ra's Arkestra (the birth of his daughter back home in Jamaica thwarted this). The other was his introduction to rasta percussionist Count Ossie. Ossie & Brooks teamed up, forming the Mystic Revelation of Rastafari, to produce the holy grail of reggae/nyabhinghi recordings "Grounation". After parting ways with Ossie, Brooks formed his own orchestra "Light of Saba" in 1974 and recorded several albums worth of material with them. This compilation of 18 tracks here are absolutely amazing, a truly bizarre amalgam blending roots reggae, jazz, afro-funk, soul, calypso and even disco -- all glued together with pounding nyabhinghi drumming (not to mention bass, guitar, organ, horns and flute). Those beginning to feel squeamish about such shameless genre blending fear not: this is not some half-assed world-beat record cum marketing gimmick. This is perhaps one of the best "reggae" (though it doesn't completely fit the genre) reissues we've seen through these doors in a long time! This is heavy, rough hewn, beautiful and potent. This is one of those gems that, when we play it in the store, everyone either wants or wants to know just what the hell it is and when the hell it was recorded. Timeless and crucial. Highly recommended!
More well known for his work as a producer -- working with the Revolutionaries and recording artists at Joe Gibbs' and Channel One -- Mike Brooks was also an excellent vocalist with a sweet falsetto (up there with Junior Murvin or Cedric Myton of The Congos). The tracks here, recorded throughout Brooks' career from the seventies and into the eighties, are 100% conscious rasta chants. Most of the backing tracks were recorded at Channel One, and many of them -- with the Revolutionaries laying down their classic rockers rhythm -- versions of classic Studio One tunes. In the rarities department, there's an excellent 1972 track "The Earth Is The Fullness" (and its dub b-side) which was recorded in the very earliest of days at Lee Perry's Black Ark, before it had even been completed. But the general consensus is that the absolute gem on the record is "No Brother Man", a hypnotic tune with the simplist of riffs played on horns and repeated throughout as Brooks sweetly waxes positive. Nicely packaged in a fold out digipak with biographical notes by Hans Peters.
When we heard Tom Brosseau's last release, his concept album Grand Forks, we sensed his was a voice we'd be looking forward to hearing more from. It's good to know the folks at Fat Cat Records are making sure of it! This is his second album on the label (his first was 2006's Empty Houses Are Lonely). So intimate and immediate, each song is like a view though a magnifying glass held up to his heart. Occasionally the emotional intensity scorches the muted earthiness. Lilting and seemingly from a different time. For an inkling of Brosseau's sound, perhaps imagine a male counterpart to Jolie Holland. Sound good? It does to us! Produced by John Parish.
Mr. Tom Brosseau is the man behind Grand Forks, an album of really good country folk melancholia.
Grand Forks is a concept album with a narrative centered around the devastating flood of his hometown back in 1997. No frills and deeply poignant, this music finds comfort and solace on a lonely mud-encrusted barstool with a half empty bottle of Kentucky bourbon. With guests John Doe and violinist Hilary Hahn.
This is a long lost classic (originally released in 1975) from ex-Sun Ra band member Brother Ah, and features a 25 piece ensemble and a vast array of exotic instruments such as shakuhachi flute, gong, space beam (?!), koto, pan flute, french horn, sitar, kiti kup (?!), tabla, oboe, shawn (?!), as well as various vocalists chanting, singing, shouting, and pre-recorded nature sounds. Sound far out? Well, it is, even by Sun Ra standards. Starting out with an Eastern-tinged spaced out raga, with buzzing sitars and subtle percussion underneath spoken word, then to a dreamy flute-flecked jazz number with Ethal Merman-ish operatic vocals over the top, on to funky African percussion workouts to chanted almost liturgical sounding afro-jazz-pop....Weird but definitely cool. For VERY adventurous fans of afro-rock as well as fans of Sun Ra and that sort of out-there-jazz.
Ex-Sun Ra band member and musical visionary Brother Ah created a world even farther out than Sun Ra's if you can believe that. This early seventies classic features two extended numbers, the first a dreamy, spacy, psychedelic soundscape with heavily reverbed, chanted vocals, and heavily affected nature sounds. Dark and drone-y and completely overpowering. As tripped out as anything Acid Mothers Temple or any other modern psych band has attempted. The second, a spare, rhythmic, super free, clattery No Neck Blues Band-ish hippy jam, with thundering percussion, howling horns, and bells and chimes and hand drums that slowly develops into a throbbing, jazz rock revival complete with celebrated drummer Max Roach testifying to the glory of LOVE while an enthusiastic crowd cheers him on as gongs and shouts and thrumming bass lines get more and more feverish, climaxing in a furious eruption of wild percussion. Way, way out there. Not for the faint of heart, but definitely for fans of Sun Ra, No Neck Blues Band, and all sorts of out rock/free jazz.
"The third in Ikef's series of Brother Ah re-releases brings his privately issued LP Key To Nowhere back to center stage. Like our previous two titles, Sound Awareness and Move Ever Onward, Key To Nowhere continues the musical search through global rhythms, tight grooves and an absolutely brilliant rendition of the traditional 'Motherless Child' that has had DJs and Jazz fanatics alike climbing the walls to obtain a copy of this gem."
