This week marks the welcome release of a few new albums by a few old AQ faves including this fine Bay Area combo Court & Spark (others include Matmos, Black Heart Procession, Jolie Holland, Enslaved and Longmont Potion Castle!). Hearts finds the band taking even more of a '70s classic country rock direction than on their 2004 album Witch Season (which was already knee deep in that vibe and sound). That said, somehow they've struck what in our opinion is a better balance between their earlier roughhewn selves and their more recent luminously polish recordings.
There are two types of songs on Hearts, although the differences are subtle shades of grey. There are the dark brooding soulful introspective numbers, with glistening guitars, lush instrumentation, and MC Taylor's velvety croon, much more polished now than whiskey soaked, but it definitely suits their constantly maturing sound. Then there are the slightly more rocking tracks, channeling the Eagles and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, with foot stomping rhythms and wah guitar. But even when the band is kicking up a rocking fuss, this is still more of a late night early afternoon stroll, definitely on the dark introspective side, all warm breezes and rustling leaves, looking inward with eyes cast earthward, hearts on sleeves, lumps in throats. So nice.
And if you're looking for a listening companion, this fits quite nicely alongside Calexico's most recent album Garden Ruin.
The long awaited debut from San Francisco's purveyors of epic and sweeping country rock heartbreak is finally here. If the Beachwood Sparks (last week's record of the week) can be likened to the bouncy and sunny side of The Byrds, all harmonies and jangle, then The Court and Spark represent The Byrds' dark side: melancholy murmur, stark and wintery, like the restless ghost of Gram Parsons, with echoes of Nick Drake and Townes Van Zandt.
TC&S produce perfectly bittersweet songs and spectral soundscapes constructed from plaintive piano, delicately plucked guitars and found sounds. A wash of sweet strings, organ hum and muted buzz, pedal steel and breathtaking harmonies. Epic and sweeping. Gossamer traces of sounds heard in dreams. Dobro, mandolin, banjo, and even glockenspiel. And then there's the voice, a deep and ragged drawl, rough and world weary. For fans of the abovementioned artists, as well as folks who like the Scud Mountain Boys, the Jayhawks, and Souled American.
Which reminds us, we should mention that this is being put out by our own Andee's fabulous tUMULt label, and it may well be the only other tUMULt release that will appeal to those who have been waiting for a follow-up to tUMULt's Souled American reissues, except of course, for the very broadminded!
With each release San Francisco's beloved Court & Spark seem to draw closer and closer to a smoooooth country rock (occasionally dangerously close to 'adult contemporary' territory) -- systematically smoothing out any and all perceptible rough edges. Some see this as a good thing, while others might view their progression as much less favorable, preferring there to be a little dust and grit on their lonesome country path. Don't want things to be too pristine now do we? That said, we've had many customers coming in saying they far prefer this new record to C&S's last full length Bless You which we described as being "practically perfect". But then a band full of perfectionists who spend several years recording their record, with an engineer who is also a perfectionist, well the results should be darn near perfect, right? And they pretty much are. Really, except for that urgency, the raw element, the roughness a lot of us loved and felt was an important part of the Court And Spark's sound. Which is fine, bands don't always stay angry, and their sound changes as they get more successful or have to struggle less or have access to more money and have more time to record. It's part of growing and maturing as a band. Now don't get us wrong, this is by no means a bad review, this is a positive review and Witch Season is an AMAZING record. Certainly the Court And Spark's songwriting has grown by leaps and bounds. As has the band's sound. Soaring and melancholic, sweet and smooth, lush and epic, gorgeously melodic and sonically dense. They truly are one of the best San Francisco bands of the moment, and certainly one of the most important bands currently exploring the whole modern country, post-no-depression sound. And as they grow, and shed their raggedy, rough around the edges, old skins, they will be exposed to more and more folks who will love this band. And we are truly psyched. We have always though they should be HUGE. But once in a while, we just want to hear Mike's voice crack, or a barely out-of-tune guitar, or a bit of their charmingly ramshackle past. But maybe that's just us.
Alt-country long before the term ever existed, these kings and queen of dreamy slower than slow, more bitter than sweet music have rarely strayed from the mellow path they've tread for over fifteen years. However, on 'Open' they venture into brief moments of almost psych/space-y territory and more upbeat tempos. Not sure if this is a good thing 'cause the Cowboy Junkies are at their
Back in 2004 D.W. Holiday released their third album Technical Difficulties, Under The Influence. At that time the core members Craig Clarke and Daniel Crowell made it known that they were going to become a two city musical entity with full bands performing under the same name in SF and Minneapolis. Now two years later they're ambitions carry on into the recorded realm with the gorgeous, shimmering, magical Fish And Flying Creatures. D.W. Holiday blossoms luminous like a deep sea jellyfish, bringing together sumptuous orchestral pop with slightly twee male vocals (a la Flaming Lips or Sparklehorse) and atmospheric shoegazerly guitar washes (like Spiritualized or Jesus And Mary Chain). So haunting and lovely! One thing though, while we're all for the insertion of incongruous elements, the odd IDM track that pops up halfway through the album seemed like a rather jarring interruption. Ah, but it is a minor bump in what is for the most part a languidly swirling shadowy affair.
