Hey folks, here's one of the few releases on Japan's rather eccentric (and excellent) EM Records label that's NOT a reissue or archival collection, but new music by a new band! Weird. (Of course.) The oddly-named Supernatural Hot Rug And Not Used is one for those into free-rock improv noisiness, being a duo on electric guitar and "sort-of" electric bass. No effects. No "songs". Lots of quiet noisiness (but it's not "noise"). This Osaka-based outfit consists of Bunsho Nisikawa (guitar) and expatriate Canadian Tim Olive (bass), whom some might remember from a band called Nimrod, also Twerdocleb and Soap-Jo Henshi. Somehow, in a Osaka studio, they're able to conjure up stuff that sounds more like a creaky, glitchy field recording than two guys playing instruments. Together they weave a weird n' wild collision/collusion of sounds, some subtle, some not so... The more dronily mysterious, stretchy-scratchy, almost-rhythmic moments bring to mind the prepared turntable works of Pierre Bastien and Strotter Inst, or a more relaxed Voice Crack. Or even Coelacanth. This also sounds like something you might expect to hear on the Erstwhile label, from the likes of Keith Rowe or Toshimaru Nakamura. A pretty cool find for those who consider themselves connoisseurs of such interesting, abstract sounds! By the way, the band name is an example of the absurd "Japlish" prevalent on T-shirts in Japan...
This Norwegian "death-jazz" trio make their debut on three cds, super-creative electronics/jazz improv, unlike much else. A big fave around here.
Considering that Norwegian "death jazz" unit Supersilent began their recording career with a triple cd release entitled Supersilent 1-3, it's not so odd that they'd overwhelm their fans, these several years later, with the near-simultaneous release of both installments 10 and 11 in the Supersilent discography. As it happens, 10 features their newest recordings, while 11 consists of somewhat older material, tracks left over from the sprawling sessions that produced Supersilent 8 back in 2005. That's apparently why Supersilent 11 has been done as a vinyl-only release, while Supersilent 10 is on cd (and, eventually, but not yet, also lp).
Now, for those of you who already have a good proportion of Supersilent's 1 through 9, need we really say much about 10 and 11? Each numbered Supersilent release thus far has been brilliant, right? Yet each somewhat different, in representing Supersilent's unique style of electronic / acoustic improv, which can range from glacially paced, spacious ambient drift to fractured rhythmic glitch, from mellow melodic bliss to distorted noisy chaos.
In the case of 10, it's tilted toward the hauntingly atmospheric, following on from the minimalistic approach of Supersilent 9 (wherein the group, without their former drummer, all played Hammond organ). These twelve (also simply numbered, as usual) tracks make evocative use of Arve Henriksen's limpid, moody trumpet solos, Stale Storlokken's sparse, somber Steinway grand piano, and the quietly droning, slightly gritty "audio virus" of electronics expert and producer Helge "Deathprod" Sten, who also plays electric guitar (whilst the other two in the trio contribute on electronics as well). Intriguing, gorgeous, suspenseful soundscapes are the result, replete with fragile melody and distant drone, and Supersilent 10 thus rates a 10 with us. So if you're just encountering Supersilent now, this would be a fine starting point, and then working backwards from 10 wouldn't be a bad idea.
Fans of course, at least the turntable enabled, will want 11, too. Apparently the studio sessions for Supersilent 8 resulted in a lot more music being made than they could fit on one cd, and after editing, there was enough good stuff left over that they felt they should eventually also release (in fact, they almost just made 8 into a triple cd), and indeed they were right. That 8th Supersilent we recall as being possibly their most "rock" effort, and also a quite varied one, and 11 could certainly be considered utterly worthy "bonus tracks" to that effort, and in addition it's a lovely limited edition fetish object, 180 gram vinyl, lots of room for the artwork (hahaha, that's a joke, since as with all Supersilent releases, the Kim Hiorthoy cover design is a solid color with white Helvetica text... looks great though!).
Considering that Norwegian "death jazz" unit Supersilent began their recording career with a triple cd release entitled Supersilent 1-3, it's not so odd that they'd overwhelm their fans, these several years later, with the near-simultaneous release of both installments 10 and 11 in the Supersilent discography. As it happens, 10 features their newest recordings, while 11 consists of somewhat older material, tracks left over from the sprawling sessions that produced Supersilent 8 back in 2005. That's apparently why Supersilent 11 has been done as a vinyl-only release, while Supersilent 10 is on cd (and, eventually, but not yet, also lp).
Now, for those of you who already have a good proportion of Supersilent's 1 through 9, need we really say much about 10 and 11? Each numbered Supersilent release thus far has been brilliant, right? Yet each somewhat different, in representing Supersilent's unique style of electronic / acoustic improv, which can range from glacially paced, spacious ambient drift to fractured rhythmic glitch, from mellow melodic bliss to distorted noisy chaos.
In the case of 10, it's tilted toward the hauntingly atmospheric, following on from the minimalistic approach of Supersilent 9 (wherein the group, without their former drummer, all played Hammond organ). These twelve (also simply numbered, as usual) tracks make evocative use of Arve Henriksen's limpid, moody trumpet solos, Stale Storlokken's sparse, somber Steinway grand piano, and the quietly droning, slightly gritty "audio virus" of electronics expert and producer Helge "Deathprod" Sten, who also plays electric guitar (whilst the other two in the trio contribute on electronics as well). Intriguing, gorgeous, suspenseful soundscapes are the result, replete with fragile melody and distant drone, and Supersilent 10 thus rates a 10 with us. So if you're just encountering Supersilent now, this would be a fine starting point, and then working backwards from 10 wouldn't be a bad idea.
Fans of course, at least the turntable enabled, will want 11, too. Apparently the studio sessions for Supersilent 8 resulted in a lot more music being made than they could fit on one cd, and after editing, there was enough good stuff left over that they felt they should eventually also release (in fact, they almost just made 8 into a triple cd), and indeed they were right. That 8th Supersilent we recall as being possibly their most "rock" effort, and also a quite varied one, and 11 could certainly be considered utterly worthy "bonus tracks" to that effort, and in addition it's a lovely limited edition fetish object, 180 gram vinyl, lots of room for the artwork (hahaha, that's a joke, since as with all Supersilent releases, the Kim Hiorthoy cover design is a solid color with white Helvetica text... looks great though!).
Longtime ultimate aQ faves Supersilent, the Norwegian quote-unquote death jazz unit featuring trumpeter Arve Henriksen, electronic 'audio virus' producer Helge "Deathprod" Sten, and keyboardist Stale Storlokken, had not released an album since 2010, when both Supersilent 10 and 11 came out, until this new one, titled in their standard chronological fashion, Supersilent 12, of course. (And along with this release, Supersilent 11 has now also simultaneously been made available on cd for the first time, see the nearby review for that.)
So, it's been four years, and worth the wait - Supersilent 12 is a veritable doozy. And a perfect release for this Halloween-y time of the year, as it's both spooky and powerful, reminiscent of a 20th (21st!) Century avant-classical, electroacoustic piece, very soundtracky/soundscapey, Supersilent this time around sounding much more like Xenakis or Ligeti, than the Miles Davis meets Autechre mashup they sometimes have achieved. It's droning, dynamic, totally cold-void-conjuring stuff! Lots of unidentifiable abstract tones and drones, from shimmering, keening high end to tinkling, mysterious melody to deeper lower end ominousness, certainly not in any way jazzy or hyper rhythmic, more about texture and emotion. You do hear in some passages the trademark breathy melancholia of Henriksen's lyrical trumpet, as it appears backgrounded by ever-so-slightly-glitchy electronics, strident drones, and doleful, Varese-like percussion, though.
It's serious, it's kind of scary, it's often quite beautiful. Definitely an impressive return statement from these guys, proving that they maintain the ambition to explore new territory and conquer it as well. Not that Deathprod, at least, hasn't ventured into the cold void before...
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A little bit more jazzy & readily "listenable" than their amazing, overwhelming triple-cd debut, this sophomore release by the mysterious Nowegian group Supersilent continues to explore the limits of hyper-rhythmic free jazz, mixed with elements of ambient, musique concrete, noise and instrumental rock. If somewhat undefinable improv-ish bands like Starfuckers, Skullflower, Nels Cline Trio, etc. interest you, here's another one to add to that august roster. Parts of this sound like a live band (out)doing the most intense studio work of an Autechre or Squarepusher! Excellent album from an as-yet underappreciated band (although a recent feature in The Wire magazine signals a possible change in that status).