Oh lord, this guy is on drugs... he must be! The man in question is Mr. John Terlesky alias Brother JT who you may be familiar with from his collaborations with the psych-rock combo Vibrolux. Actually he's been deep in the psychedelic scene since the '80s
For this latest full length from psych rock legend Brother JT, who now finds himself on the venerable Thrill Jockey label, we give up the floor to aQ pal Matthew Crain, self described "#1 Harvey Milk Fan", and serious psych-head to boot, who has MUCH to say about BJT's latest psychedelic missive, and delivers a rambling demented genius stream of consciousness review, that is quite possibly more freaky and psychedelic than the record itself! Take it away Matthew...
The Svelteness of Boogietude is John Terlesky's, eight (!!) full length album, delivered as always via his psychedelic ego Brother JT. To describe Boogietude, we must first say what it does.
It steals your last sip of coffee.
It says "stink of dynamite."
It grows two inches overnight in an empty glass.
It doesn't - and this is key - footnote its poundcake recipe.
Tracks four, five and six are the core, so let's start with number four, "Muffintop": A geriatric oroborus of a hoaky Wurlitzer beat keeps gulping-and-swallowing itself under a stoned Roger McGuinn and his band of replica doppelgangers all elbow-to-elbow in a mirrored booth sitting stock-still, the better to "get down" on a frothy, vibrato-tinged, hammer-on-y, dropped-D major/minor/modal Major Matt Mattel "Indian/Sufi" blues riff guaranteed to get Grace Slick wet - no, we're not stoned, we're writing this while listening to the song and under its influence, a dense music demanding a dense language - a quiet, "shy" lick loving the prayer beads and flowers hung around its neck, loving its long hair and especially its bangs in its eyes, smiling despite its chipped front tooth, unsure how to spell "Secobarbital" but as rich and drunk as a lord and always on the verge of feeding back (and how it sizzles when it spills lickably over between the verses - Steve Miller's synthesizer never sounded so good and fat and Moog-y), while Frank Zappa (of all people!), wearing the face of Barry White after a long night in Vegas, pushes the wad of burnt weenie sandwich to one side of his mouth and, between puffs off the Winston in the other side, takes the stick of Am9sus11b5 out of his ass and, for now and all time, teaspoons it into Muffintop's ear about being so bad in heat, baby, it hurts can't you hear me crying in the alley for your oo! and your oh! and your uh-huh! and your big yowza-yowza...
Okay, press Pause, because we want to be clear about one thing: The Byrds, The Mothers, Steve Miller, Golden Earring - young JT never forgot any of the great '60s and '70s musicians he listened to over the truck radio while laying on the floorboard with his shirt off. He has a photographic ear, as illustrated on track five, "Be A."
This Bruder von einem anderen Planeten gets what he wants on this one (for that matter, so do you), and just as you're pulling up out of your own sticky buttprint on the naugahyde car seat and looking around for your skirt and listening for spies whispering into their walkie-talkies on the other side of the lean-to, eager to get out of this hot box and into some fresh air, here comes "Be A" in which JT, channeling Tom Fogerty the day he sat in with The Mamas and The Papas to try to get to the heart of Herman's Hermits, strums a Rickenbacker through a Vox AC-30, warm-glowing tubes, gold lattice on its chocolate grill, and reminds himself/themselves of what got/didn't get him/them where he/they are/were today - not trying to sound like The Kinks, and by being everything you are and everything you are not (but don't forget that not every skin you try on will fit) - because, hey, everybody on this Earth (or at least in JT's part of Pennsylvania with its glorious history of endless, mindless toil in steel, coal, slate mining, barge pulling, and packing boxes of crayons); everybody gets sanded down to nothing; ergo, don't aid your own destruction by sabotaging yourself; in other words, do like JT: "Be a gypsy!/Be tipsy!/Be Nipsy Russell if you please!"
Perseverance, courage and self-confidence are important themes throughout this record. But its idee fixe, well... here's track six, "Sweatpants."
Yes, that's that old Wurlitzer riff again trying to gum us to death, but this time it has brought along its new best friends, the Six Million Dollar Man's boop-boop-boop when he zeroes in on a target, a rubber ducky going squeak-squeak-squeak, and a Casio's big yellow fuzzy bass note that can do one thing better than anybody else in this world and that is to run its arm down to the bottom of a galvanized bucket of cold cherry Jello and begin snapping its fingers, the snapping causing moist explosions to bubble up and become a Stratocaster-y riff splattering here and there, the riff so phase-shifted and its single coil so split that what we got here, Luke, as we see it, is not a failure to communicate but a dog about to choke on its choke-chain trying to get out of its cage. Which is merely the mirror of what's happening this very moment in the Locus Ceruleus (the dreaming part of the brain) of this Funkenstein that ought to tape that thing to his leg; honestly!; c'mon, by now everybody knows what Tommy James and The Shondells' song is on his mind (the crimson, the clover, the Yeeeeeaaaah! Sha-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah!) of this Gram Parsons swooning over his big fat sweatystcky Aretha, this one-man mighty cloud of joy that's got to got to sing about that "jam-and-jelly top" and those sweatpants: "It's what you're showin/It's what we're knowin/Do I see a camel toe in those sweatpants?"
So. While The Spirit of Frank Marino gets all lost in the supermarket of the teaches of peaches, we, no shoddy Mahogany Rush ourself, return to track three, "T. Rex Blues," and pop a chubby over this riff that sounds like a foghorn run through a Big Muff: a hook with a capital H, a call to arms despite being a goof on "Walk This Way" joined at the hip with a little A-minor filler from "Stairway to Heaven." In our book, fuzz is a primary color and Rex's riff is alizarin red-blood, we're talking about here, people: blood quickened and about to burst. The song's blobby, purple-orange, lava lamp verses go up and down like S curves (like an accountant's nylon socks as he chats up Sasha Grey at the Adult Movie Awards). But maybe it isn't what it seems to be - a knockout tribute to the late Marc Bolan - but is really a glimpse behind the facade of "rock star," because the ambiguous "you" the singer keeps singing to may actually be himself, in which case it's a demon - so you can see what a battle JT's in for; I mean, what are we to make of "Trippin down the lane/About to blow out my brain/It's marvelous magnifico"?