Another transmission from the Dead Raven Choir, the work of a Polish ex-patriate Texan who calls himself Smolken. Followers will understand when we say that this falls into the sparse, dramatic folk half of his ouvre, rather than on the black metal noise folk side of things. Whispered, accented vox deliver the poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke, Hilaire Beloc, Charles Baudelaire, A.A. Milne and others over doleful strings and abstractly strummed guitar. Smolken seems to be a creepy, well-read Eastern-European version of Jandek, and he's a master of atmosphere, going totally over the top with minimal means. Every note played, and every hiss between notes, turns the blood colder. If an album could sound cursed, this is it.
Fans will of course pick this up, but if you haven't yet delved into Smolken's haunted sound-world, perhaps this is the one to try. For one thing, it's the man's first 'proper' cd after many cd-rs and tapes. And one of his best album titles too! The clincher, perhaps, is that aside from Smolken himself, the only other musician to appear on this recording is our friend, Jewelled Antler stalwart Glenn Donaldson (Thuja, Blithe Sons, Birdtree, Skygreen Leopards, etc.). Ever since, he's had a hollow look in his eyes and his beard seems paler and wispier... Or so we imagine.
There's quite a bit of tortured artist in the career of Deadboy's Dax Riggs. Even back in the nineties, fronting grind-glam-sludge lords Acid Bath, Riggs singlehandedly supplied the glam, a crooning superstar trudging through swamps of Eyehategod sludge and NOLA stoner doom groove. The combination was electric, ask anyone here how much we absolutely loved Acid Bath and their dark psychedelic tales of butterflies and codeine, death and broken hearts, told in haunting vignettes equal parts druggy acoustic dirge and crushing downtuned groove. It was only a matter of timee though before Riggs outgrew the confines of a metal band and thus was born the Agents Of Oblivion, a slow burning smoldering hard rock band, delivering intensely emotional ballads wrapped in thick guitars, incredible hooks, a sweetly psychedelic haze and Riggs' even more prominent velveety croon. Totally channelling the spirt of Bowie and Bolan, Riggs was a serpentine superstar, howling and cooing, above a thick rich web of warm groovy sound. But still, Dax Riggs Superstar remained an acquired taste, a completely underground phenomenon. The Agents splintered and Deadboy and The Elephantmen were born, the sound was nearly the same, some of the members too, as they self released another amazing record that sort of just disappeared. But now it's 2006 and Deadboy is reborn, as a two piece, the Elephantmen replaced by Riggs's girlfriend Tessie Brunet, and on Fat Possum of all labels, which makes absolutely no sense until you hear We Are Night Sky. The record starts off with a wild rock stomp, equal parts the White Stripes and labelmates the Black Keys, with Riggs' voice swooping all over the place over an impossibly hooky riff, and lots of strange start stop dynamics. At first we were a little bit bummed, this was NOT at all what we wanted from Riggs at all, but the more we listened, the more we got sucked in and now that track is an everyday play. The record definitely veers back into classic Riggs / Agents territory after that with delicate acoustic guitars, hushed vocals, Brunet's sweet harmonies in the background, each track a psychedelic swirl, all drifty and druggy and folky and oh so lovely. But before you know if, a fuzzed out riff kicks in and we're back to serious blown out bloooz rock territory, huge swaths of swaggering Stripes / Keys / Crows rock and rhythm and bluees, always with that distinct NOLA stoner groove, no matter how subtle, we can tell it's there, muted murky riffs explode above Tessie Brunet's simple solid drumming as her sweet understated background vocals balance Riggs all out histrionics. The whole record continues to sway back and forth dizzily, between Riggs' two distinct musical personalities, his big, foot stomping guitar flailing rock Hyde, and his druggy gentle folky strum Jeckyl, both equally appealing. Still dark and druggy and warped for sure, but just accessible enough to give all those hippy rockers into the Black Crowes and the Black Keys and all day festivals something a little bit weirder and a little bit harder to stick in their ears!
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About two hundred miles north east of Chicago lies the town of Livonia, Michigan - the home of Warn (Warren) Defever (who you may have heard in such bands as His Name Is Alive and Princess Dragon Mom). While members of the Chicago "avantgarde" have been mimicking John Fahey of late, this Livonian takes on the tradition represented by the Anthology of American Folk Music box set by writing antiquated folk songs complete with really shitty production (which is ALL treble) and an excessive amount of fake surface noise to add to the "authenticity" of the record. While DeFever's songwriting on this isn't quite at the level reached by the best of HNIA's 'pop' songs, this is still quite quite an amusingly divergent take on the alt.country phenomenon.
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Dieselhed's 4th album is a sweet collection of all of the slow songs and ballads that have become their well loved standards in their live sets, yet have not made their way onto tape until now! Their 'real life' catalog of straightforward, quotidian lyrics about life in Eureka, drunken mishaps on Alaskan fishing boats, lap dancing, etc... are perfectly complemented by twangy, melodic hooks and stunningly sublime harmonies worthy of comparisons to Louvin Brothers and Lennon-McCartney. One of Windy's all-time favorite bands.
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One of San Francisco's best bands breaks out with their 3rd full length, a little more twang and slow and a little less rock than their previous work but JUST AS GREAT. We can't stress enough how rewarding a close reading of Virgil and Zack's lyrics can be ("Is that paint, I can't tell / A white square where a picture fell"). And don't forget to wait for the last hidden track, "Yoga Instructor").