Another brilliant disc from this Norwegian "death-jazz" outfit! Bandmember and producer Helge Sten (aka Deathprod) took some 30 hours of material recorded live (direct to DAT) in various European locations (London, Oslo, Bologna) and edited it down to fit
We remember when Supersilent 1-3 came out, and we were like, who the heck are these guys with a debut triple cd?? After listening to it, of course we became fast fans. And Supersilent 4 and 5, which made interesting stylistic shifts, only served to deepen our appreciation of this Norwegian quartet. Now Supersilent 6 is upon us, and it's been eagerly anticipated -- we sold a whole bunch the day we got 'em in! On this disc, Supersilent continue to creatively pursue their own unique Nordic mind-meld of improv, electronics, jazz, and what we might describe as live musique concrete. Maybe we should call it glitch-fusion? Maybe not, but there's gorgeous Frippertronics guitar one moment, breathy trumpet the next, all with electronic drones and scattered drum-beats underneath. Delicate, shimmering soundscapes build into mammoth sound-masses, still shimmering. Their music still holds a great deal of mystery, even if the band is at last getting the exposure they deserve, such as a feature in the new issue (#228) of The Wire. Others have observed that it's amazing that Supersilent's music is totally improvised and without overdubs, and we'd have to agree. Supersilent 6 is a disc thick with noise of great beauty, and comes highly recommended.
Our favorite Norwegian death-jazz electro-acoustic improv ensemble, the one and only Supersilent, are back with a new release -- and it's a live DVD! As such, it serves as something of a consolation for myself (Allan) and AQ pal Cayce, who showed up to see Supersilent perform here in San Francisco for their first and only time (this was a year or two ago, at the Great American Music Hall) only to discover that the band who were breaking their gear down and vacating the stage upon our arrival was in fact Supersilent, making way for Jagajazzist who we had thought were to be the opening act. D'oh!! It was an especially cruel twist of fate for Cayce, who through a set of circumstances we needn't describe here, ended up holding (and paying for) FIVE non-refundable tickets to the show. He actually didn't really mind shelling out $100 to see Supersilent (that's how much of a fan he is) but then to miss 'em in the end was, unfortunate to say the least...
So, now through the magic of the DVD format, Cayce and I can experience what that show might have been like. And all Supersilent fans can experience what the show on the DVD (filmed in Oslo, August 16th 2004) was definitely very much like! We were actually a little worried that the visuals would somehow reveal too much about this band, but the DVD is shot in moody black and white 16mm which helps maintain their mystique... and it is cool to see how the actual humans involved interact with their instruments and equipment to produce the sounds of Supersilent, which have always been a blend of very live sounding playing and electronic processing, with the breathy trumpet of Arve Henriksen, snake charmer sinuous at times, suggesting the jazz of Miles Davis amidst the "improv musique concrete" (and this concert is entirely improvised) also being made by keyboardist Stale Strlokken, drummer Jarle Vespestad, and "audio virus" engineer Helge "Deathprod" Sten.
The great thing about this DVD is that after a viewing or two, it still functions as a great new Supersilent album (hence the title, 7, designating it the follow-up to their last album, 6). And since now it's hard to buy a cd player that's not also a DVD player, if you've got one of those hooked up to your stereo system you can just put this disc in and listen to it sans video, as if it was a regular cd that's just a bit longer (109 minutes) than normal.
8 is not Supersilent's eighth album, actually, 'cause their first, a triple cd extravaganza, was entitled 1-3... and Supersilent 7 was actually a live dvd. So if you don't count that one, then Supersilent 8 is really the celebrated Norwegian outfit's fifth studio release. Still, it's far enough into Supersilent's career that you'd think we'd have a good notion of what to expect from these AQ faves. But if we really did, it wouldn't be Supersilent. And as usual they offer no clues: the digipack cd design is as usual stylish but generic, and song titles are an unnecessary luxury in which other more ordinary bands indulge. Here we have eight nameless tracks, 66 minutes of new and varied Supersilent output. In the past, they've created stunning soundscapes that are part Miles Davis, part Starfuckers, part Autechre, a hybrid of dronejazz improv and electronic processing, a live band screwing with itself via computer feedback. They call it "death-jazz" but what the heck does that really mean?
So maybe a track by track accounting is needed. The disc starts off quietly, cautiously, eerily ambient, not giving much up at first. It's a ways into the first 11 minute long track that, with increased volume, a rhythmic pulse makes itself throbbingly known, and eventually builds into a roiling low-end cacophony, with what sounds like a tolling bell amidst percussive splatter and insectoid buzz, slowed down and grinding. The second track is even more sparse and atmospheric, with occasional improv percussion clatter, echoing cymbals, and suspenseful electronic organ musings. So far, this is turning out to be a good album for this time of the year (Halloween being this week!). The third cut continues the sorta spooky and sci-fi theme, venturing further into a dense thicket of crackly, agitated sounds, with stabs of sizzling synth and clumsy, clomping rhythmic rattle, harking back to the counter-intuitive chaos of Supersilent 1-3. Track four is sleepier, gentler, with the breathy trumpet of Arve Henriksen weaving a fragile melody.
Then suddenly with the fifth track, it's like we've flipped the record to a (thus far hypothetical, as a vinyl version hasn't yet been released) side two, which begins on a quite different note than before, with a bizarre, distorted, almost robot-metallic voice or voices intoning some sort of garbled rant. But by the time this track's twelve minutes are up, we've heard more of the melodious trumpet, humming drone, percussive splatter, and glacial glitch that we realize we DO expect from ol' Supersilent. That's followed by the stuttering electronic clicks and plings of track six, this song's special surprise being high, wordless female vocals soaring up and over the ending. Number seven is a skronkier, noisier affair than anything yet on the album, it's an energetic compression of the cacophony heard on tracks 1 or 3, the drummer going nuts, the organist sucking up lots of electricity, and with the addition of what must be wild, howling, heavily effected vocals swirling cryptically over it all. Supersilent let it all hang out on this one, yeah! #7 would be the piece for them to play if they ever had to share a stage with Acid Mothers Temple. And then track 8 brings Supersilent 8 to a quiet close, perfectly spaced sounds and silence like a more regulated Starfuckers jam, clicks and clacks and crackle, that only lasts four minutes and four seconds but could go on and on forever as far as we're concerned.
Wow. Another excellent, original Supersilent effort, with the use/abuse of vocals opening up some new dimensions to their sound. Parts of Supersilent 8 give us the idea we're listening to some sort of really strange field recording, the documentation of the fracturing of an iceberg, the swarmings of bugs, or the language of birds or bats, when in fact this is a very human-activated, machine-mediated, far-from-natural audio document. Of course at other times on this album that fact is quite evident! Indeed, Supersilent 8 also is the closest these "death-jazzers" have come to making rock album, especially when the super distorted, hazy murk of psychedelic howling almost garage-rock-improv pummel of track 7 is taken into account.
Wow, we're getting old. Our favorite Norwegian electronic/jazz/WTF improvising unit, Supersilent, are already up to number 9 in their discography! Almost into double digits. (Of course, that's not nearly as prolific as some bands, imagine if Circle, Nadja, or good grief Acid Mothers Temple numbered their releases. you'd never be able to recall which one was which, that's for sure. But, hey, you would at least know what order they came in... c'mon AMT fans, do you remember if Ominous From The Cosmic Inferno predated Iao Chant From The Cosmic Inferno, or maybe it was Journey Into The Cosmic Inferno that came first? And where do Demons From Nipples and Crystal Rainbow Pyramid Under The Stars fit in, chronologically? Not that you really need to know either. Ok, enough with that digression...)
So, what's Supersilent all about this time? As usual, the lack of titles and artwork don't give a lot to go on. The Kim Hiorthoy designed digipak is a bright sort of blue this time, for what that's worth (being about the only design decision Hiorthoy has to make for each otherwise identically generic looking Supersilent release, probably a lot of thought goes into the color choice). Well it turns out that Supersilent 9 is one of their more atmospheric, almost ambient efforts, with band member / producer Deathprod's aesthetic to the fore. There's four tracks, none of 'em short, ranging from 11:43, to the longest at 14:32... plenty of time for the listener to get lost in their carefully improvised, mostly quiet and slowly unfolding soundworlds... Arve Henriksen's breathy trumpet is ultra muted, really we're not sure if we are hearing it or not, and in terms of percussion, Supersilent 9 is entirely without the quirky rhythmic elements that characterized their chaotically skittery debut Supersilent 1-3 or the almost Autechre-ish glitchery of Supersilent 4. Instead, this, when rhythmic at all, evinces more of slow sawing whirr or thick throb, as on the droning and kinda doomy second track (the loudest one here as well), which pulses with shuddering distortion and has a bit of an atonal 20th century classical vibe to it. The tracks on Supersilent 9 are also more "of a piece", not as eclectic as on 6 or 8... There's certainly variation but it's constrained, the group taking a "less is more", minimalistic approach to this disc. The surprise vocals and psych-rock moves of Supersilent 8 are nowhere to be found this time 'round. Instead this hews closest to the glacial bliss of Supersilent 5, if we recall correctly, but in even more of an abstract manner. In parts, this comes quite close to literally living up to the band name. Dreamy and drifty, this is. And so very nice.