An ode to hallucinogens? A portrait of desperation thanks to the suddenly sarcastic "magnifico"? As for the guitar solo on "Sweatpants," it's like Eddie Van Halen's on "Running With The Devil": its hair is parted on the side, sprayed and blow-dried in place, its on its best behavior, a very nice young solo with a corsage pinned to its lapel and no danger of it keeping Lula out past curfew or of wrecking the family car. But don't be fooled: This is the one Mama warned you about: This solo only hints at what comes out of JT when he's onstage, and his eyes roll back in his head a la Son House and his head begins bobbling side to side, and he starts pouring it out: so what if there's a handful of the most grim, miserable men, drunk in their tank tops, there for a cheap adventure and to try to obliterate the fact that very soon, in a few hours, even, they will get up off their dirty mattresses and return to driving their forklift back and forth across the warehouse, to taking their place in the line at the trencher plant to make adjustments and corrections and perform specific duties in vaults and manholes, and if they ever once think of "musicians" or "artists" it is with disdain because such people don't "work": he pours out his pearls for them.
From the moment we heard this guy play live, we've been wanting to say something, and we see no reason to hold back: John Terlesky is one of the most passionate singers and guitar players we've ever heard - right up there with Creston Spiers of Harvey Milk. Their styles are exact opposites. But, like Mr. Spiers, Mr. Terlesky is (1) inspired, (2) fearless, (3) he puts it to you like nobody else, (4) he goes out and he stays out, and (5) after the song's over, drenched in sweat, he steps up to the mike and whispers, "Thank you."
So what about the other nine songs? They oscillate between sweet ballads (imagine Robert Burns setting his poems to music) and smart, funny psych-garage tunes (imagine Rev. Howard Finster setting his glass house on fire). Brother JT is a Nasty Dog, A Funky King, a preacher that never went to school to "learn to be a preacher" - he was called, and, rude and shoeless, he answered his god's summons. The Svelteness Of Boogietude is his Sermon on the Mount: Lotta good stuff here to live by - if you take it to heart.
HIGHLY RECOMMENDED!!
Latest expansive excursion into the wild forests of sound and the unexplored sonic wilderness of this Australian outfit. We first heard Brothers Of The Occult Sisterhood back in 2005, when they released a disc on Campbell Kneale's Celebrate Psi Phenomenon label, and since then a slow but steady stream of releases have surfaced on other underground labels like Root Strata, Digitalis, Students Of Decay and now Music Your Mind Will Love. Fans of any or all of those labels will undoubtedly know what to expect, a ramshackle assemblage of fractured folk, abstract ambience, and rambling shambling free rock drift. Much like the title,�Enter The Cult Until The Dust To Represent The World Has Discovered The Hallucinogens And Bent Us To Their Use, this musical missive is looooong, a massive triple disc sonic sprawl, the band's sound allowed to unfurl and spread out unchecked, and as with most bands of this ilk, it suits them, they definitely flourish given enough space, their music like weeds in a garden, getting all tangled up with everything, and then when you least expect it, blossoming with multi colored flowers and gorgeous foliage.�
A dizzying swirl of stumbling acoustic guitar, fluttering flute. simple childlike rhythms, voices chanting and shouting as often as singing, primitive FX, analog synths, hand drums, shakers and chimes, handmade electronics, crumbling distortion, industrial clatter, psychrock guitars, all cobbled together into a super inventive, Rube Goldberg-esque musical contraption held together by vines and branches, sticks and twigs and stones, that emits, delicate spidery folk rock, intense damaged psychedelic freakout, wandering ambient clatter, percussive free noise, primitive tribalism and every variation in between.�
No Neck Blues Band, Sunburned Hand Of The Man, Avarus, Kemialliset Ystavat all travel a similarly shambolic and spiritual sonic path... so amazing.�
Super limited, packaged in a massive eight panel handpainted fold out sleeve, every one unique, with two printed inserts and held shut by a textured paper obi.
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After a series of super limited cd-r releases, this Australian brother/sister duo return with their first actual proper real-cd full length. Don't expect any White Stripes or Carpenters or whatever brother/sister musical ensemble comes to mind. These siblings are high on PCP and armed with a wicked arsenal of psychfuzz guitar, and splattery tribal acid fried drumming. Wide open expanses of space rock drift, shimmery woodwinds and abstract guitar figures floating above a dense whirl of Amon Duul like rhythms, this is NNCK lost in the Australian outback desperately jamming in the hopes of some passing plane overhead hearing the ruckus and coming in for a closer look, or Sunburned Hand Of The Man gone native, trying to appease the Gods with their mysterious musical offering. Free forest folk hovering in a dense cloud of bong smoke, krautrocky jams that just sort of splintered into pieces and became a weightless jumble of chimes and clatter and guitar rumble and twang. The final track is a near twenty minute epic that begins life dense and jumbled, thick with buzz and growl before dissipating into a hazy shimmer of instrument buzz and warm ambient swells.
The first 500 copies come in hand screened sleeves printed by New Zealand art/music collective United Fairy Moons.