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PLEASE DO NOT ORDER IT.
My favorite local band has come the closest to recreating the glory of their live shows! All the recent favorites are here: "Brown Dragon" (which everyone thinks is the "Station Wagon Song"), "Pizza Box," "Wedding Song," "John the Butcher Boy," "Snow Blind in the Liquor Store." Bonus: all the lyrics are printed on various casks and teapots. Guests include "Neckhead" (Bungle's Trey Spruance) and Ralph Carney. The lyrics to "Forklift Test," one of Dieselhed's more epic songs are so brilliantly mundane: > this guy at work he just bought > a revolutionary car part. > it's called the ionizer and it reverses the electrical charge > as the gas hits the carb. > well he tried to sell me one > even though i did not have a car.
Okay, it might seem weird us having this, the newest Dixie Chicks record. But don't be afraid, this is actually pretty dang good. Lush modern country, great instrumentation, gorgeous harmony vocals. Fans of the Be Good Tanyas, Jolie Holland, and other ladies of the country might really dig this. Plus by now, unless you're living under a rock you know their politics are right on! And it's produced by Rick Rubin!
This is a split release between two Jagjaguwar Records artists that features all new songs, however it was released by the Spanish label Acuarela Records. Canadian indie fave Julie Doiron offers up some incredibly intimate home recordings that alone are worth the price of admission. She gently strums her acoustic guitar and sings/murmurs five delicate, heartbaring songs. Doiron's companion on this cd is the Austin, TX based band Okkervil River with four songs of their own. Their vocals are of the plaintive, untethered kind that brings to mind Jeff Mangum or John Darnielle. They're backed by some fine rootsy banjo, violin, and guitar. Nice!
MPEG Stream: JULIE DOIRON "The Sweetest Eyes (When You Laugh)" [/audio/doironsweetest.m3u]
We got some olde style banjo storytelling here! It's sparse and earnest. Sort of dark and damaged, maybe even drunken. It's rythmically spastic, melodically sour. The vocals are atonal and a little out of rhythm, but absolutely endearing. A musical saw sweetens things up on "Nymph Du Prairie". This album's totally awesome! Features Al's brother, Andy Duvall (formerly of Zen Guerilla) on percussion.
It's all been leading up to this. In the early nineties, when most of us heard Earth for the first time, our minds were totally blown. What was that massive slab of fuzzy sludge doing on Sub Pop? Why didn't it sound like Soundgarden or Mudhoney or Tad? It didn't take long before we stopped asking questions like that and began wondering where the hell were all the other bands that sounded like Earth. Well, it took 10 years, but now that whole downtuned slow motion sludge thing is an actual genre. With more and more new bands popping up every day. All honoring the mighty sludge that was Earth. But those of you who were into Earth the first time around, might remember the band changing directions pretty dramatically, adding a drummer, and playing actual songs, even doing a Hendrix cover at one point, the Earth of old having mutated into a groovy sort of stoner post rock, propulsive swinging riffs, relentless chugging guitars, all wrapped in a druggy spacy swirl. Back then we were all a bit bummed out, as Earth became, well, more normal, at least to our ears. It was as close to selling out as Earth were liable to get.
Back to the present day. Recordings started popping up here and there, along with rumors of actual Earth shows, limited 7"s and tour only 12"s, all filling us with an impossible anticipation. Earth was back. But if they were back, why were all the recordings from live shows and all several years old? It made sense, the sound of the new Earth practically picked up right where they left off, stretched out, spaced out, druggy post rock with simple drumming and wavering distorted riffs, not heavy per se, but dark and dreamy and mesmerizing. But none of that could have prepared us for the desolate, sun baked, slow crawl, shuffle and twang beauty of long-awaited new studio album Hex. Definitely hewing closer to Earth's more recent post rockisms, Hex is warm and expansive, slow building and contemplative, with simple drums, heavily reverbed, not distorted, guitars, occasional lapsteel, the whole thing unfurling into a haunting twang, a ghost town desert lullaby, a Cormac McCarthy novel in song, tumbleweeds, miles of scrub and windblown landscapes, old dead trees, plenty of space for the cymbals to sizzle and each riff to drift into black clouded skies. Drone / doom / dirge / sludge purists (if there can be such a thing) may well be a bit disappointed, or at the very least confused. And Earth's history / reputation for black hole heaviness might be an albatross at this point as this new sound falls squarely within the territory of groups like Low, Codeine, Friends Of Dean Martinez, Calexico, Scenic, Torrez, Sixteen Horsepower, even Mazzy Star or Godspeed You Black Emperor. But ultimately none of that has anything to do with the fact that Hex is just simply beautiful. A dark and mysterious and truly haunting record. Huge swells of instrumental tension dissipate into warm washes of drift and shimmer, melodies are slowly uncoiling snakes, waking drowsily and slithering off sun baked rocks, every note and every drum beat, every slippery lapsteel swoop, every stretch of near silence, are all draped lazily over broken fences, fallen power lines, rusted out tractors, fallow fields. Dark clouds drift above, across a steel grey sky, sending small shadowy shapes scurrying across the landscape like mysterious creatures, the breeze is warm and smells of death and desolation. Every one is lost and alone, out of money, out of time, just waiting around to die. The mood is bleak, but the sound of Hex is so so beautiful. Somehow hopeful and full of joy, but the sort of joy that comes from being powerless and close to despair, and simply choosing joy over misery, finding happiness the way animals in the desert seek out moisture. The heart of Hex is heavy, the sound appropriately heavy as well, but in a way few conventionally heavy records can manage. A brooding, storm about to break, dam about to burst, soul about to loose itself from its earthly moorings and escape to a better place kind of heavy. The sound of the desert, and the human spirit, of death, of sadness and horror, of loneliness, of abandonment, of hearts breaking, lovers lost and drifting apart, of life. The sound of laying in the dry dirt, the breeze stretched across you like a moth eaten old blanket, eyes closed, the sun sending all sorts of shapes spinning behind your closed eyelids, memories becoming fuzzy and drifting away, your whole body and soul wrapped in a warm darkness, the world fading into nowhere, you fading into nothing.