What we've since learned about the (even by Supersilent standards) unusual nature of this disc is that their drummer quit the band right before they recorded this... and the remaining three members all decided to play Hammond organ exclusively for this session! Not that you'd guess that's all you were hearing. Ultimately, another very satisfying release from this unique outfit! Leaving us curious about what direction they'll take in the future, when it's time for number 10.
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Supersister were a seventies Dutch prog group who released a quartet of classic albums, but none more classic than this, their 1970 debut. And this, Present From Nancy, is so goddamn good, if we had our way, we would have ordered a ton of these and made it a Record Of The Week, or at least PROG Record Of The Week, although it's more like a contender for Prog Record Of The FOREVER!! But sadly, we've been unable to get more than a few at a time, even now we have less than ten copies, and while we should be able to get more, it might take us a while, but we figured it would be better at least that a few of you prog freaks were able to get your hands on these, rather than no one at all.
So what's got us all hyped up? What's so great about Supersister? Just listen to the three sound samples, easily one of the best one-two-three punches in classic prog. A dense relentless, super technical ELP-ish workout, with manic piano, fuzzed out organ, incredible complex drumming, impossible time signatures, killer melodies, some amazing flute leads, and yet even at its most manic and relentless it manages to be both jazzy, groovy, heavy and catchy as hell! In the title track, flutes flutter wildly over the bass piano drum jam locked in beneath, with the band occasionally exploding into awesome flurries of piano and flute before the band bursts back into action. Then there's "Memories Are New", with its warm looped fuzz organ, and lilting vocal, thick crunchy fuzz guitar, and again some incredible drumming, and a way with composition that manages to make even the most obtuse time signatures and strange arrangements flow perfectly. Finally, "11/8", named for the time signature we suppose, is another dense acrobatic instrumental workout, the organs and synths fully fuzzed out, even the pass is super distorted, working through rapid fire flurries of notes, the drums somehow locked in tight, with the synths occasionally stuttering into skittery buzz, before the track devolves into heavy downtuned chords and tinkling piano, so dynamic and varied and again, the rare sort of prog that gets stuck in your head like a pop song. AND THAT'S JUST THREE SONGS.
The rest of the record continues in a similarly proggy vein, but gets even weirder, adding all sorts of dark shimmering drones, bizarre bits of a capella, pounding fuzz guitar jams, dreamy drifty almost new age sounding soundscapes, and this reissue tacks on two singles, the first one sounds like the Zombies or some other sixties/seventies dream pop outfit, with a B-side that is SO bizarre, a woozy organ driven jam, with a heavily accented spoken word story about an alien or something, complete with processed alien voices. The other single is an Elvis style honkytonk jam that is also truly bizarre, while the B side is a Doors-y groove, with weirdly crooned vocals and warm organs, and what can only be a kazoo solo. This band did get increasingly goofy with each record, almost too much to take by the end, but Present From Nancy is Supersister at their heaviest and grooviest and proggiest. And definitely remains one of our favorite prog jams EVER.
Many a Supersuckers fan will be thrilled to find their favorite band has decided to get back on their fast-rockin' highway after taking a brief ramble down a dusty country trail. Yep, the Supersuckers have got it back in gear with this new 13-song ass-kicker, produced by the band and the Fastbacks' Kurt Bloch. And you know what that combination means, right? Raw, raunchy guitars front and center. For a raucous good time you can count on Eddie Spaghetti.
The only compliment we can give this album is that it's big in Germany. Super_Collider's "Raw Digits" is a painful attempt by two white Brits (Cristian Vogel and Jamie Lidell) to reconstruct sub-par R&B slow jams for the smarty-pants electronica crowd. I guess if you convinced yourself that Beck is not an ironist and was sincere in his Prince knock-off "Midnight Vultures," then you can probably convince yourself that this is worthwhile. Otherwise, avoid at all costs.
These are always the hardest ones to write. The bands we've loved for years, the songs we've been listening to for decades, with no need to think beyond the pure visceral enjoyment of the sounds, just years of getting lost inside the music, and with music like this, going deeper and deeper with every listen, never a need to put that sonic magic into words, but still championing these sounds for all we were worth, but instead of a lengthy essay or diatribe, it was an insistent "YOU NEED THIS!" Or "You've never heard anything quite like this." Or even still "This is probably one of our all time favorite bands, and if you haven't heard this music, you have been missing out."
Years of finding copies of these long out of print gems in used bins and bargain bins and even dollar bins, because this was not popular music. As much as we loved it, and obsessed over it and played it for everyone we knew (and not everyone felt the same unbridled passion for these sounds that we did) and as much as often as we gave those occasionally discovered used copies to anyone we thought might love it as much as we did, there was no real hope for this band to reach the heights as a Sebadoh or a Pavement, even though they swam in the same sonic waters, for the Supreme Dicks were their own peculiar musical beast, one whose pop was subtle, whose noise was chaotic, whose vocals warbled and cracked, whose recordings were of extremely low fidelity, whose performances were loose and ramshackle, but whose magic would not have existed, certainly not in the same way it did, had all of those random elements fallen (im)perfectly into place. Thankfully they did, and we have this, years later, a lovingly compiled collection of the complete recorded works of Massachusetts indie folk outsider rock weirdos the Supreme Dicks.
The Dicks experienced a brief bit of popularity in the mid-nineties, finally seeing their debut record released, especially notable having formed all the way back in 1982, and during the years 1992-1996, the band released two albums, one ep, one single, one split single and a collection compiling the early works that predated their proper debut, it's all included here, and is darn near overwhelming all gathered up in one place, especially considering that ONE song in, and we already had chills. Such is the power of the Dicks, who sonically seemed to situate themselves somewhere between the Palace Brothers, Silver Jews, Yo La Tengo, Pavement and Sebadoh (Lou Barlow even pops up on a Dicks jam or two), their sound an eerie psychedelic folk, a stumbling abstract primitivism, raw, and a bit warped, always seeming to teeter on the edge of collapse, that tension, that inevitable doom, rendered in sound and somehow woven into the fabric of their unique sound. Later, that sound would evolve to include sonic elements that would seem to be drawn from krautrock groups like Ash Ra Templ or Popol Vuh, but it's hard to say whether that was intentional or happenstance.
Their first album, The Unexamined Life, is probably the Dicks material that would be the least alienating to the casual listener, rooted in indie folk, the arrangements simple and spare, the instrumentation standard, but that's where the familiarity ends, as the Dicks forge their own path, and one song into their debut, seal the deal and establish themselves as masters of this arcane and unique to them musical form. "In A Sweet Song" gently tumbles into motion, all spidery acoustic guitar, delicate and crystalline, the vocals a sung/spoken warble, frought with emotion and tension, the drums stumbling, a lo -fi pound, in swoop more guitars, a brief bit of psychedelia, all druggy slippery melodies, and the clang and jangle of loud guitars, slowly building, a wild tangle of competing melodies that give us chills every time. The lyrics haunting and heartfelt, building again to a seriously rad jam that sounds like it was lifted straight out of a classic Pavement jam, pressed onto a 7", left in the sun, and then played back on an old Sears turntable, all warped and woozy and so so so wonderful. Even nearly 20 years later, nothing can touch this. And so goes The Unexamined Life, a bizarre collection of fractured folk music, fragmented and abstract, multiple vocalists, keening high about to crack warbles, and deep croons, fluttering flutes, hazy soft focus psychedelia, lilting and gently pastoral one second, weirdly chaotic the next, sawed strings, total super catchy jangle pop nestled amongst twisted Jandekian slowburn outsider folk, blown out super distorted psychpop melting into what sounds like some sort of bastardized classic rock, like the Grateful Dead via Faxed head, the tape crumbling, the sounds seeming to decay, even though the music itself is fairly straight ahead, finally finishing off with the appropriately titled "Strange Song", a sprawl of slow building tripped out psychedelic free noise freakout most modern bands would KILL for.