THIS IS CURRENTLY OUT OF PRINT OR OTHERWISE UNAVAILABLE TO US AT THE MOMENT, SO PLEASE DO NOT ORDER IT. SORRY.
SORRY.
**SALE **SALE* *SALE**
More mysterious and otherworldy sounds from our favorite Australian free folk brother / sister duo, and it sounds just as good as ever. Their sound is still like a down under cousin to the foresty folk of Finnish groups like Avarus and Anaksimandros, which makes a lot of sense since both groups end up releasing records on many of the same labels.
This is BOTOS's first release for Italian cd-r label Akoustic Desease (another AD release, Siddhi, is reviewed elsewhere on this list) and it's a beaut. Mixing soft shimmery strum, convoluted glitched out electronic stutter, dark ominous drones, tribal rhythms, abstract ambience into a sprawling exploration of lost sonic rituals and stumbling noise making free for alls.
The percussion is mostly found (at least it sounds that way), clanks and clunks, rattles and scrapes, here and there some actual drumming surface, but even then it's simple and muted, various strings buzz and creak and scrape, bits of twang, atonal strum, detuned chords, all wound into stretched out melodic tangles, above it all, flutes flutter, horns moan and whistle, it's all gloriously ramshackle, the vibe is a bunch of folks gathered around a pile of noisemakers, in the shade of a big tree beneath a blue sky and Summer sun. It's not at all dark or creepy or ominous, it's more festive and celebratory, voices drift in and out, chimes tinkle, bells ring, drums skitter, occasionally everything locks into a distinct groove, sounding almost like some skeletal krautrock, but for the most part, the sound meanders and drifts, lazy and lost, laid back and content, carefree and happy.
Housed in an oversized ultra thick fold over cardstock sleeve, the cd affixed to a nub inside, LIMITED TO 116 COPIES, each one hand numbered!!
This mysterious Australian free folk, abstract noise rock combo, once a brother/sister duo and recently expanded to include an ever shifting lineup of like minded noise makers, finally returns with a brand new cd, this time on Root Strata, the label of Tarentel head honcho Jefre Cantu-Ledesma. And everything we loved about these ramshackle noiseniks is still in full effect, but if anything, they sound better than ever, more polished, a bit weirder, the sound a lot more lush, but without losing any of their stumbling charm. Much of the record sound like it would have been just as at home in the Finnish forest, with it's slow motion Dead C kitchen sink clatter percussion, crackle and hiss production and detuned guitar strum, but the record is rife with distinctly Brotherhood moments, like the�strangely tranquil wash of softly strummed angelic strings, slightly out of tune and warbling hypnotically in the first track, or the dueling alien FX and duck call drones of track two, the hushed falsetto vocals on track six, or the wild tribal free for all, with dense drumming and fluttering flute that finishes off the disc. Elsewhere it's lots of sonic elements we can't seem to get enough of, No Neck like jams stumbling drunkenly through shadowy glades, long shimmering stretches of whirring drones and muted melody, strange chimes and splattery abstract percussion, snippets of female vocals floating on swirling swells of gentle guitar thrum, dreamy twang flecked folk, moaning strings and swirls of low end rumble, and wide open expanses of slow burning dark ambience, shifting and drifting beneath delicate sonic glimmers and glistening layers of buzz and hiss.
We always complain about bands releasing a cd-r every few weeks, but to be totally honest, if we could afford it, we'd hire these guys to record a new disc for us every day, a fresh batch of beautiful abstract sounds, and one day, eventually, we'd have enough music so that we could play them all in a row, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, forever and ever and ever...
Definitely one of the best band names ever, this Australian group channels much of the same sonic spirituality as the No Neck Blues Band, Sunburned Hand Of The Man, cobbling together four lengthy tracks of transcendent free folk, avant rock clatter. Creepy and sun dappled, like a furtive glimpse past the drawn shades in the window of the old creepy house on the hill, offering up the briefest peeks into past lives, creaking doors, distant footsteps, a rusty music box, all set to mysterious otherworldly musicks, nonsensical vocals coupled with detuned guitars, tiny xylophone melodies arranged haphazardly between shuffled snare drums and woozy acoustic guitars. Druggy and drowsy and dreamy, a stumbling musical meander through free folk, modern minimalism, DIY noise, and drunken indie jangle. SUPER LIMITED AS ALWAYS!! NOT SURE WE'LL BE ABLE TO GET MORE WHEN THESE ARE GONE!
For this latest lp, the Australian brother/sister duo Brothers Of The Occult Sisterhood have expanded their ranks a bit (for one of the two tracks here) and it definitely sounds like it. Sprawling and expansive, this limited lp only release on Students Of Decay give the Brothers a chance to spread waaaay out over two sides of vinyl, one song per, each a gorgeous abstract drift, the sort you could imagine going on and on and on and on long after they pushed stop on the tape recorded. For those new to the Sisterhood, the sound falls somewhere between the natural ramblings of Jewelled Antler, the Finnish forest folk of Avarus and Anaksimandros and Kemialliset Ystavat, and the extended ur-drone of groups like Birchville Cat Motel and Vibracathedral Orchestra. And while they do in fact touch on elements of all those sounds, they tend to wander through their own special soundworld, unstructured and alien, drifty and dreamlike.
The A side, with the extended lineup, is all kitchen clatter and abstract drum circle shuffle, bits of guitar here and there, snatches of piano, melodies sometimes, but mostly melodic fragments. It almost sounds like Hototogisu or Sunroof! but instead of amps and guitars, the Brothers just used whatever they found lying around the house, random household debris, junk, whatever. The result is the same sort of transcendental raga like droning tribal drift, but much more unhinged and rhythmic, some sort of primitive sonic ritual.
