The latest from Berlin's Sascha Ring aka Apparat hardly seems appropriate to what the layman might expect from a label called Shitkatapult. Warm, fragile, pretty electronica with many acoustic, human elements? Yes! If T. Raumschmiere (another Shitkatapult-related artist) represents the electronica version of loud rock n' roll, then Apparat is a pensive singer-songwriter. Not that Apparat doesn't bring the beats, this is definitely electronic music, even with guitars and clarinet and other instrumentation from the pre-Powerbook age. It's just that Apparat's glitchy, grainy 'lectronic textures give way to melodic quietude and ...gasp... sensitive, delicate indie-rock boy vocals. Autechre meets the Sea and Cake? An even more electronic Kid A? So nice.
Howe Gelb's solo and collaborative projects produce some of the most unpredictable, erratic music around -- running the arid desert gamut from expansive, trippy soundtrack compositions to intimate rough-hewn voice'n'guitar only numbers.
This themed album seems to be one of his most casual and off the cuff gatherings of musical friends. Gelb prefaces it mysteriously with the note "It's been 20 years since the Band Of Blacky Ranchette released its first record. This is the fourth in a series." The stellar guestlist includes Neko Case, Cat Power's Chan Marshall, John Convertino and Joey Burns of Calexico, Richard Buckner, M. Ward, Grandaddy's Jason Lytle, Jon Rauhouse, Dallas Good of the Sadies and Lambchop's Kurt Wagner. Along with the regular ol' studio-recorded songs, some of these recordings were captured in more unconventional locales: Howe Gelb's home, outside the Nashville International Airport (interrupted by a state trooper!), in an unspecified location in Austin TX, as well as "somewhere in Germany". This may be seen as a "sum is less (not greater) than its parts" collaborative collection. Most appearances are so brief, you barely have a chance for them to register. If you're looking for songs more indicative of the individual guest artists, you might be disappointed. However if you're a big Howe Gelb and/or Giant Sand fan, this will probably tickle your fancy.
For a lot of folks, myself included, Belle and Sebastian always seemed a trifle too fey, too twee, too foofy and melodramatic, with their aloof beret-wearing, Pynchon-reading misunderstood hipster vibe and affected disaffectedness. And musically too, their sound was too 'lite', a little too wispy and bittersweet, even for those of us who love wussy pop. But this new record has us reconsidering all of that, and thinking maybe we ought to go back and re-assess our B&S position, mayb it was BS. Although it should be noted that part of our new found appreciation, stems from the fact that the new Belle And Sebastian are a whole different beast that the B&S of old. Okay, maybe not a WHOLE different beast, but you can tell from the opening track that something is very different. A bouncy, perfect power pop gem that sounds remarkably like AQ faves Silver Sun, or maybe the High Llamas, with a jaunty, bouncy rhythm, lush Beach Boys-esque harmonies, and hooks galore. The next few tracks manage to retain some of that power pop quirkiness while veering back towards more decidedly familiar B&S sonic territory. Eventually things do settle down, the mood gets a bit more somber and the sound becomes much more like the B&S of old, but that opening salvo's effects can still be felt all the way through the very last note.
It's a little confusing to call this Live at Sin-E since the original Live at Sin-E EP that Buckley put out comprised only four of the *34* tracks included here. Anyway, this is being billed as the ultimate fan experience, a triple cd set that includes monologues and performances culled from Buckley's early solo performances at the cafe, before he had released his debut Grace, the album that made him famous. Covers include songs made famous by Nina Simone, Billie Holiday, Bob Dylan, Zeppelin, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan (whoah!), and others. The recordings are slightly lo-fi, but hardcore Buckley fans should find the project very moving, if they haven't already obtained all this stuff thru the prodigious Buckley trading network already established...
The third disc is a DVD that includes interviews and three live performances. In a deluxe four-panel foldout digipack with tons of liner notes and an outer sleeve.