Workingman's Dick was originally released on Freek Records in 1994, and collected all of the early Dicks recordings, and is a glorious hodgepodge hinting at what was to come, not that far removed from their debut, if anything a bit more experimental, the timbre of the sound and the quality of the recordings varying from track to track, the sounds slipping from freakfolk to murky dirgery, and from haunting skeletal folk to Sentridoh like experimental fuckery. It's maybe the most difficult listen of the various releases, but also contains some of the band's dreamiest gems. This Is Not A Dick, was recorded around the same time as their final record, but was a lot like Workingman's Dick in that it was cobbled together from recordings made between 1987 and 1994, and much like Workingman's Dick, is sonically varied, opening with some abstract psychedelic drift, all grinding guitars and chiming melodies, a freaky lo-fi basement jam that is surprisingly and fantastically (although subtly) unhinged, and from there on out, the band slips from dreamy strummy shimmer to garbled crumbling experimentation, one of our favorites being "Marks Phonecall From Orgoneland", which is a dreamy little Avarus like microjam that's all whistling and tinkling chimes, skittery rhythms and hushed percussion, all accompanied by the phone call in question, a strange spoken word rant over a clattery No Neck Blues Band like clamor, the other being "Harmonic Convergence (Live At L'Oasis 1987)" which is a cool collection of recordings of the what sounds like various clubs between songs, lots of silence, clinking glasses, a recited poem with plenty of jeers from a sparse crowd and the band requesting someone to come up and play drums for them. Weird and wonderful.
Finally, the band released their last record, The Emotional Plague, in 1996, and this is where the band's warble folk and psychedelic crumble becomes a bit more expansive and far reaching, the above mentioned perceived influence of Ash Ra Tempel and other like minded outfits, transforming the group's sound into something more lush and lovely, and marginally less difficult. Marginally. Opener "Synaesthesia" is a haunting bit of droned out psychedelic drift, thick low end rumbles, chiming melodies, distant skeletal guitar melodies, the song starting out dark and powerfully minimal, but seeming to gradually fall apart as the track progresses, which leads right into the first proper song, the production notably more polished, the guitars ringing out, the drums not buried in the mix, but the sound still a little off kilter, slightly atonal, a little off key, the song a gorgeous lilting almost ballad, that builds to a full on psychrock freakout, and then peters out, leading directly into a nightmarish stretch of ominous FX drenched psychdrone creep, atonal and warped and warbly, eventually morphing into what almost sounds like some lost Neil Young outtake, unexpected for sure, but quite cool. And The Emotional Plague is where this already hard to describe band gets even more difficult to understand, let alone describe, most of the elements were present on past recordings, but here sound reimagined, and reinvented, repurposed even, the band seemingly able to reel of some perfect, delicate folk music like they could have been making music like that all along, but as if to say "why the hell would we?!" they immediately take the sound and pull it apart into a stumbling alternate dimension Pink Floydian dirge that manages to be psychedelic, but also some sort of twisted indie pop, all fused together into something that is both and neither. The tracks on The Emotional Plague are longer, some nearly 10 minutes long, which let the Dicks explore and ramble and stretch out, weaving tranced out sprawls of repetition, of looped mesmer, of smoldering psychedelia, of hushed delicate dreampop drift, of haunting backporch alien Appalachia and of brooding, almost orchestral majesty, replete with horns and haunting spoken word, and a twisted deconstructed coda, "Green Wings Fly Adventure (Showered Reprise) an elegiac final movement, the perfect way to end such a mysterious and strange record, and an even more perfect way to lay to rest one of the strangest, most incredible, and under appreciated bands of the last two decades.
This deluxe reissue includes most of the original artwork, new liner notes, tons of rare photos, and tacks on a couple B-sides and a handful of unreleased jams, but even without those extras, this collection gathers up one of the most beautifully baffling and bafflingly brilliant bodies of work from one of our favorite groups of the last 20 years. And while we did our best with the above review, it's hard to stress just how utterly recommended and essential this really is!
And vinyl folks, while the whole set was not pressed on vinyl, the two proper albums were, so both The Unexamined Life and The Emotional Plague are available on vinyl (deluxe double lps to boot!) for the first time EVER.
These are always the hardest ones to write. The bands we've loved for years, the songs we've been listening to for decades, with no need to think beyond the pure visceral enjoyment of the sounds, just years of getting lost inside the music, and with music like this, going deeper and deeper with every listen, never a need to put that sonic magic into words, but still championing these sounds for all we were worth, but instead of a lengthy essay or diatribe, it was an insistent "YOU NEED THIS!" Or "You've never heard anything quite like this." Or even still "This is probably one of our all time favorite bands, and if you haven't heard this music, you have been missing out."
Years of finding copies of these long out of print gems in used bins and bargain bins and even dollar bins, because this was not popular music. As much as we loved it, and obsessed over it and played it for everyone we knew (and not everyone felt the same unbridled passion for these sounds that we did) and as much as often as we gave those occasionally discovered used copies to anyone we thought might love it as much as we did, there was no real hope for this band to reach the heights as a Sebadoh or a Pavement, even though they swam in the same sonic waters, for the Supreme Dicks were their own peculiar musical beast, one whose pop was subtle, whose noise was chaotic, whose vocals warbled and cracked, whose recordings were of extremely low fidelity, whose performances were loose and ramshackle, but whose magic would not have existed, certainly not in the same way it did, had all of those random elements fallen (im)perfectly into place. Thankfully they did, and we have this, years later, a lovingly compiled collection of the complete recorded works of Massachusetts indie folk outsider rock weirdos the Supreme Dicks.
The Dicks experienced a brief bit of popularity in the mid-nineties, finally seeing their debut record released, especially notable having formed all the way back in 1982, and during the years 1992-1996, the band released two albums, one ep, one single, one split single and a collection compiling the early works that predated their proper debut, it's all included here, and is darn near overwhelming all gathered up in one place, especially considering that ONE song in, and we already had chills. Such is the power of the Dicks, who sonically seemed to situate themselves somewhere between the Palace Brothers, Silver Jews, Yo La Tengo, Pavement and Sebadoh (Lou Barlow even pops up on a Dicks jam or two), their sound an eerie psychedelic folk, a stumbling abstract primitivism, raw, and a bit warped, always seeming to teeter on the edge of collapse, that tension, that inevitable doom, rendered in sound and somehow woven into the fabric of their unique sound. Later, that sound would evolve to include sonic elements that would seem to be drawn from krautrock groups like Ash Ra Templ or Popol Vuh, but it's hard to say whether that was intentional or happenstance.
Their first album, The Unexamined Life, is probably the Dicks material that would be the least alienating to the casual listener, rooted in indie folk, the arrangements simple and spare, the instrumentation standard, but that's where the familiarity ends, as the Dicks forge their own path, and one song into their debut, seal the deal and establish themselves as masters of this arcane and unique to them musical form. "In A Sweet Song" gently tumbles into motion, all spidery acoustic guitar, delicate and crystalline, the vocals a sung/spoken warble, frought with emotion and tension, the drums stumbling, a lo -fi pound, in swoop more guitars, a brief bit of psychedelia, all druggy slippery melodies, and the clang and jangle of loud guitars, slowly building, a wild tangle of competing melodies that give us chills every time. The lyrics haunting and heartfelt, building again to a seriously rad jam that sounds like it was lifted straight out of a classic Pavement jam, pressed onto a 7", left in the sun, and then played back on an old Sears turntable, all warped and woozy and so so so wonderful. Even nearly 20 years later, nothing can touch this. And so goes The Unexamined Life, a bizarre collection of fractured folk music, fragmented and abstract, multiple vocalists, keening high about to crack warbles, and deep croons, fluttering flutes, hazy soft focus psychedelia, lilting and gently pastoral one second, weirdly chaotic the next, sawed strings, total super catchy jangle pop nestled amongst twisted Jandekian slowburn outsider folk, blown out super distorted psychpop melting into what sounds like some sort of bastardized classic rock, like the Grateful Dead via Faxed head, the tape crumbling, the sounds seeming to decay, even though the music itself is fairly straight ahead, finally finishing off with the appropriately titled "Strange Song", a sprawl of slow building tripped out psychedelic free noise freakout most modern bands would KILL for.