The flipside finds the Brothers as a duo again, and is another epic, less clattery this time and way more soft focus and ethereal, chimes and delicate drifting melodies, warbling drones, the tape changing speed sloooooowing down and speeding up, it sounds like floating through some sea of alien wind chimes. So lovely.
LIMITED TO 300 COPIES!!! Packaged in cool handscreened sleeve with a printed insert.
THIS IS CURRENTLY OUT OF PRINT OR OTHERWISE UNAVAILABLE TO US AT THE MOMENT, SO PLEASE DO NOT ORDER IT. SORRY.
SORRY.
Most fans of legendary (should we say infamous?) world music / punk / surf / WTF? subversives Sun City Girls probably know that a crucial one-third of the trio, SCG's drummer Charles Gocher, sadly met his demise due to cancer in 2007, thus bringing the band's 27-year long career to an end, with their final album being Funeral Mariachi released in 2010. But, their vast corpus of bizarre music lives on, as does the memory of Charles Gocher, at least if the two surviving ex-SCG's have anything to do with it. To that end, brothers Alan "Alvarius B" Bishop and "Sir" Richard Bishop have been touring under the name The Brothers Unconnected, performing an acoustic set of SCG tunes and screening a collection of Gocher's unusual video works. This double lp release documents the uncut entirety of such a show (minus the video portion of course), recorded live in Germany in 2011, with the Bishop bros. delving deep into the SCG catalog, going as far back to such albums as 1987's Horse Cock Phepner and 1990's Torch Of The Mystics to revisit an extensive selection of songs, all of 'em weird and wonderful (to varying extremes of both descriptors). Not only is this intended as a tribute to Gocher, and is something that any SCG devotee will enjoy, it could also serve as wide-ranging semi-introduction for noobs to the beauty, humor, and terror inherent in the SCG's utterly unique oeuvre!
Here's the full tracklisting: "Nyn De Gris Sang", "My Painted Tomb", "The Flower", "The Multiple Hallucinations Of An Assassin", "I Always Felt Sorry For The Monster", "The Brothers Unconnected", "Don't Fuck With The Squid", "Six Kids Of Mine", "Wild World Of Animals", "Academia Nuts", "Soi Cowboy", "Rookoobay", "I Deal A Stick", "Cruel And Thin", "Cooking With Satan", "Eyeball In A Quart Jar Of Snot", "Ali Baba", "Black Orchid", "Bitter Cold Countryside", "Dreamland (For Dinah)", "Horse Cock Phepner", and "Shining Path".
Handsome gatefold sleeve, with one lp on black vinyl, one lp on white vinyl, limited pressing!
Much like the recent Chris Clark album on Warp, Brothomstates' "Claro" typifies the direction where Warp has been pushing electronica and the IDM subgenre in particular. The label is not really concerned with the MicroHouse of Mille Plateaux or the
A lengthy 6 track EP from new Warp signings Brothomstates, full of Funkstorific hip-hop mutilations and Autechrish rhythmic stumbles and Aphex-y disjointed ambience. Things could be promising for this IDM outfit.
Legendary european avant-jazz saxophonist Peter Brñtzman is still pummelling audiences, as this recording from upstart free jazz label Ayler Records documents. The trio pulls off some intense, dextrous improv, although I just can't hang with the electric bass- it's wanky sound distracts from the overall visceral impact.
"Archive FMP Edition" via Atavistic's Unheard Music Series of this classic Euro-free-jazz blow-out starring pianist Fred Van Hove, mad percussionist Han Bennink, and tenor sax terror Peter Brotzmann. The fourteen minute title track, a Brotzmann "composition", starts off quietly before erupting into mayhemic sax chatter, piano note-scatter, percussion clatter, and even some weird vocal patter. The rest of the album follows suit, the "free-action" of this soon-to-be legendary improv power trio taking no prisoners. All three players could -- and do -- fill solo albums with energetic, interesting art, so the combined youthful musical fervor of the three of 'em is something to behold, on this, their debut trio recording (and only the second FMP label release ever). The tracks on "Balls" are fierce yet tightly wound, making strong statements, no messing around, even as they explore a wide range of sounds, and even silences.
The four tracks from the original, long-out-of-print 1970 LP (remastered from the original tapes, packaged in a careful facsimile of the original LP design) are joined on this cd reissue by two untitled, previously unissued tracks cut by the trio in the same era, an exciting bonus indeed.
Featured here are two previously unreleased recordings from the Frankfurt Jazz Festival in 1968 and 1970. The first track is an alternate version of Brotz's classic attack "Machine Gun", as performed by a nine piece instead of the octet featured on the FMP
Definitely a must for any free jazz junkie, these two lost artifacts were lovingly recovered by the fine folks at Atavistic.
Legendary free jazz giant's first record, remastered and available for the first time on cd! Originally released in 1967 on Brotzmann's BRO label, he is joined by bassist Peter Kowald and Sven-Ake Johansson on percussion. This remastered version also tacks on a bonus cut featuring pianist Fred Van Hove. Raw and edgy, though not as demanding and brutal as Brotzmann's subsequent "Nipples" and "Machine Gun".
This latest cd of Caspar Brotzmann's uber-heavy post-Hendrix guitar explorations is now released domestically, although that doesn't make it any cheaper (but it's in a jewel case now instead of a digipak, and if you're a digipack hater like Allan, that's a plus). Beautiful, psychedelic, very good, go Caspar!