You suckers without turntables get yet another temporary reprieve, as Ekkehard Ehlers' five lovely mini-albums, previously released only on vinyl, are here compiled onto one handy cd. And lovely is most certainly an understatement. This is some of the most gorgeous, sublime and moving electronic/glitch/sample based music we have ever heard. Sounds are completely recontextualised into cloudy, indistinct but somehow emotionally and sonically spot-on homages to some of Ehlers' influences. Falling somewhere between Stephen Mathieu and Oval, Ehlers adds remarkable depth and emotion to what is quite often a cold and clinical artform.
Tracks one and two are the "Plays Cornelius Cardew" lp and are lovely layered soundscapes as only Ehlers can conjure. Sampled sounds are seamlessly woven into dense, textural tone poems again highly reminiscent of Wolfgang Voigt's Gas. The second (track three and four) in the "Plays" series is a 'tribute' to the German beat poet Hubert Fichte. Where those previous tracks are dominated by ephemeral drone work with refined patinas of digital corrosion, this piece curiously sounds like Pole doing free jazz, with erratic squiggles of granular synthesized saxophone and really lazy strums from a guitar seeping up from an electronically sculpted metallic haze. Even those slowly developed basslines that Pole plops into his neo-dub show up in "Plays Hubert Fichte" although Ehlers disregards Pole's structuralism in favor of an amorphous improvisation of deep hovering movements. "Plays John Cassavetes" (tracks five and six) is part three in Ehler's series of 'tributes' and for these pieces he seamlessly weaves orchestral samples into beautiful landscapes of sonic reverberations. Very reminiscent of Wolfgang Voigt's work as Gas, or those brief, subtle moments of bliss found on My Bloody Valentine's "Loveless" record. Tracks seven and eight find Ehlers sampling fragments of Albert Ayler. However, as with most of these pieces, it is debatable as to how much Ayler is actually present on this recording, musically. Consisting entirely of digitally altered cello recordings, these two sidelong pieces gently swell, teeter and expand, forming beautiful, haunting drones that lie beneath digital snippets of arrhythmic ephemera. Somehow, Ehlers manages to restructure a mundane cello recording into a wonderfully reticular songpoem. The final two tracks are from the 'Plays Robert Johnson' 7" which we were never able to get enough of to list. Two short tracks: the first is an abstractly plucked, slow-motion, Reynols-on-cough-syrup style tarpit blues jam, while the final track is all throbbing four-on-the-floor Kompakt style minimal/heroin house.
Trust us, we plow through a lot of pretentious electronic crap that takes itself too seriously -- and while the conceit of the five Ehler tributes might suggest that he could fall into this trap -- he does not. Ehlers delivers, and you'll love this. We all do.
All-acoustic, gloomy folk music from this German "black metal" band, who have abandoned the raspy vocals and distorted electric buzzsaw guitars of their previous releases (we're guessing, haven't heard 'em) for mournful string strum and doleful chant. Allan thinks this is beautiful, Andee considers it 'renaissance faire metal' without the metal. For fans of "Kveldsjanger", the acoustic masterpiece by Norwegian black metal eccentrics Ulver (I'm guessing that Empyrium are). And, c'mon, how can you resist a song (and album) title like "Where At Night The Wood Grouse Plays"??
This new 37 minute release from psychedelic Philly folksters Espers isn't exactly their eagerly-awaited second album proper (which remains tantalizingly on the horizon). Instead, with The Weed Tree they offer up a sort of "teaser" disc that consists almost entirely of cover songs, with the only Espers original being the the grand and morose "Dead King" that closes the album. The covers include a couple of traditional tunes ("Rosemary Tree" and "Black Is The Color") alongside an eclectic but in the end utterly appropriate mix of material from the likes of the Durutti Column, Nico, Michael Hurley, and even Blue Oyster Cult. Although that might seem like a diverse bunch, in the hands of Espers these songs all do seem to belong together in one natural organism, the roots and branches and leaves of this Weed Tree. Echoing '70s artists like the Incredible String Band, Linda Perhacs and Vashti Bunyan, Espers' music (or here, their take on other people's music) is delicate and dreamy, sad but lovely acoustic folk with a lurking psych presence coming from the humming organ drones and acid guitar flashes... and these songs all lean heavily upon the band's sweet female vocals and harmonies.