Workingman's Dick was originally released on Freek Records in 1994, and collected all of the early Dicks recordings, and is a glorious hodgepodge hinting at what was to come, not that far removed from their debut, if anything a bit more experimental, the timbre of the sound and the quality of the recordings varying from track to track, the sounds slipping from freakfolk to murky dirgery, and from haunting skeletal folk to Sentridoh like experimental fuckery. It's maybe the most difficult listen of the various releases, but also contains some of the band's dreamiest gems. This Is Not A Dick, was recorded around the same time as their final record, but was a lot like Workingman's Dick in that it was cobbled together from recordings made between 1987 and 1994, and much like Workingman's Dick, is sonically varied, opening with some abstract psychedelic drift, all grinding guitars and chiming melodies, a freaky lo-fi basement jam that is surprisingly and fantastically (although subtly) unhinged, and from there on out, the band slips from dreamy strummy shimmer to garbled crumbling experimentation, one of our favorites being "Marks Phonecall From Orgoneland", which is a dreamy little Avarus like microjam that's all whistling and tinkling chimes, skittery rhythms and hushed percussion, all accompanied by the phone call in question, a strange spoken word rant over a clattery No Neck Blues Band like clamor, the other being "Harmonic Convergence (Live At L'Oasis 1987)" which is a cool collection of recordings of the what sounds like various clubs between songs, lots of silence, clinking glasses, a recited poem with plenty of jeers from a sparse crowd and the band requesting someone to come up and play drums for them. Weird and wonderful.
Finally, the band released their last record, The Emotional Plague, in 1996, and this is where the band's warble folk and psychedelic crumble becomes a bit more expansive and far reaching, the above mentioned perceived influence of Ash Ra Tempel and other like minded outfits, transforming the group's sound into something more lush and lovely, and marginally less difficult. Marginally. Opener "Synaesthesia" is a haunting bit of droned out psychedelic drift, thick low end rumbles, chiming melodies, distant skeletal guitar melodies, the song starting out dark and powerfully minimal, but seeming to gradually fall apart as the track progresses, which leads right into the first proper song, the production notably more polished, the guitars ringing out, the drums not buried in the mix, but the sound still a little off kilter, slightly atonal, a little off key, the song a gorgeous lilting almost ballad, that builds to a full on psychrock freakout, and then peters out, leading directly into a nightmarish stretch of ominous FX drenched psychdrone creep, atonal and warped and warbly, eventually morphing into what almost sounds like some lost Neil Young outtake, unexpected for sure, but quite cool. And The Emotional Plague is where this already hard to describe band gets even more difficult to understand, let alone describe, most of the elements were present on past recordings, but here sound reimagined, and reinvented, repurposed even, the band seemingly able to reel of some perfect, delicate folk music like they could have been making music like that all along, but as if to say "why the hell would we?!" they immediately take the sound and pull it apart into a stumbling alternate dimension Pink Floydian dirge that manages to be psychedelic, but also some sort of twisted indie pop, all fused together into something that is both and neither. The tracks on The Emotional Plague are longer, some nearly 10 minutes long, which let the Dicks explore and ramble and stretch out, weaving tranced out sprawls of repetition, of looped mesmer, of smoldering psychedelia, of hushed delicate dreampop drift, of haunting backporch alien Appalachia and of brooding, almost orchestral majesty, replete with horns and haunting spoken word, and a twisted deconstructed coda, "Green Wings Fly Adventure (Showered Reprise) an elegiac final movement, the perfect way to end such a mysterious and strange record, and an even more perfect way to lay to rest one of the strangest, most incredible, and under appreciated bands of the last two decades.
This deluxe reissue includes most of the original artwork, new liner notes, tons of rare photos, and tacks on a couple B-sides and a handful of unreleased jams, but even without those extras, this collection gathers up one of the most beautifully baffling and bafflingly brilliant bodies of work from one of our favorite groups of the last 20 years. And while we did our best with the above review, it's hard to stress just how utterly recommended and essential this really is!
And vinyl folks, while the whole set was not pressed on vinyl, the two proper albums were, so both The Unexamined Life and The Emotional Plague are available on vinyl (deluxe double lps to boot!) for the first time EVER.
These are always the hardest ones to write. The bands we've loved for years, the songs we've been listening to for decades, with no need to think beyond the pure visceral enjoyment of the sounds, just years of getting lost inside the music, and with music like this, going deeper and deeper with every listen, never a need to put that sonic magic into words, but still championing these sounds for all we were worth, but instead of a lengthy essay or diatribe, it was an insistent "YOU NEED THIS!" Or "You've never heard anything quite like this." Or even still "This is probably one of our all time favorite bands, and if you haven't heard this music, you have been missing out."
Years of finding copies of these long out of print gems in used bins and bargain bins and even dollar bins, because this was not popular music. As much as we loved it, and obsessed over it and played it for everyone we knew (and not everyone felt the same unbridled passion for these sounds that we did) and as much as often as we gave those occasionally discovered used copies to anyone we thought might love it as much as we did, there was no real hope for this band to reach the heights as a Sebadoh or a Pavement, even though they swam in the same sonic waters, for the Supreme Dicks were their own peculiar musical beast, one whose pop was subtle, whose noise was chaotic, whose vocals warbled and cracked, whose recordings were of extremely low fidelity, whose performances were loose and ramshackle, but whose magic would not have existed, certainly not in the same way it did, had all of those random elements fallen (im)perfectly into place. Thankfully they did, and we have this, years later, a lovingly compiled collection of the complete recorded works of Massachusetts indie folk outsider rock weirdos the Supreme Dicks.
The Dicks experienced a brief bit of popularity in the mid-nineties, finally seeing their debut record released, especially notable having formed all the way back in 1982, and during the years 1992-1996, the band released two albums, one ep, one single, one split single and a collection compiling the early works that predated their proper debut, it's all included here, and is darn near overwhelming all gathered up in one place, especially considering that ONE song in, and we already had chills. Such is the power of the Dicks, who sonically seemed to situate themselves somewhere between the Palace Brothers, Silver Jews, Yo La Tengo, Pavement and Sebadoh (Lou Barlow even pops up on a Dicks jam or two), their sound an eerie psychedelic folk, a stumbling abstract primitivism, raw, and a bit warped, always seeming to teeter on the edge of collapse, that tension, that inevitable doom, rendered in sound and somehow woven into the fabric of their unique sound. Later, that sound would evolve to include sonic elements that would seem to be drawn from krautrock groups like Ash Ra Templ or Popol Vuh, but it's hard to say whether that was intentional or happenstance.
Their first album, The Unexamined Life, is probably the Dicks material that would be the least alienating to the casual listener, rooted in indie folk, the arrangements simple and spare, the instrumentation standard, but that's where the familiarity ends, as the Dicks forge their own path, and one song into their debut, seal the deal and establish themselves as masters of this arcane and unique to them musical form. "In A Sweet Song" gently tumbles into motion, all spidery acoustic guitar, delicate and crystalline, the vocals a sung/spoken warble, frought with emotion and tension, the drums stumbling, a lo -fi pound, in swoop more guitars, a brief bit of psychedelia, all druggy slippery melodies, and the clang and jangle of loud guitars, slowly building, a wild tangle of competing melodies that give us chills every time. The lyrics haunting and heartfelt, building again to a seriously rad jam that sounds like it was lifted straight out of a classic Pavement jam, pressed onto a 7", left in the sun, and then played back on an old Sears turntable, all warped and woozy and so so so wonderful. Even nearly 20 years later, nothing can touch this. And so goes The Unexamined Life, a bizarre collection of fractured folk music, fragmented and abstract, multiple vocalists, keening high about to crack warbles, and deep croons, fluttering flutes, hazy soft focus psychedelia, lilting and gently pastoral one second, weirdly chaotic the next, sawed strings, total super catchy jangle pop nestled amongst twisted Jandekian slowburn outsider folk, blown out super distorted psychpop melting into what sounds like some sort of bastardized classic rock, like the Grateful Dead via Faxed head, the tape crumbling, the sounds seeming to decay, even though the music itself is fairly straight ahead, finally finishing off with the appropriately titled "Strange Song", a sprawl of slow building tripped out psychedelic free noise freakout most modern bands would KILL for.