Who doesn't love Peter Brotzmann and/or Han Bennink? If you're into skronky European free jazz craziness that is. Saxophonist Brotzmann is a hard-blowin' legend, and Han Bennink is not only a percussion whiz but also a strong "pro" argument in the whole does-humor-belong-in-music? debate. Teamed up here on this expanded (meaning there's a whole bonus disc with ten previously unreleased tracks!) reissue of what those in the know, know as the 1977 Bro-Ben Black Forest recordings, Brotzmann and Bennink actually did the Jewelled Antler natureboy thing here and took their instruments out into the forest to improvise amid the trees and birds and small curious animals. Along with a supply of bread and wine they toted with them an assortment of clarinets and saxophones, a banjo, a viola, some toys, birdcalls, cymbals, and suchlike sundry instruments -- Han had to make do without his customary drum kit, playing instead on tree trunks and rocks with branches and stones. Their free music got all that much freer for being loosed in the great outdoors, and these Black Forest sessions certainly brought forth all the wildman whimsy you'd expect from this duo. In some ways a precursor to the field recording aesthetic practiced today by the Jewelled Antler gang and all those Finnish free-freak-forest-folk outfits we all love, Schwarzwaldfahrt is replete with the gurgling sounds of water, birds twittering, primal yelps from Han and/or Peter, and other things you wouldn't normally hear in more "civilized" jazz recording. At one point, Han pounds (or splashes) out a stacatto rhythm on the surface of a stream or pond, and you can for sure tell how much fun they were having! So much, that they recorded a lot more music/sound than they could release at the time. They had to edit down their tapes to just one LP's worth of material for the original edition of this on FMP, but now Atavistic's Unheard Music Series has given them two whole compact discs to fill up, and it's a joy.
Year 2000 improv meeting betwixt European free-jazz titan Brotzmann (reeds) and Japanese improv veterans Haino (guitar) and Hano (percussion).
To fans of energetic-improv-free-jazz-type music, neither of these guys should need an introduction. (If you DO need an introduction, there's probably other discs that would be better to start with.) Drummer Hano and sax-blaster Brotzmann have collaborated on many occasions -- this newly-released recording actually dates from 1991, it's a full concert from a live tour the duo did in Japan that year, previously only released on cassette by Hano. 72 wailin' minutes, turbulent yet elegant.
Never was a title better chosen. The juttering salvo of massed horns that opens this record is machinegunnery indeed. Legendary hardblowing German free jazz saxophonist Peter Brotzmann is still around today taking names and kicking ass, but he's perhaps best known for this album from 1968, a recording that embodies all the radical turmoil of that year, remaining a powerful statement of energy, anger, & freedom even today. For '68, this was among the ultimate in "extreme" music, regardless of genre. The amplified antics of most rock bands (with the possible exception of free jazz aficionados the MC5) couldn't touch it. Of course, we're ignoring the subtleties of this music in stressing that. But if the extremity hooks you in, that's fine. And it's certainly true that Machine Gun was the spiritual ancestor to such modern noisy-jazz-industrial acts as 16-17, Borbetomagus, and John Zorn's Painkiller. Apparently "Machine Gun" was Don Cherry's nickname for Brotzmann, and the album Machine Gun is basically Brotzmann times 8, he got a whole band who could play at his level of ferocious intensity, a screaming, skronking collective improv blowout, but one that's directed, organized into a killing machine of concentrated force when necessary, or subsides, chests heaving, into still-clattering lulls of relative calm and abstract beauty at other times.
The Peter Brotzmann Octet responsible for Machine Gun was really an all-star lineup, many musicians still well-known in the realm of European free jazz: Willem Breuker (tenor sax, bass clarinet), Evan Parker (tenor sax), Fred Van Hove (piano), Peter Kowald (bass), Buschi Niebergall (bass), Han Bennink (drums), and Sven-Ake Johansson (drums). That's some lineup. If you're familiar with those folks, chances are you've already heard this album, but if not, well it's one to get. And while it's been in print as an import cd on Free Music Productions (FMP) for some years, it hasn't always been easy to find. So it's great that it now takes a well deserved place in the Atavistic Unheard Music Series as a domestic cd release, and even better that they've added a bunch of bonus tracks to it! Extra alternate takes, and the only recorded LIVE version of "Machine Gun", from the '68 Frankfurt Jazz Fest. Plus there's new liner notes from Unheard guru John Corbett.
Fuck yeah! Free jazz assault from the legendary Brotzmann octet. Jazz? Unlike anything you've ever heard. Well, at least back then you didn't... Get this! For fans of all things "out".
Free jazz fanciers rejoice, here's a long-overdue reissue of one of Teutonic sax titan Brotzmann's classic, pre-FMP, uber-rare 1969 LPs. One of Thurston Moore's official Top Ten "free jazz artifacts" in fact. Check out the lineup for this European free improv energy supergroup: Brotzmann, Evan Parker, Derek Bailey, Fred Van Hove, Buschi Niebergall (ok, maybe he's not so well known...), and Han Bennink! Damn. Recorded at Conny Plank's studio.
Free jazz fanciers rejoice, here's a long-overdue reissue of one of Teutonic sax titan Brotzmann's classic, pre-FMP, uber-rare 1969 LPs. One of Thurston Moore's official Top Ten "free jazz artifacts" in fact. Check out the lineup for this European free improv energy supergroup: Brotzmann, Evan Parker, Derek Bailey, Fred Van Hove, Buschi Niebergall (ok, maybe he's not so well known...), and Han Bennink! Damn. Recorded at Conny Plank's studio.