It had to happen. Local sludge/grind combo Burmese, with a maximum-pummel line up of 2 bassists and 2 drummers, and two amazingly brutal records on our very own Andee's tUMULt label, and who spend most of their time channelling the spirit of '80s UK noise-shock pioneers Whitehouse anyway, decided to indulge their peculiar obsession, by recording an entire record of Whitehouse songs, run through the Burmese ringer. The result? An ear shredding, throat slitting, hateful, misanthropic skree, equal parts Merzbow, Drop Dead, Whitehouse and white noise, garbled ultra-distorted inhuman vocals, spewing hate and bile, over a musical bed of shrieking feedback, buzzing instruments, and very little actual 'playing', like a Twilight Zone episode where the musical instruments rebel against their masters by making the most un-musical sounds they can muster. Truly brutal, difficult, warped and wondrous.
After the gorgeously organic and delicately melodic experimentalism of the last few Coh releases, this decidedly monochromatic, almost straight techno 12" came as a bit of a surprise. That said, this is a pretty engaging platter of head nodding electronic bliss. Side one is a cold and minimal digital glitchscape, with clipped pulses, humming static, squeaking creaking digital errata, and cyclical muted minor key melodies that slowly build in intensity. Halfway through the side, the track seemingly repeats, this time with a little extra dynamic flair, more grit and a more solid throb, before dissipating into a serene wash of isolated notes, sounding a bit like a slowed down thumb piano. Quite beautiful. The second side starts off with a little bit of classic Kraftwerk major key melodic bounce, but quickly settles into similarly spaced out, hypno-throb territory. Imagine Plastikman on speed, or 4 on the floor techno played by Pole, or Gas trying to do 'real' dance music. Strangely hypnotic and pretty great.
Two of the most prolific, creative guitar players around, who've both built followings in the realm of the indie/avantgarde, team up at last. Such a collaboration certainly makes sense, and the results are quite what you'd expect: a real pretty, kinda melancholic, all-instrumental minimalist duet, sleepy and meandering. Loren "formery Mazzacane" Connors has a very personal style of haunting electric guitar that he of course explores here, while David Grubbs (of Gastr del Sol and much else besides) contributes his talents on both guitar and piano. Any individual, isolated moment on this disc might seem just a little too sparse and simple, but as it unfolds it rewards the listener's patience. By the time the disc has run its 34 minute course, and you can perceive the whole of Arborvitae in your mind's ear, you'll be nicely blissed out and appreciative of the aesthetic that Grubbs and Connors share here.
Fans of freaky free improv exploration, particularily skronk of Japanese origin, may remember a disc a called Dare Devil released some years back featuring saxophonist Peter Brotzman and drummer Shoji Hano. Jazz drummer Hano -- who has also played in 'rock' contexts with Mainliner and Keiji Haino -- reactivated the Dare Devil name for this new PSF project, for which he's enlisted the talents of Mainliner and Acid Mothers Temple guitarist Makoto Kawabata (no chance of an Aquarius list going by without at least one or two appearances somewhere by ol' Kawabata!) and bassist/vocalist Atsushi Tsuyama (also of AMT, Omoide Hatoba, Akaten, and many others). Together, the trio stir up a mess o' psychedelic improv trouble, a bit along the lines of Musica Transonic. Freeform skronk chaos, very "out" there indeed. AMT fans will feel at home, and Tsuyama's unusual vocals give this a silliness factor that much clattery free improv lacks. Meanwhile Kawabata's guitar spazzes endlessly, almost Ginn-like, and Hano provides a strong, propulsive foundation.
Nice packaging, btw, in a gatefold mini-LP styled cd sleeve.