Workingman's Dick was originally released on Freek Records in 1994, and collected all of the early Dicks recordings, and is a glorious hodgepodge hinting at what was to come, not that far removed from their debut, if anything a bit more experimental, the timbre of the sound and the quality of the recordings varying from track to track, the sounds slipping from freakfolk to murky dirgery, and from haunting skeletal folk to Sentridoh like experimental fuckery. It's maybe the most difficult listen of the various releases, but also contains some of the band's dreamiest gems. This Is Not A Dick, was recorded around the same time as their final record, but was a lot like Workingman's Dick in that it was cobbled together from recordings made between 1987 and 1994, and much like Workingman's Dick, is sonically varied, opening with some abstract psychedelic drift, all grinding guitars and chiming melodies, a freaky lo-fi basement jam that is surprisingly and fantastically (although subtly) unhinged, and from there on out, the band slips from dreamy strummy shimmer to garbled crumbling experimentation, one of our favorites being "Marks Phonecall From Orgoneland", which is a dreamy little Avarus like microjam that's all whistling and tinkling chimes, skittery rhythms and hushed percussion, all accompanied by the phone call in question, a strange spoken word rant over a clattery No Neck Blues Band like clamor, the other being "Harmonic Convergence (Live At L'Oasis 1987)" which is a cool collection of recordings of the what sounds like various clubs between songs, lots of silence, clinking glasses, a recited poem with plenty of jeers from a sparse crowd and the band requesting someone to come up and play drums for them. Weird and wonderful.
Finally, the band released their last record, The Emotional Plague, in 1996, and this is where the band's warble folk and psychedelic crumble becomes a bit more expansive and far reaching, the above mentioned perceived influence of Ash Ra Tempel and other like minded outfits, transforming the group's sound into something more lush and lovely, and marginally less difficult. Marginally. Opener "Synaesthesia" is a haunting bit of droned out psychedelic drift, thick low end rumbles, chiming melodies, distant skeletal guitar melodies, the song starting out dark and powerfully minimal, but seeming to gradually fall apart as the track progresses, which leads right into the first proper song, the production notably more polished, the guitars ringing out, the drums not buried in the mix, but the sound still a little off kilter, slightly atonal, a little off key, the song a gorgeous lilting almost ballad, that builds to a full on psychrock freakout, and then peters out, leading directly into a nightmarish stretch of ominous FX drenched psychdrone creep, atonal and warped and warbly, eventually morphing into what almost sounds like some lost Neil Young outtake, unexpected for sure, but quite cool. And The Emotional Plague is where this already hard to describe band gets even more difficult to understand, let alone describe, most of the elements were present on past recordings, but here sound reimagined, and reinvented, repurposed even, the band seemingly able to reel of some perfect, delicate folk music like they could have been making music like that all along, but as if to say "why the hell would we?!" they immediately take the sound and pull it apart into a stumbling alternate dimension Pink Floydian dirge that manages to be psychedelic, but also some sort of twisted indie pop, all fused together into something that is both and neither. The tracks on The Emotional Plague are longer, some nearly 10 minutes long, which let the Dicks explore and ramble and stretch out, weaving tranced out sprawls of repetition, of looped mesmer, of smoldering psychedelia, of hushed delicate dreampop drift, of haunting backporch alien Appalachia and of brooding, almost orchestral majesty, replete with horns and haunting spoken word, and a twisted deconstructed coda, "Green Wings Fly Adventure (Showered Reprise) an elegiac final movement, the perfect way to end such a mysterious and strange record, and an even more perfect way to lay to rest one of the strangest, most incredible, and under appreciated bands of the last two decades.
This deluxe reissue includes most of the original artwork, new liner notes, tons of rare photos, and tacks on a couple B-sides and a handful of unreleased jams, but even without those extras, this collection gathers up one of the most beautifully baffling and bafflingly brilliant bodies of work from one of our favorite groups of the last 20 years. And while we did our best with the above review, it's hard to stress just how utterly recommended and essential this really is!
And vinyl folks, while the whole set was not pressed on vinyl, the two proper albums were, so both The Unexamined Life and The Emotional Plague are available on vinyl (deluxe double lps to boot!) for the first time EVER.
Super limited tape from these two noisy Texas outfits. Haints deliver some seriously sick, feedback drenched noise rock pummel, all downtuned dirgery laced with distorto sung/spoken vox, over rib cage rattling, bass-heavy churn, some weird samples too. Reminds us of that classic pigfuck sound, the sort of thing we we're digging from our favorite bands back in the day, a la Homestead / AmRep records...
Sure are a pretty good match, with the same basic template, but their sound is a bit less noisy and knuckle draggy, more druggy and droney, an old school dirge/noise rock but spaced out, with some Sonic Youth-y guitar noise, shards of feedback, and chiming chords. All wrapped around some reverb heavy, distorted mumble mouthed vocals. Plenty noisy, but with loads of spaced out echoey slow burn psychedelic jammage, swaggery, a little bit swampy, a twisted noise rock / psych-blooz hybrid that sounds a lot like some lost Aussie post punk combo. Killer stuff from both bands. And Sur has another tape on Sleeping Giant Glossolalia which we'll review soon too...
We didn't know too much about Surachai, or his record Plague Diagram, but from the way it was described to us, as a one man electronic / metal outfit, whose sound was equal parts black metal, doom metal, powernoise and avant garde, we were sorta convinced it would be right up our alley (and yours), and now that we're finally hearing this stuff, we're pretty sure we were right.
The metal sounds remind us of the more mechanical / industrial groups like Godflesh and Pitchshifter, the sound churning and chugging, the rhythms, precise and clinical, hard to tell if it's a real drummer or a machine, but it hardly matter, this is some serious heavy, downtuned crush, and even in the first track, there are hints that this is more than just a metal record. Little stutters here and there, chirps and glitches and squelches, subtle at first, before eventually, the metal dissipates, leaving a weird bit of black ambience, all bleating horns, looped low end, hazy shifting drones, fluttering backwards effects, gradually growing more and more abstract and tripped out, before giving way to the second track, which opens with a flurry of soft chaos, machine like rhythms erupt as do buzzing riffs, those bleating horns seeming to still be present, underpinning the relentless chug, the vocals harsh and howled, the arrangement mathy and precise, and then again, out of nowhere, the song splinters, and is barraged by strange electronics, mysterious sound effects, before slipping into another expanse of ambient drift, all muted distorted glitch, heaving low end melodies, all strangely cinematic.
The rest of the record plays out similarly, a churning and chugging electronic flecked metal gradually decays eventually leaving some sort of glitched out sonic shadow, a tangle of dense pulses and layered shimmer, of staticky squelches and grinding blackened melodies, the final few minutes of the record maybe our favorite, a strange sort of slowed down demonic IDM, all chirps and hisses and whirring, that gives way to an almost Aphex Twin sort of melodic drift, albeit just a bit twisted and slightly atonal, sounding a bit like a demonic Christmas Carol, before gradually being overtaken by another squall of black buzz.
Includes lots of strange guests: Richie Devine, Nordvargr, Otto Von Schirach and others, and is pretty nicely packaged, pressed on 180 gram clear vinyl, housed in a thick PVC plastic sleeve, with a printed insert and a sticker. LIMITED TO 500 COPIES.
Most of us went to see Surf Nazis Must Die back in the day (the day being 1987) based entirely on the movie title, and the awesomely over the top poster which featured a a nazi with a machine gun in one hand, his other hand a metal claw, on a surfboard, pierced by a chainsaw, riding a wave, about to land on a terrified bikini clad beach bunny on another surfboard, the beaches burning in the background, with the legend: "The beaches have become battlefields... The waves are a warzone!"
Who could resist? Certainly not us. Although it's been a while, but if memory serves, the plot was pretty goofy, like most Troma movies. An earthquake destroys the West coast, neo nazi surf punks battle for control of the beaches, but when a boy is killed, the boy's grandma breaks out of her nursing home for REVENGE! It got a rating of 1.5 stars on IMDB, and 1 star on Rotten Tomatoes, but we remember it being pretty funny. What we did NOT remember was the soundtrack, which has never been available until NOW. And you would think a Troma movie from the eighties would have an appropriately cheesy soundtrack, you might be surprised by John McCallum's score, which is very creepy and synthy, a little bit John Carpenter, a little bit Tangerine Dream, swirls of synth buzz, and moody minor key melodies, some squiggly FX. Lots of the tracks are tense and driving, that very classic 'chase scene' sound, with programmed drums, the vibe sort of soundtracky but new wavey, for sure Carpenter fans, and folks who've been digging this new renaissance of retro-synth music, will flip for sure, even without seeing the movie. And while that original poster was so cool, the new artwork is pretty bad ass, a huge chrome skull, floating in a blue sky over the Pacific Ocean, above two crossed surfboards (skull & crossboards?), with the legend: "Welcome To California"...
LIMITED TO 800 COPIES, housed in nice thick jackets, with new liner notes from McCallum, the director, and various crew members. The new artwork was done by McCallum too!!