Their folky, vaguely madrigal-like take on BOC's "Flaming Telepaths" builds into a freaked-out (but far from hard rock) climax, sounding the most of anything here like something from Espers member Greg Weeks' Awake Like Sleep album (beloved here at AQ). As are Espers themselves! Really nice. If you haven't heard Espers before, but like the other current acid-folk stuff happening such as Josephine Foster and Six Organs and Vetiver and P.G. Six and so forth, this would be a fine place to start! And of course fans will be pleased, as this helps tide us over until the true full-length follow up to their debut appears.
Newly issued on disc comes this John Fahey album from 1972. It was his first album for a major label and Fahey, one of the most genius guitarists of all time, wanted to bring in some musicians to augment his twanged out blues-based American style. The major
Nothing special about our Northern California city of Sebastopol compelled Jay Farrar to name his new album as such, he just liked the sound of it. With an array of new (for a geetar traditionalist like Farrar) instrumentation like Roland keyboards, tambura,
P.S. Gillian Welch and Kelly Joe Phelps guest.
While his former Uncle Tupelo co-frontman Jeff Tweedy's country rock roots have sprouted into exploratory pop blossoms, Jay Farrar has nurtured and honed his own, keeping them closer to the country trellis both in his band Son Volt and goin' solo. We (particularly Andee and Cup) have been waitin' and waitin' for him to make an album as good as (if not better than) that of his old band's -- an album worthy of his remarkable voice -- but neither his previous albums, Terroir Blues and Sebastopol, nor his ThirdShiftGrottoSlack ep, have been quite able to capture that elusive magic. This being a live album filled mostly with songs from those three solo releases means we're probably not going to find our Farrar fix here. That said, some of the live renditions do outshine the album versions. And as always that voice is still so rough and gorgeous. Nineteen songs including two new ones and a closing double-whammy of Pink Floyd and Neil Young covers. Includes a bonus live dvd.
Even though Jay Farrar was the better songwriter in Uncle Tupelo, and had THE VOICE that defined their sound, all whiskey soaked and gravelly, he has been totally eclipsed post-Uncle Tupelo by his ex-band mate Jeff Tweedy and his band Wilco, who have been critical darlings since day one, and over the last year or two have managed to win over the public as well, selling tons of records and having the tale of their label swapping debacle and their subsequent artistic and commercial triumph told time and time again. And actually it makes a lot of sense, as Tweedy's songwirting really blossomed once he was on his own and out from under Farrar's formidable songwriting shadow. While Farrar's work in Son Volt and on his solo records has lacked the spark that made his work in UT so intense. And unfortunately that continues to be kinda true...
Now, the sound is there. It always has been. Drifting and plaintive and melancholy with that gruff gorgeous voice. Unfortunately, there are no songs. And that's the problem. If you can get it into your head that this is not a pop record of actual songs, but an extended assembly of sounds, then it may be more satisfying for you. Slippery slide guitars pick out warbly melodies, alongside thick rich acoustic guitars and warm reverberant cellos. And again, there's that voice. And this release boasts some interesting production as well as a six part suite of spacy, experimental instrumental interludes scattered throughout, but all that just doesn't quite make up for the lack of CATCHY songs. But like I said, it does *sound* SO GOOD. I just desperately want Farrar to knock one out of the park the way Tweedy did with Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. I know it'll happen. And I'm willing to wait, 'cause I know it'll be worth it.
This five song EP from former Uncle Tupelo founder Jay Farrar is, well, okay. As in *just okay*, i.e. there's nothing that stands out as extraordinarily beautiful here -- none of the heartbreaking chord changes, the instantly hummable melodies, the abject naked emotion -- that made his previous quality work so memorable. Not even one great song to make the price of the disc worth it. It's a bummer; I mean he still plays a worthy, if slightly generic, brand of twangy Americana, but it isn't as vital or intense as before. So I say, if you're a fan, you'll probably want this, but if you're new to Farrar, Uncle Tupelo, or his post-Tupelo band Son Volt, then you should really start with any of the Uncle Tupelo records (Anodyne being my fave, but all are grrreat).
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Folks who witnessed Feathers opening for Vetiver and Espers a few weeks back, mentioned that they were one of the quietest bands that had heard. So much so, that a rock venue was hardly the best venue to witness their delicate beauty. While the band was here we managed to snag the last of this tour-only ep, a gorgeous self released, hand sewn and packged glimpse into their ethereal dark folk world. The first track is so quiet, it's like Feathers are whispering in your ear, the candlelight flickering, their warm breaths as loud as he barely strummed guitars. So lovely. The next two tracks are much more rambunctious, some seventies British style pagan folk, with Syd Barret like vocals and lots of druggy psychedelic filligree. The final track returns to the hushed beauty of the opening song, a dark dolorous minor key lament, with angelic vocals and haunting steel string guitars.
Packaged in a hand screened paper sleeve, sewn together with colored thread. Each and every one is unique.
THESE ARE THE LAST 30 COPIES. ONCE THEY ARE GONE THEY ARE GONE FOR GOOD!