We knew they still had it in them, and Transatlanticism prooves it. After a two year recording hiatus (not including the b-sides / demos release You Can Play These Songs With Chords) while singer Benjamin Gibbard stretched his wings with Dntel's Jimmy Tamborello in their Postal Service project, Death Cab For Cutie returns with a full length that not only does not disappoint, but possibly even surpasses their excellent sophmore effort We Have the Facts... album of three years ago. While they will probably always be compared to Built To Spill (circa Perfect From Now On or even Keep It Like A Secret) Gibbard et al. have undoubtably come into their own. Along with all the great hooks and beautiful melodies we've come to expect from Death Cab, the group has gotten progressively more crafty with their sound, utilizing electronic elements (never overshadowing the songs themselves) and, though it may not seem like much, piano. The latter is really something that suits their sound well. DCFC always have had this nack for pensive and heart rending melodies and there's really nothing better to sink them into your skin than some rich, full chords on a piano. Though it's used sparingly here, they could risk bringing it out more on further recordings, IMHO. The album's title track is a perfect example. The song's epic 8 minute length, beginning with a slow repeated chord progression on the ivories, builds steadily, sucking you into its world and leaving you feeling lonely in its absense when the final chords drift off into oblivion. So so nice.
Fourth album of epic instrumental post-rock from one of Canada's best. Droning, lush, rhythmic, dynamic. If you're gonna try just one other Constellation label band besides the mighty Godspeed You Black Emperor!, maybe it should be Do Make Say Think. And this would be just the album of theirs to check out. As it starts, you might think it's gonna be all cinematic and kinda jazzy but then they display some heavy fuzz-ed out muscle that ought to appeal to fans of Kinski for sure. Nice n' moody.
These Greek guys just aren't happy about being a part of the human race. The grim, blasting, uber-distorto black metal musick they make is evidence of that, without one even needing to read the lyrics to such songs as "Pitiless Paranormal Reek" and "Humanitarianism". Pure nihilistic poetry. And even if you, like me, like being human, we all sometimes feel a little bit of what these guys feel, right? Anyway, we're happy they feel the way they do if only 'cause of the great music that they make as a result. If you like the droning distortion of such great acts as Burzum, Weakling, and Eikenskaden you'll want to experience End for sure. But, their metal has moments of quiet, too, with good use of synth and acoustic guitar and even what must be field recordings or at least pseudo field recordings (from the forest, of the sky?). RecommENDed. Oh, and we also must applaud End's record label for the following statement: "NOTICE ISO666 Releases support CD-R copying. We encourage anyone that cant afford to buy our releases to burn a copy from a friend. Let the music be spread. We are against to all labels that lock their releases to prevent copying."
We sung the praises of Erase Errata's previous album Other Animals 'cause of their jagged guitar attacks and high-strung, bratty vocals fronting no-wave / post-punk / post-disco grooves, and those of you who wanted more more more will be thrilled with their sophomore effort At Crystal Palace. It's not a whole lot different than the debut, and this isn't going to be a problem for the majority of EE's fans who will enjoy hearing the same piercing guitar riffs, elliptical basslines, and ass-shaking rhythms over and over again. Perhaps the vocals are less paranoiac and the overall intensity of the album is toned down just a enough to be noticable. Yet the differences are slight. For those hoping Erase Errata would take off on a new tangent, well, maybe next time. Hopefully, unlike their historical precedents -- bands like Pere Ubu, The Slits, and The Pop Group (all of which hold incredible influence over Erase Errata) -- who eventually devolved into lame imitations of themselves, Erase Errata when they decide to do something new, will really surprise us. But as second records go, At Crystal Palace is pretty great.
We sung the praises of Erase Errata's previous album Other Animals 'cause of their jagged guitar attacks and high-strung, bratty vocals fronting no-wave / post-punk / post-disco grooves, and those of you who wanted more more more will be thrilled with their sophomore effort At Crystal Palace. It's not a whole lot different than the debut, and this isn't going to be a problem for the majority of EE's fans who will enjoy hearing the same piercing guitar riffs, elliptical basslines, and ass-shaking rhythms over and over again. Perhaps the vocals are less paranoiac and the overall intensity of the album is toned down just a enough to be noticable. Yet the differences are slight. For those hoping Erase Errata would take off on a new tangent, well, maybe next time. Hopefully, unlike their historical precedents -- bands like Pere Ubu, The Slits, and The Pop Group (all of which hold incredible influence over Erase Errata) -- who eventually devolved into lame imitations of themselves, Erase Errata when they decide to do something new, will really surprise us. But as second records go, At Crystal Palace is pretty great.