SoCal New Wave surf music for mooks raised on Cream Magazine. Featured Dennis Dragon from The Dragons. Inane.
SoCal New Wave surf music for mooks raised on Cream Magazine. Featured Dennis Dragon from The Dragons. Inane.
A bit of a surprise, this here record. Folks from Yume Bitsu and Landing (two bands I think are ok, but not any big deal) have pitched in and come up with this little gem. Epic space rock full of dark drones and shimmering washes of My Bloody Valentine-ish
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 cosmic psych rock ensemble (which features folks from Yume Bitsu and Landing) and it continues their entropic quest for transcendental enlightenment via wah wah pedals, big amps and long, long songs. This is some druggy, space-y, droney, stretched out, blissed out, EPIC shit. This is like Hawkwind played by indie kids, a punk rock Tangerine Dream, a more dreamy Comets On Fire. You get the picture. Noodly guitars are stretched out over droning organs, slowly building into monstrous slabs of psychedelic swirl and heady heaviness. Krautrock rhythms demarcate loose fields of strum and twinkle, inducing hypnotic head nodding and stretched out serenity. PLUS, the record is called Dragyyn AND there's a picture of a dragon on the cover AND the inside text tells the whole Surface Of Eceyon and Dragyyn mythology AND the bands line-up is identified as Seabearde, Lyfeforce, Sephryn, Dragyyn, and Eceyonic Man. I mean, c'mon! If I smoked pot, I would definitely pop this in my boombox, get a bunch of weed, and go lay on top of a hill looking for dragon shaped clouds and trying to figure out the meaning of everything.
MPEG Download: "Stolen Wind" [/audio/surfaceofstolen.mp3]
MPEG Stream: "Stolen Wind" [/audio/surfaceofstolen.m3u]
This legendary document of nineties New Zealand noise/drone rock, originally released on Bruce Russell's (Dead C) Corpus Hermeticum label has finally been rescued and reissued by the fine folks at Utech, and it's strange that a 15 year old record sounds so right at home amongst the rest of the Utech catalog, but it does, which either speaks to the curatorial genius of Utech, or the extreme sonic vision of the guys in Surface Of The Earth. Most likely both!
Fans of this era of New Zealand underground rock are no doubt familiar with these guys, in fact, lots of folks out there probably already own this, but for those who don't, this is some glorious, Dead C style drone-noise soundscapery, thick billowing expanses of humid guitar drone, lots of clatter and crunch, static and hiss, voices, amp buzz and various sonic detritus that most bands would do everything in their power to get rid of, but for Surface Of The Earth and other NZ bands at the time, the lo-fi-ness was as much a part of the sound as the sound itself. No pretenses, no bullshit, this was music for music's sake, organic, personal, and intimate, this was sonic creation, and everything involved in that creation was worth including on tape. Modern slo-mo drifters like Earth and Barn Owl and the like owe these guys a huge sonic debt whether they realize it or not.
These sprawling smoldering dronescapes are epic and majestic yet still strangely minimal, tones laid out like thick sheets of black fog, the sound alternatingly warm and liquid, lush and layered, or dark and crumbly, distorted and detuned, this stuff takes the whole guitar-against-the-amp thing to another level, not so much playing the guitars as coaxing the sound out, in fact in many ways, the player seems to be removed from the equation. Unlike with most bands, where the physicality of the playing is inexorably linked to the sounds produced, Surface Of The Earth, seem to toil behind the scenes, they are musical alchemists, more concerned with producing these magical mysterious sounds than 'rocking', it's hard not to imagine these guys set up in some huge dimly lit space, not all robed like SUNNO))), no dry ice, no colored lights, just these shadowy figures, hunched over their instruments, lit only by the little red light on their amplifiers, ghostly figures creating these ghostly sounds, surprisingly physical sounds that have weight, and heft, modern NZ guitardroners like RST are obviously channeling the spirit of SOTE, worshipping at the altar these guys constructed 15+ years ago, and left as a monument to these very sounds. Multiple guitars pealing in a dark room, creating black clouds of sound, warm and whirling, dense and hypnotic, peppered now and again with some synths, or some walkie talkies, or some other random noisemaker, but those moments are subtle, and are as likely to slip by unnoticed, it's really all about the guitars, and 'the sound', the energy and emotion, the power of these sounds, listening to this stuff again, it definitely puts the current crop of guitardrone wannabes in perspective. Like anything, it's easy to do, but to do well, there has to be some magic involved, and this stuff is truly magical. Dark, ritualistic, dreamlike drone magic. Awesome.
Incredible packaging, a thick fold out heavy black paper jacket, embossed with the record's original artwork, inside a printed black and white insert. Limited to 500 copies.
Boy has this been tough to keep in stock. For weeks now, we've been trying to order enough to list, but EVERYONE was out of it (the vinyl is still AWOL, being repressed we think). Makes sense as they were another one of those super hyped, next big thing bands, but these guys happen to be one of those rare bands who might even deserve it. Check out record opener "Floating Vibes", it's like a warped garage pop surf rock hybrid of the Beach Boys and XTC, with plenty of Pavement style nineties indie rock goodness mixed in. A little Weezer too. And these guys take all those influences, and shape them into something special, definitely retro and WAY beholden to much of what came before, but really what isn't, and these guys are good enough to transform those borrowed sounds into something both warm and familiar but also weirdly original, the songs are sprawling, lots of parts, tons of harmonies, even strings and flutes. Back to the opening track, crunchy riffage gives way to warm washed out woozy loping pop, with a soaring bridge / chorus, all tangled guitar leads, and slippery chords, which in turn gives way to a cool hand clap, twangy guitar, ooooohs and aahhhhs bit of ethereal drift, before exploding into soaring psychedelic pound, and then back again.
But hell that's just one song. Check out "Swim", which pushes the same buttons that recent Smith Westerns record did, all reverbed hazy harmony vocals, warm crunchy guitars, chiming bells, a killer hook, plenty of fuzz and haze and jangle, some pretty perfect pop for sure, total Weezer / Beach Boys worship, but with some surprising little melodic tangles and some almost African sounding almost-grooves, that might even appeal to the Vampire Weekenders.
But Astro Coast is way more than its influences, or some chunk of hipster flavor-of the-moment, Pitchfork approved indie rock, much more, the record throughout remains hazy and a little psychedelic, a LOT jangly, but drifts all over the place, from hushed harmonic shimmer, to shuffling dream pop, to total surf garage crunch, to old school nineties style smart pop, all tangled guitars and clever lyrics, soaring vocals, slipping easily into gorgeous falsettos, acoustic guitars draped over big booming drums, effects swirling and swooping, all manner of subtly employed studio-as-instrument filigree, all of that and incredibly and impossibly catchy songs too, which, after listening to this non stop for the last month or so, has us convinced that these guys really should be the next big thing. Definitely a new favorite around here...
THIS IS CURRENTLY OUT OF PRINT OR OTHERWISE UNAVAILABLE TO US AT THE MOMENT, SO PLEASE DO NOT ORDER IT. SORRY.
SORRY.
The second full length from these fuzzy popsters. A few years back they were being touted as the next big thing, and we were totally on board, their debut Astro Coast was a BIG favorite around here, and the song "Floating Vibes" from that record was reason enough alone to love it, one of THEE greatest pop songs in recent memory, one that ended up on almost every pop mix made since. And we gobbled up the Tarot Classics inbetweener ep, hungry for more Surfer Blood, and before we got to listen to this new one, we read tons of terrible reviews, slagging it for all manner of different reasons, so we were prepared to be disappointed, but in fact, it's so far from disappointing, in fact, we've been digging it like crazy. It IS a whole different best though. That first record was so meticulously crafted, a dizzyingly perfect blend of Pavement and the Pixies and the Beach Boys and XTC, the production seamless and so polished, and as much a part of the sound as the songs themselves, and it worked for sure, but this new one finds Surfer Blood sounding much more like a proper band. And it sounds like they're having fun, and like these songs might sound EXACTLY the same live as they do on the record, which we have to admit, we imagined might not be so true of record number one.