A customer turned us on to this Vermont-based group who have quietly been making their own brand of druggy hippy psych folk, releasing loads of cd-r's and this here lp, and it seems like only a matter of time before the rest of the world catches on and they'll be psych-folk household names like Joanna Newsom and Devendra Banhart. Simple strummed guitars, sweet sweet harmonies, banjo and occasional acid fried guitars, simple and insistent tribal drumming, very reminiscent of seventies British folk a la Incredible String Band, Shirley Collins, even Comus (but not nearly as psychotic). However, they do occasionally wander down a darker path, exploring moody and minor key acoustic dirges, each one curiously ominous folky swirl beneath a brooding strum and thump. There's also an old timey element to Feathers, the tracks sound so old, but timeless at the same time, almost otherworldly (assuming the other world had banjos and folk music and record players) sounding a lot like sitting in a dusty room listening to old 78's.
Comes with a big poster of the band all painted up and luxuriating in the tall green grass.
A no-frills and super down to earth debut. As the title states this is a half dozen tunes from Bay Area folksy folks The Finches. The duo of Ms Carolyn Pennypacker Riggs and Aaron Morgan share the singin' and guitar playin' duties, and Morgan also handles the bass playin' too. Each of their songs is thoughtful, well-crafted and slightly rough around the edges much like Carolyn's lovely lino-cut cover art. Achingly intimate and pretty, and quite along the lines of folk-pop songstresses such as Cat Power or Julie Doiron. Nice!
The Flying Burrito Bros were formed in 1969 by Gram Parsons, dearly departed father of country rock whose legend is still growing ever larger as his influence continues to be felt. I could go on and on and on about what a genius Parsons was, but then this description would be pages long, and anyway Ben Fong-Torres already wrote a book about 'im (Hickory Wind: The Life and Times of Gram Parsons, highly recommended).
After leaving The Byrds, with whom he recorded just a single perfect album, Sweetheart of the Rodeo, Parsons formed the Burritos with ex-Byrd Chris Hillman and other compatriots. Though the Burritos have released many records since their inception, the only ones that Gram appears on are the first two, both of which appear here in their entirety (the "Train Song" single is also included here, making Sin City more complete than the other best-of comp, Farther Along). While the second Burritos album was in progress, Parsons starting hanging with Keith Richards and Mick Jagger, who let him record the stunning version of "Wild Horses" found here. He drifted away from the band (or was asked to leave). In 1971 and '72 he released the two flawless solo albums, GP and Grievous Angel, that sealed his reputation as legend. By 1973 he was dead.
The two Burrito Brothers albums, then, are essential to any Parsons fan's collection, as well as fans of country rock, and "No Depression"-style alt.country in general. The combination of catchy melodies, rollicking good humor, joyous twang, and solid rock backbone make these records essential listening. Get this now!
What a title! Don't know what the heck it means, but we love the sounds contained inside. Released on Jozef Van Wissem's Incunabulum imprint, this is a beautiful solo 12-string record by Chris Forsyth, Brooklynite multi-instrumentalist and founding member of Peeesseye (PSI). But this has a different approach to the solo guitar genre than we've heard before. Focusing on a restless back-porch style minimalism, Forsyth layers overlapping and slow repetitive cascades of mandala-like rhythms and patterns with subtly shifting melodic changes. Often undercut with organ drones, cymbal washes, and minimal percussion, the sounds unfold like intricate patterns of Oriental tapestry or Tibetan sand-paintings, captivating and mesmerizing us into circling and swirling trance-like states. Quite lovely and very limited!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
On their debut album, Frausdots thoroughly mine Echo & The Bunnymen's musical wardrobe, but they don their findings in a more elegant, lush scene than the Bunnymen's characteristic pit of brooding angst. Each song on Couture Couture Couture rings with that ol' overcast British melancholia that only the Brits can do. The odd thing is that Frausdots are from Los Angeles! Mainman Brent Rademaker (formerly of the wide-ranging bands Further, The Tyde and Beachwood Sparks) leads his well-heeled entourage that includes a typically L.A. eclectic guestlist (members of The Cure, The Tyde, Rooney, Warlocks, Brian Jonestown Massacre, and Mia Doi Todd) deep into the evening. And if you've a penchant for smoldering post-punk and latenight decadence, you'd do well to follow.
Paula Frazer first made a splash in SF in the early '90s in Frightwig and with her group Tarnation. Frazer's voice has always been her strong point, pleasantly fuzzy around the edges but also with a clear bell-like ring within, a lot like Loretta Lynn's twang. Folksy, country. These are four track recordings made at home accompanied by just acoustic guitar. Old songs and new, all very sweet and heartbreaking. Comes with three videos of Frazer simply playing in her house.
Here's the third fine full length from Ms Paula Frazer (also of Tarnation). We've mentioned before that her soaring vocal delivery brings to mind a female counterpart to Chris Isaak, and it still does. Seemingly effortless. She also continues to draw inspiration from various eras of Americana -- from the fluttering ruffles on the ladies' elegant gowns at the Grand Ol' Opry to '70s soft rock horns of bands such as Chicago -- bringing it all together under her own captivating umbrella and distinguishing it with the lush sounds Rhodes keyboards, pedal steel and some tasteful tambourine. She's assembled quite a luminous cast of players too including American Music Club's Marc Capelle, Court & Spark's James Kim and Scott Hirsch, the Moore Brothers, Oranger's John Hofer, and former Kronos Quartet cellist Joan Jeanrenaud.