What's the deal with Canadian bands? All too frequently you find a fine band from up north has gone and made a truly odd and questionable decision -- cover art, band name, whathaveyou -- that messes with the whole picture. It's almost like they're willfully trying to make things harder for themselves. Case in point, this new band, The Gay. Contrary to what almost everyone who has encountered the band's moniker has thought, they are not a joke band! And contrary to their long, sullen faces on the album cover, their music is decidedly upbeat and sunny (i.e. gay). They are in fact another Vancouver supergroup of sorts starring Tobey Black (former bandmate of Neko Case in the feisty girl trio Maow) Keith Parry (Scratch Records head honcho and former member of the awesome rock battalion Superconductor), Sara Lapsley (formerly of Superconductor's female counterpart Kreviss), Maija Martin and CoCo Culbertson (of sweet-twang combo Tennessee Twin). So introductions aside, let's get down to the music of You Know The Rules. It's a spritely sugar-pop blend with all members taking turns on lead and backing vocals - sorta like the Partridge Family inviting Fleetwood Mac and the Throwing Muses over for a pajama party. Swingin' sing-a-long harmonies, snappy drumbeats, playful interplay between the guitars, keyboards, accordion, piano, and bass. Produced by their New Pornographer pal Kurt Dahle.
Now at last, Beth Gibbons' solo debut gets a domestic release (so it's a little cheaper) AND it's got some bonus stuff for you slowpokes/cheapskates who didn't get the import. Yeah, isn't life like that? Bonus tracks and video clips for those who wait... (Specifically, Lou Reed's "Candy Says" done live and a video for "Mysteries".) Anyway, it's a great record, here's what we said about the import:
Here it is, the highly anticipated album from the voice of Portishead - Ms Beth Gibbons! Much like such artists as Joni Mitchell or Leonard Cohen, Gibbons possesses a timeless, immensely affecting voice that exists outside of passing fancies and dated trends. Out Of Season dispells any question of that, presenting a very different -perhaps more accessible- backdrop than that of Portishead, but a no less dramatic and fitting one. The former embodies a mysterious, complex and haunting otherworldliness, the latter is much more familiar, folkish and earthbound. But who is Rustin Man with whom Ms Gibbon's is collaborating, you might ask? Why he is the alter ego of her friend Paul Webb (formerly of Talk Talk). And we should also note the presence throughout this album of her Portishead comrade Adrian Utley in both performance and production mode. A great line-up, indeed. Grand orchestral, big band and cabaret arrangements sit well beside more minimal instrumentations and Gibbons conveying her trademark deepest of despairs chameleons gracefully into the changing landscapes. This is apparent very early on with the expansive John Barry-esque lushness of "Tom The Model". Following that number is the sparsely beautiful "Show" with its assembly of cello, flute, double bass and piano, and a vocal performance that echoes the emotional brittleness of Chet Baker's "My Funny Valentine". While she still often stirs up those Shirley Bassey-esque inflections as she did in Portishead, in our opinion, she's at her best without them. Refined and elegant. Recommended.
Ok, here's a Hala Strana cd that we won't (or shouldn't) run out of, unlike the super-limited Jewelled Antler double cd-r release we reviewed last list. But hurry up n' buy it anyway, 'cause it's also a good one! As splendid as the double, if less sprawling.
Hala Strana, for those just tuning in, is the Eastern European inspired psych-folk-drone project of the prolific and talented Steven R. Smith (Thuja, Mirza, his own self). SRS wrote all but two of the 13 tunes on here (there's a trad. Moravian and trad. Transylvanian credit for those two) and plays ALL the myriad instruments, from guitar to harmonium to cello to drums to accordion to melodica to glockenspiel... With the magic of overdubbing, he's a one man orchestra. But we wish this was a band, just 'cause we'd *love* to hear this music live!