Hail! It's the return of '90s math rock revivalists Broughton's Rules. This Pittsburgh, PA quartet have the pedigree all right, with ex-members of Don Caballero and Blunderbuss in their ranks. We loved (and sold a ton of) their debut a couple of years ago, Bounty Hunter 1853, and if you liked that, you'll like this! They seem to be entirely instrumental on this one, with eight songs that are moody, majestic, and melodic. Mathy, too, of course - we bet there is a lot of careful counting going in the heads of the musicians as they play these compositions. But it's not too tricky to listen to, quite the opposite, it's almost soothing, and in fact they go in for gorgeous spacey post-rock atmospherics as much as they do hectic tangle. The heavy parts are HEAVY, and there are lots of effective loud-soft moves, with precise chiming guitars and big thumping time keeping.
All in all, another deliciously, deliriously impressive effort from these guys, that we can file with all our old faves of the math/post rock persuasion like Rodan, Bastro, Polvo, A Minor Forest, Butterglove, et. al. Dunno if we said it before, but Broughton's Rules RULES.
So many modern bands are looking back to the eighties, and even the seventies for inspiration, which quite frankly to those of us who grew up during those decades, seems a bit surprising, and shocking, all of the stuff that seemed cool then, was quickly deemed "what the fuck were we thinking" not too long after, from MTV synth pop to yacht rock to fringed leather jackets to creepers to rubber bracelets to... well you get the point, the kids today are reclaiming out teenage shame and doing their damndest to make it cool.
But what we're waiting for, and it can't be long off now, is the nineties revival, grunge, post rock, math rock, bands who look to Rodan, Pitchblende, Polvo, Bitch Magnet and all those bands for their inspiration. There are definitely a few bands digging into that era, but maybe it's that it just hasn't been long enough for the younger generation to discover that stuff, lots of those bands are still playing, or playing again, which is totally okay, we can wait, as long as SOMEONE is still making that kind of music. And making it well. Which brings us to Broughton's Rules, made up of members of Pittsburgh's legendary math rockers Don Caballero and not so legendary but still bad ass math rockers Blunderbuss (whose song "Broughton's Rules" is where these guys got their name).
The label's spiel is "recommended if you like: Russian Circles, Sonic Youth, Slint, Shellac, Battles Pelican and The Psychic Paramount", and we certainly can't argue with that, we might also throw in the above mentioned bands Rodan, Polvo, Pitchblende, along with Table, Breadwinner, Bastro, Butterglove, Hose.Got.Cable, Crain, June Of 44, The For Carnation, Shipping News, Turing Machine, Phleg Camp, well, you get the drift. Obviously we love this stuff, and are psyched when some band can totally pull it off, and since these guys have basically been pulling it off since back in the day, it should be no surprise that this RULES.
Dense and lush and intricate, moody and melodic, complex and convoluted, heavy and super rocking, mathy and meandering, brooding and moody, droney and blissed out, the songs are epic and sprawling, but manage to still be catchy, and this isn't all instrumental, there are vocals, which make this eminently more appealing to the rest of the maybe-not-so-instrumental-math-rock-obsessed world, and while there is plenty dense heaviness, and some intense mathiness, there are moments that are sunshiney and melodic and major key, a good balance, and a hell of a good record. One of our new faves for sure.
Now bring on the nineties math rock revival!
Described as "One part Devendra Banhart and one part Daniel Johnston", David Thomas Broughton is like a nu-folk version of Ariel Pink. Earnest and heartfelt, but so so so damaged and strange. Incorporating detuned guitars, struggling malfunctioning drum machines, simple lo-fi organs, circusy keyboards, simple finger picked melodies, struggling Casio drum machines, all tangled up in expansive ultra personal folk songs, but folk bathed in lo-fi effects, backwards guitar loops, shimmering ambience, tape hiss, and pretty much whatever else Broughton could get his hands on or figure out how to get some interesting noise out of.
The opening track "The Circle Is Never Complete" is a gorgeous fractured folk fairy tale, a little cabaret, a little torch song, the vocals mumbled and dripping with reverb, the melody melancholy and lilting, the organ slowing down and speeding up, pitches constantly changing, the guitar unfurling delicate melodies, buzzing and scraping, the drums, a stumbling skitter, the vocals occasionally leap out as parts of the song suddenly attain high fidelity before slipping back into muted murk. So dreamy and sweetly sorrowful.
The whole record is an amazing, gorgeous, curious, damaged, child like, forward thinking slab of what-the-fuck folk, some tracks are drawn out and expansive, others are brief little fragments, all woven together into some twisted personal narrative, but the highlight has to be "Gracefully Silent" an 8+ minute drift of simple strum and gorgeous backwards guitar, so instantly warm and memorable, the sort of part in a song, that breaks your heart, especially when it ends and the song moves on to another part. Thankfully, that first backwards shimmer and strum continues throughout the whole track, with the addition of all sorts of mumbled vocals and random conversations, the track just drifts along as if it might continue on forever...
A cobbled together collection of old unearthed tracks, It's In There Somewhere plays as if it was composed to be this single suite of songs, every track perfectly flowing into the next, the record a gorgeous patchwork of dark and moody songsmithery, ramshackle but meticulously crafted, personal and private, a fascinating and lovely abstract bit of damaged folk dreaminess.