THIS IS CURRENTLY OUT OF PRINT OR OTHERWISE UNAVAILABLE TO US AT THE MOMENT, SO PLEASE DO NOT ORDER IT. SORRY.
SORRY.
Reissue of early Freakwater alternative country lp.
THIS IS CURRENTLY OUT OF PRINT OR OTHERWISE UNAVAILABLE TO US AT THE MOMENT, SO PLEASE DO NOT ORDER IT. SORRY.
SORRY.
The sixth and fullest-sounding album from these Louisville-based country rockers. Achingly lush and lovely two-girl harmonies. Country fans will love this record!
THIS IS CURRENTLY OUT OF PRINT OR OTHERWISE UNAVAILABLE TO US AT THE MOMENT, SO PLEASE DO NOT ORDER IT. SORRY.
SORRY.
Their best album, start here!!
Janet Beveridge Bean from Eleventh Dream Day and Cathy Irwin. Their sweet voices chime together not unlike the Carter Family Singers.
The beloved old tymey alt-country duo of Catherine Irwin and Janet Bean reunite for their seventh full length. One thing we noticed right away, was that apparently when the ladies are "Thinking Of You" they're got a bee in their bonnet or a burr in their behind 'cause they're singing their hearts out with much more fervent gusto than ever before, delivering their hard luck and hard livin' lyrical tales with ample grit and poignancy. Backing the ladies up this time around are members of Califone who, while remaining wholly respectful of the pair's sound, bring enough of their own band's character into the mix to make for a refreshing combination. Fans of both bands should give 'er a gander!
While the last two Fruit Bats records were fairly pleasant slabs of folk flecked indie rock jangle, Spelled In Bones shows the band taking HUGE strides towards a bigger sound and better songs and a much more expansive sonic world. Described in almost every review as "the Shins meet Califone", The Fruit Bats have now managed to become more than that, definitely their own band, although the sonic referents to those two outfits certainly can't be ignored. Vocalist Eric Johnson's voice is eerily similar to the Shins' James Mercer, but where Mercer's vocals tend toward the ebullient and poptastically bombastic, the music following suit, Johnson tends toward the more melancholy occasionally slipping into a perfectly lovely falsetto, all over delicate piano and strummed minor key guitar, the jangle muted and subtle, with lap steel filigree giving the proceedings a lush, countrified feel. Spelled In Bones is modern yet completely classic sounding Pop with a capital P, draped with bits of country here and there, little bits of bedroom folk too, but all contributing to the record's perfect popiness. Songs so lilting and hooky you won't be able to get them out of your head. The sound of the Beatles is everywhere on this record for sure, but so is the sound of the Posies, the Wings, Iron And Wine, Broken Social Scene, Red Red Meat, Death Cab For Cutie, and yeah, even the Shins and Modest Mouse. So so good.
Full length number five follows hot on the heels of number four, but unlike the dreamy poppiness of 'Couples In Trouble' with its melancholy twang and wistful sentiments, '13 Hillbilly Giants' shows Fulks returning to his position as No Depression's bad boy
Chicagoan Robbie Fulks, here with his fourth full length album, makes the leap from the country troubadour's lonely road to much broader horizons, as many of the songs on this album remind me of non-country folks as diverse as Nick Lowe (Fulks' voice is
The Bay Area gent known as Levi Fuller crafts somber elegant folk in league with Low, Black Heart Procession, Sixteen Horsepower, Red House Painters and Mountain Goats. Fans of any/all of those artists very well could find themselves taking quite a shine to the slow smoldering beauty of This Murder Is A Peaceful Gathering. An earth-toned tapestry of strummy acoustic guitar, sinewy electric guitar textured with unexpected percussive and atmospheric elements.
Another day, another rare sixties pop-psych reissue with quite a bit of collector cachet... that is also pretty darn great! First time on cd for this Eddie Vartan-produced 1969 LP, wonderfully dreamy and baroque and folky and orchestrated. Lots of languid, lazy-day la, la, la's here!
Talented, curly-haired singer-songwriter Nick Garrie was youthful, peripatetic, and quite cosmopolitan (you can tell from his lyrics, referencing all corners of Europe). He had a Scottish mother, a Russian father, and was raised in both France and England, calling Paris his home at the time this record came out. Though nowadays it gets compared to the work of Nick Drake, Billy Nichols, Peter Sarstedt, Bill Fay, and others of note, due to music biz circumstances beyond Nick's control, it immediately sank into obscurity upon initial release. But now thanks to Rev-ola it's been reissued, complete with extensive liner notes, track-by-track commentary by Nick himself, and seven bonus tracks including his fantastic and even harder to find than the LP 1968 single "Queen Of Spades" b/w "Close Your Eyes" (the B-side of which you may have already heard on the Nightmares at Toby's Shop compilation we listed last year). Great stuff for fans of UK popsike like Kaleidoscope.
THIS IS CURRENTLY OUT OF PRINT OR OTHERWISE UNAVAILABLE TO US AT THE MOMENT, SO PLEASE DO NOT ORDER IT. SORRY.
SORRY.