Though only two of the tracks are actually based on traditional Eastern European folk, they all share that spirit, the "Transylvanian trance" lure mentioned in the review of that other Hala Strana. Some of the songs have an epic vibe that comes across like a Balkan Godspeed You Black Emperor!, others are more intimate, with melodic hooks that make 'em sound a bit like instrumental Decemberists tracks -- maybe that's the accordion making us think that. Very recommended.
This band kicks out raw, spacey, psychedelic acid jams that any psych rock freak who likes it hard and heavy (you! c'mon, stand up!) will spazz over. We've been fans of England's The Heads for years. They put out a few records on the now-defunct Man's Ruin label a while back, and they sure stood out from the general run of the usual stoner rock and punk on that label's roster. But its been much more recently -- in the last year, really, after being exposed to their harder-to-find, post-Man's Ruin output -- that we've realized just how great a band The Heads really are. Really f**kin' great! Carrying the swirling smoke spewing torch of fuzz wah wah fx freak rock handed down from The Stooges and Hawkwind, adding a post-punk edge, The Heads here serve up a sonic maelstrom that makes their Japanese contemporaries like Mainliner and Acid Mothers Temple sound like wimps and poseurs. No US bands come close either, really, but if you dig Comets On Fire and Monster Magnet's garage groove and stoner trance, you'll dig The Head's Under Sided, from three minute riffers like "Dissonaut" to the 29+ minute album closer "Heavy Sea". At long last we've got some import (but inexpensive!) copies of this, their most recent studio album, released last year, recorded in '01. Supply is limited, so act fast or be patient... And we've also got some copies of their brand new live disc, At Last, that we'll review on our next list. The Heads are right on. Super freakin' recommended!
Here's a good buy for fans of either or both bands: a double cd, featuring a disc each of Hella and Dilute performing live. SF's Dilute do "Apple", "Alphabet", "Sickroom", "Balloon Song" and "Sold" while Sacramento's Hella play "Republic of Rough and Ready", "Better Grab a Broom!", "Cafeteria Bananas", "Biblical Violence", and "City Folk Sitting, Sitting". If this was a competition, we'd have to say Hella has the better song titles. But it's not a competition and both bands are winners, with Dilute being one of the Bay Area's best, most creative post/indie rock combos and Hella being NoCal's answer to Lightning Bolt, a two-piece instrumental tour de force. Go see both bands if/when you get the chance, and in the meantime don't miss out on this double live document (which maybe could have fit all on one disc, but whatever).
Finally available on cd, the one-two punch that proves Jackie O Motherfucker just may well edge out their more hyped contemporaries, the No Neck Blues Band and Sunburned Hand Of The Man, in the bid to rule the world of US-underground-free-psych-folk-weirdness.
There certainly is a rustic Tom Sawyer / Huck Finn aspect to this Portland ensemble's sound, but there is much less of the expected jazz element. Instead, Jackie-O Motherfucker have carved out a sound that is emotively quite similar to the post-rock melancholia of Godspeed / Sigur Ros but with none of their overly dramatic orchestrations.
The album opens with a buried collage of heterodyning shortwave radio and disconnected voices, but emphatically steps forward with a guitar duet between a sad David Pajo-esque riff and an intertwining effects-laden chimed tone. After the clunky twang of Jew's harps on "Bone Saw," Jackie-O returns to the evocative, spacious, and cinematically Western riffs (especially on the breathtakingly melancholy "The Cage"), as an effective means of transcribing sound into a psychic landscape that is strangely similar to the aforementioned Godspeed. While Godspeed bracket their tight orchestrations around a social pessimism that eventually leads to cathartic enlightenment about how shitty the world is around us, Jackie-O Motherfucker shrug their shoulders and settle back into a drugged out, dreamy drawly musical stupor of oddly psychedelic grooves which somehow seems way more appealing.