Here's a heavy, hairy hippie band from the late '60s, early '70s British blues/psych/festival scene whom we've never really written about before, but since some cds of their albums just got a domestic reissue, we ought to mention 'em, starting with Wasa Wasa. You could maybe call the Edgar Broughton Band "proto-metal", or maybe even "proto-punk", at least on this album, their 1969 debut, which features such ragged riff sloggers as "Evil" and "Love In The Rain". Their proto-metal never got much harder than here, although their later, less fuzzed/more folked albums are worthwhile too, on their own merits.
The first thing you'll notice about the Edgar Broughton Band are Edgar's vocals, which rasp and wail in an exaggerated, eccentric backwoodsy way, often reminding us of Captain Beefheart, or sometimes a blend of Beefheart and Iggy from the Stooges (check out lead off track "Death Of An Electric Citizen", amongst others, for that). He's great at maniacal ranting too, as on this album's lysergic, 14 minute finale, "Dawn Crept Away". Combined with the heavyish, bluesy guitarwork and general pungent atmosphere n' attitude of radical longhaired freakdom, this is a disc that should appeal to fans of bands like the Groundhogs, Pink Fairies, and Hawkwind, comrades all. Arthur Brown's Crazy World and/or Kingdom Come too. Maybe even the Doors and the 13th Floor Elevators as well.
Definitely a tripped out classic of the era. You surely oughta pick this up before you get that Endless Boogie album we listed last time.
Includes 5 previously unreleased bonus tracks, including a nine minute "Untitled Freak Out"...
THIS IS CURRENTLY OUT OF PRINT OR OTHERWISE UNAVAILABLE TO US AT THE MOMENT, SO PLEASE DO NOT ORDER IT. SORRY.
SORRY.
Second release from this mysterious one man black metal band from Texas. The debut Brown Jenkins record, Dagonite, was a bit of a sleeper hit around here. It took people a while to warm up the very unmetal name (although as we mentioned it is from a Lovecraft story) and the strange murky blurred sound. Not everybody though, the weirdo black metal obsessives here were all over Angel Eyes in a heartbeat. How could we not be, a black metal band that trafficked in a strange woozy ethereal murk, whose songs didn't buzz so much as ooze, the riffs slippery and slithery, the bliss out factor pretty high for something this grim and heavy.
We were a bit surprised to see a new record show up so hot on the heels of the first, but we're psyched. We had just about played that first one down to a little plastic nub. So here's record number two, and damn if the murk of the original doesn't sound a little bit buzzier this time around. But somehow even still, it manages to merge the murk of Dagonite with a more Burzumy buzz, and the result is another record that manages to sound both true, grim and black, but unlike almost any other black metal record you've heard.
The tempos are slow, midtempo bordering on doom. The sound is depressive and dark, minor key and miserable, the guitar parts are languorous and arpeggiated, the chords pulled apart into cascades of notes, each one wreathed in that strange murky buzz, the drums pound away, but they almost don't enter into the equation as they're so buried in the mix. The vocals a haunting howled wooly mammoth bellow bordering on death metal gurgle. When the tracks do speed up, they transform into some drone-y hypnotic post rock, the guitar parts blurred into near static streaks of fuzz, but they quickly slip back into some sort of plodding doomic trudge or mesmerizing slow motion lurch.
The sticker on the front of the cd compares Angel Eyes to a cross between Jesu and Bathory, while someone else says Hellhammer/Burzum crossed with Swans/Earth. And there are definitely elements of those matchups, we also hear some twisted blackened post rock a la Deathspell's Kenose, but none of that accounts for the twisted Ginn-ish riffs, the off kilter atonal melodies, that totally unique buzzy murk, to us it sounds more like Morbid Angel, played at 16 rpm, broadcast through busted 1000 watt speakers, heard through a pair of earmuffs, but that's just the sonic element, the songs too are pretty unique, and those DO sound pretty Swans-y, from seasick sway to relentless pound, to lugubrious crawl, stopping, starting, speeding up, slowing down, each track some sort of blown out, extended riffdrone post punk, black metal doom jam, and once again we can't get enough.
Brown Jenkins sounds like a pretty unlikely name for a black metal band, until you realize it's from an HP Lovecraft story. And the cover is sort of an unlikely image for a black metal record as well, just two hands playing a guitar, against a field of black. But then Dagonite is a very unlikely sounding black metal record.
This one man band from Texas, manages to weave an incredibly drone-y doomy black web, no furious buzzing or relentless blasting. Instead, it's murky and woozy, warbly and dissonant, heavy on the drone and the atmosphere, there are barely any vocals and when they do surface, they are more moans and howls than actual vocals, just another layer of blacknoise. The tempos go from mid, to total doom, but are more complicated than normal, with a bit of mathiness to them, a definite post rock vibe, sometimes the black fog dissipates, allowing the riffs to lock in and actually sort of groove, but even then, it's weirdly haunting and ominous, and not really rocking, more sort of lurching and seasick.
Sometimes Brown Jenkins sounds like Velvet Cacoon slowed waaaay down, at other times they sound like a damaged druggy Ved Buens Ende, lots of loping arpeggiated melodies, and woozy riffage, but even when they're referencing other bands, they sound totally unique, a weird dark, drugged out fucked up black heaviness, as creepy and atmospheric as it is pummeling and relentless. Some sort of blackened slowcore, or post-doom blackness, fuck, who knows what to call it, but whatever it is, it's awesome. One of our favorite black metal (or whatever) records of last year (yeah, we're just getting around to reviewing it now) which will totally whet your appetite for their new record, which should be coming out soon! Can't wait.