From out of nowhere comes this wonderful new record from the leader of Giant Sand (who also spawned Calexico). This is dark, melancholy, stripped-down angular country. Really beautiful. Kind of like a less goofy Giant Sand. Highly recommended.
You never know what to expect from Giant Sand's Howe Gelb, but if you are going to board his musical caravan, you gotta know you're in for quite a ride. Roaming the musical landscape freely, sometimes the unexpected turns he takes may leave you scratching your head. Definitely one to always follow his muse, and the results - although frequently quite puzzling - are seldom a disappointment. On the surface, many of the songs appear to be very "normal", skillfully executed smoky lounge or dinner jazz or desert twang, but allow the music to sink in a bit further and gradually those distinct Gelb nuances and eccentricities reveal themselves. They manifest as subtle details, a slightly tweaked vocal effect or texture creeping just under the surface. Like an image in a slightly distorted mirror, the music is ever-shifting (in style, tempo, instrumentation, mood), casting light into the shadows, twisting perceptions. Gelb's deeeep, sedated vocals only furthers the emotional and cerebral slip. Often very stream of consciousness, he veers off on tangents about Lou Reed (on "Felonious" and does a remarkably convincing Reed impression, we might add!), scoops lyrics from the song "Lean On Me" (on "B 4 U") and slips into an odd Hazlewood/Sinatra-esque mode (on "Torque"). Intriguing, inspiring and a listening pleasure.
It's been a few years, Mr. Gelb, we've sure missed you! Your new album is absolutely wonderful, and not just because you've got Neko Case, M. Ward and Isobel Campbell on board this time around... although that definitely sweetens the deal!
Each of the thirteen songs slowly unwinds in the dusk hour shadows with the ever enigmatic Gelb occasionally bringing to mind a southwest desert sun-baked Leonard Cohen. While he definitely pulls out a few classic Giant Sand twangy eccentric yarns (particularly late in the album - "Belly Full Of Fire" and "Saturated Beyond Repair"), overall Provisions seems to be his most mellow, straightforwardly melodic and song structured work to date. Even when he drifts off into the downright cryptic and bizarre, the raw emotion and poetry of his music somehow still speaks straight to the heart. Some of the album's best moments feature are the most bare bones with just voice and piano ("Spiral"). Wow. You might recall the short lived superb collaboration that took place many years ago between Gelb, Lisa Germano, and Calexico's Joey Burns and John Convertino. OP8 was its name, and Slush was the title of their amazing album (it's still one of Cup's all time top faves!). Of any of the albums that the individual artists have released since, this new Giant Sand full length comes the closest to capturing that magic (albeit with different parties involved).
And attention all you new Calexico fans picking up the latest album from those fellow Arizonans, time for a little history lesson! Burns and Convertino were members of Giant Sand prior to forming Calexico. If you haven't checked GS out yet, you are missing out! Some early GS albums may initially seem impenetrably strange and more of an acquired taste, but you don't wanna miss this album!
Most certainly highly recommended!
So peppery and full of vigor! Dare we say, such a whippersnapper! Jimmie Dale Gilmore's puttin' lads a third of his age to shame. They sure could learn a thing or two from this revered country music veteran. With his unmistakable voice in top form, he sounds absolutely terrific on Come On Back. Dedicated to his father, it's a collection of his renditions of thirteen country, honky tonk, and folk classics. The pace doesn't let up until the closing track, the solemn, deeply moving "Peace In The Valley". Inspiring and wonderful!
The Bay Area's Goat Family are sure kicking up some dust on Unstopperable. It's an off-kilter hillbilly jamboree filled with originals and covers of old classics like "Ring Of Fire", the rousing rais-a-pint "All For Me Grog" and you might recognize the number "Pick A Bale Of Cotton" from the front porch scene of the movie The Jerk!
It's always a little nerve wracking listening to a friend's record. Hoping that it's good so you don't have to hem and haw and eventually say something like "Wow...really interesting" or "Wow. Great guitar sound" or some other non-committal could-be-construed-as-saying-you-like-the-record sort of thing. So it's even more intense when it's someone's -first- record. But luckily, this time, there was no need to worry, 'cause this Golden Hotel record is a gorgeous, droney, space-y, drugged out psychedelic folk record. Golden Hotel is our customer Cayce (who has appeared in several of the AQ neighborhood films, he's the bearded fellow with the dog Cowboy) and his brother Sidney who is in AQ faves Torrez. And the Torrez connection definitely shows, with shimmery guitars and warm thick atmosphere, but the female vocals of Torrez are replaced with the brothers' rough but melodic warm warbly rasps and the sound is a little less lush and a bit more buzzing and immediate (plenty of instrument buzz, lip smacking, breathing). Warm swells of thick guitar wash over shimmering high end harmonics whirling quietly in the background as gently strummed acoustic guitar underpins delicate minor key melodies. Lots of stray sounds, varied instrumentation and production fuckery augment these ultimately simple folk songs, turning them into languid, stoned epics, with simple stumbling percussion, fuzzy far-away guitar, droning buzzing harmonies, pulsing underwater bass, and dreamy blissed out ambience. Definitely influenced by/reminiscent of Greg Weeks, Six Organs Of Admittance, Charalambides, Joshua, Songs:Ohia, Herman Dune, and other current practitioners of modern psych-folk. A great surprise and a fantastic record.