The vocals are the first change you notice, we're not sure if it's still the same vocalist, but this time around he sounds just like the guy from the Smoking Popes (who in turn sounds like Morrissey, and if you've never heard the Smoking Popes, trust us when we tell you that a pop punk band with killer songs and a vocalist who sounds like Morrissey is tough to beat!). The music too, is much more simple, and more classically indie rock, fuzzy distorted guitars, plenty of jangle, simple bouncy drumming, killer hooks, really nice organs and synths to fill the sound out, less weird than that first one, but for what it lacks in weirdness, it more than makes up for with some killer songs, that have been stuck in our head like crazy, some sound like they're made for the trailer of some romantic comedy, others like they're the deep cut you put on a mixtape for that elusive crush, others are peppered with rad shrieked screamo-y vocals, some are shuffly and strummy and almost folky, and others get seriously noisy and psychedelic. This week's list is loaded to the brim with new favorites for sure, and you can add this one to the list.
Surfer Blood's debut Astro Coast, was easily one of our favorite pop records of 2010, due in no small part to the opening track, "Floating Vibes", which has to be one of our all time favorite pop jams, jangly surfy, fuzzy, catchy as all get out, so much so that we spent wholly half the review of that first record just talking about that one song, although we did stress that the rest of the record was in fact nearly as good. We played that record to death, its weird mix of Pavement, Beach Boys, XTC, Weezer and that classic eighties pop sound, something we never seemed to tire of, easily some of the catchiest, jangle pop we'd heard in ages, the sort of smart pop, that few bands can pull off anymore. So we were anxious for a new record, and were so psyched to discover this had just come out, and while it's not a proper new album, it is four new songs (and two remixes) which is more than enough to hold us over until the next record. And while there may not be a "Floating Vibes", opener "I'm Not Ready comes close, with all the things we loved about the first record still firmly in place, the production a little more polished, but for the most part, these songs sound like they could have been plucked from the same sessions. The second track "Miranda", sounds like it could be an Ovens song, if it were about two minute shorter, the same sort of impossibly hooky classic power pop, plenty of jangle and crunch, and some really great vocals, slipping effortlessly into the higher registers, that song leads right into "Voyager Reprise", which is another pop gem, these guys have their shit down, their own secret formula, that seems to make all their songs crazy catchy, and totally irresistible, which is also the case with "Drinking Problem", which is the weirdest track here, all low slung new wave bass, strange percussion, sort of funky drumming, a woozy high end melody, and echoey vox, the new waviest of the bunch, which we'd proclaim our fave, if we weren't digging the other tracks just as much.
The remixes are sort of throwaway, fun, but not super essential, the first one turns "Voyager Reprise" into a housey electro pop groove, while the second transforms the already dark "Drinking Problem" into a funky chunk of fuzzy dirgey gloom pop.
Nope, don't let the name fool you (as it did me)! Although they certainly are a surf band, this group is definitely not from the former Soviet Union. Surfing USSR are a trio from *surprise* New Zealand who play a disarming blend of surf and klezmer. Armed with the basics - guitar, bass and drums - they rally through 16 songs. Most are based on traditional klezmer tunes although you wouldn't guess it from the titles ("Underage Disco"? "Rock Out"?), but a few are... not. They also tackle the over-tackled "Secret Agent Man", as well as Fred Frith's "You Are What You Eat" and a warbly vibrato guitar-laden "007 Medley" that just might amuse Mr. John Barry. Overall? Kooky and slightly intoxicated fun.
"Intelligent techno", I guess, from a guy best known to us for his Mogwai remix...
Super limited tape from this local one man band, who traffics in a sort of folk flecked lo-fi acoustic blackened ambience, all darkly strummed acoustic guitars, shimmering synths, spidery melodies, disembodied voices, whirling atmospheres, the sounds wreathed in reverb, everything just a bit warped and woozy, reminds us a bit of an acoustic ambient version of German black metal weirdos Varghkoghargasmal, a stumbling bit of windswept kosmische drift, that slips easily from hushed mesmer to urgent tension, the sounds unfurling dramatically and cinematically, occasionally slipping into long expanses of spare and sparse, almost chamber music sounding minimalism, but just as often a sprawling bit of chiming strum that sounds like a black metal interlude that blossomed into a full song, lots of soft focus haze and warm tendrils of tape hiss, while the guitars emit soft melodic tangles and blurred gauzy ambience.
LIMITED TO 100 COPIES. Each one hand numbered.
Folks went a little crazy for the debut tape from this one man black metal band, enigmatically called Surt, who trafficked not so much in black buzz and a sort of haunting folky ambience, all blackened and mysterious, we could barely keep those tapes in stock, and we were all ready to review this second tape, when he sort of disappeared, and the tapes got harder and harder to restock. But since we were left with FIVE copies of tape #2, we figured we'd list it, so at least a few of you who dug the first tape could get your hands on this one.
And just like the first one, the sound of Surt remains, folky and ritualistic, some sort of subterranean Appalachia, mostly steel string guitar, lots of echo and reverb, the sound rhythmic and cyclical, mesmerizing and repetitive, all over a backdrop of subtle swirl and hushed ambient shimmer, the sound slipping from strident and urgent to hushed and drifty and psychedelic, swaddled in swirling barely there synths, giving it a distinctively kosmische vibe for sure.
These are limited to 100, hand numbered, but as we mentioned above, we have five copies, and not sure if we can ever get more, so grab one while you can...
Super limited split, on local tape label Brotherhood Of Light, featuring one man black ambient alchemist Surt, who we've featured before on the aQ list, and who just so happens to be the man behind the BoL label, here teamed up with Austrian ambient soundscaper Uruk Hai. As might be expected, the packaging is very abstract and minimal, the track listing non existent, so it's hard to figure out which tracks are which, but it hardly matters, the sound a brooding, synth heavy shimmer, a sprawling warm blackness, slowly unfurling minor key melodies, all hazy and gauzy and washed out, sinister and ominous, but with a mysterious warmth, the vibe a little bit medieval too, reminding us in places of aQ fave Dark Ages, with majestic chordal swells, giving way to haunting medieval melodies.
The flipside (again, not to sure which is which), is a much more melodically dense affair, lush tangles of melody, distorted and blown out. grinding low end, heaving swells of crumbling synths and spidery melodies, a churning, dense slow motion wall of sound, that drifts from hushed near shimmer to caustic black ambient crush, the tones pulsing and pulsating, overtones galore, a dizzying swirl of abstract psychedelic ambience, that is ultimately more avant experimental than black ambient. Killer stuff!
LIMITED TO JUST 66 COPIES!! Each one hand numbered.
Ikuus is the full length debut from this one man experimental black metal 'band' from Finland, although calling it black metal might be a stretch, cuz like much of the black metal from Finland, Suruni's sound is beholden to so much more than blast and buzz, in fact, the majority of the record is spent drifting, jangling, creepy, swirling, it's definitely raw and lo-fi, and the vibe is haunting and mysterious, but it's more a sort of stumbling avant gloom rock, with plenty of clean guitars, distorted drumming, and when the buzz does come in, like on the opener, it doesn't so much transform the sound into something blacker, as add more moodiness, the buzz more diffuse and atmospheric, the sound lumbering back and forth between a spidery almost Slint-like lope (right down to the whispered vocals), to something more distorted and blown out, replete with some aching, almost bluesy leads, and the vocals, when they finally do come in, a distant howl, all the sounds blurring and bleeding into a glorious, almost psychedelic and chaotic whole. And that's just the first track. If we had to whip up some band math, we might take Varghkoghargasmal's 'wooden metal' and the slow doomed out experimentation of another Finnish favorite of ours Opium Warlords, but then with some twisted poppy jangle, a la Circle Of Ouroborus, and even some metalgaze, as much of this does have that sort of sun dappled, blissed out vibe, not to mention samples and field recordings.
The second track is another hushed sprawl of mesmerizing minimalism, all simple clean guitar strum, and stumbling skeletal drumming, and again, there's some blackened buzz, but like the first track, all it does is add texture and density, if anything, the sound gets even prettier, laced with more aching leads, and more ethereal atmosphere.
That said, there is some black buzz scattered throughout, but then there's also HARMONICA!!! Some tracks devolved into punky blackened plods, others blossom into hushed heartfelt shimmers, and some, like the twisted "Akana", sound like some sort of harmonica driven sea shanty, albeit one wrapped in sheets of gristly distorted guitars. But it seems always, the sound eventually settles into that haunting, gloomy, almost post rock sound that opened the proceedings, it's easy to imagine lots of these tracks as part of the score for some experimental com in of age indie art film, you can picture Gummo like kids, wandering through forests, or living in run down trailer parks, the sound evocative and emotional, a black metal that seems mostly removed from the tropes of traditional BM, sonic and otherwise, instead, taking some of those elements and using them to craft a sound that's super unique, strangely introspective, and beautifully, beautifully strange.