Just so you know, that is not a typo. John Grzinich has followed his occasional collaborator Michael Northam (aka Mnortham) in cramming his first initial onto his last name to obtain his public persona. And like Northam, Grzinich has developed a knack for concept-heavy procedures that manifest themselves into densely processed drones. "Confluence" is a collaborative album between Grzinich and Seth Nehil, who is another frequent partner for both Grzinich and Northam. This is sort of a sister album to their "Stria" album. Both pieces are electro-acoustic exercises that are meant to "study evolutionary patterns of sound dynamics through various methods of live generation and recorded mediums that focus on multiplications and groupings." In other words, they got a whole bunch of people in a room, handed them instruments with similar timbral qualities (i.e. clay pots and metal bowls), recorded these people making clamorous noise, and then rendered most of the gestural actions moot by blurring everything into a heavenly drone, somewhere between Francisco Lopez and Jonathan Coleclough. The second track "The Distant Edge" deviates slightly from the process with the intrusion of field recordings from an unknown demonstration in Belgrade. The only clues to the event that Grzinich and Nehil provide are in the form of a chorus of car horns blaring non-stop for 10 minutes, occasionally harmonizing into a strange polyphony like a battery of Egyptian reeds, but more often than not accumulating into an angry swarm not unlike Xenakis' "Persepolis." Altogether, "Confluence" is a fantastic record that actively pursues agitation and anxiety.
One of our fave turntable types, Canada's Kid Koala, is back with a new full-length: Some Of My Best Friends Are DJs. We dug the single that preceded it, the woozy New Orleans jazz based "Basin Street Blues" (the first track on here) and the rest of the disc is no disappointment. If you're hip to the Kid you know to expect a little whip-whip-whap scratchin', some boom-bap beats, a good ear for laid back grooves, scrambled samples, and some quirky humor. As with other recent releases from Kid Koala, his sheer adorableness extends into other media -- the cd comes with a game and both the cd and LP versions include a fat lil' comic book in the package.
This lovely (and bargain-priced) record is the result of a beautiful band-meets-band story. You know, two bands with beards meet and make friends for life. Actually, does Kinski have beards? We're just guessin'. (Note: there's ladies in both bands, we're not accusing them of having beards or anything.) Seattle cosmonauts Kinski and guitarist/guru Kawabata Makoto of the popular Japanese underground musical commune Acid Mothers Temple go way back, to when Kinski opened for Mainliner's 1999 US tour. Sooner or later they had to collaborate, and we're not complaining. Even if you find AMT a mite too prolific, at least this release is 50% Kinski, who haven't yet reached the product overload stage that AMT share with Merzbow and precious few others. Thus no need to feel guilty about adding this to your shelf of AMT releases.
So, we get four tracks to absorb here. First up, is Kinski's "Fell Asleep On Your Lawn". Its ten minutes start off all quiet n' pretty before going into spacelaunch mode. They fire their rockets, come back to earth, and then blast off again. Maybe they don't fly as high as the best of their recent Airs Above Your Station album, but it's still a good track. Then, track two sees Kinski visiting Japan, playing a pre-dinner jam at AMT "dancin' king" Higashi Hiroshi's flat, with Higashi and Kawabata sitting in on guitar. It's really beautiful, almost ambient, hushed space drone stuff that's so sleepy that I woulda thought it was an after-dinner jam instead. Lovely. The third track comes from the same 'session' but has extra added AMT overdubs, so you hear from the whole AMT crew plus the Kinski quartet. It has a similar mood to track two but is denser. Lastly, track four is just AMT, offering their companion to Kinski's opening cut, though it's twice as long, called "Virginal Plane 5:23". It's a swirling stoned jam not unlike their Electric Heavyland album. All in all, real nice disc from these international cosmic comrades, packaged in some cool Boredoms-meet-Man Or Astroman? lookin' cover art. Vinyl limited, cd not.
If you've been reading the AQ list, you know how much we love Ted Leo. His gorgeously keening vocals, jangly mod guitars, brilliantly funny lyrics, and unique songsmithery have really made him one of the most appealing singer/songwriters going these days. Screw Rufus Wainwright, forget Elliott Smith. A dense heady mix of the Jam, Elvis Costello, and Thin Lizzy, mixed with an undeniable knack for irresistably catchy indie rock. This sort-of-EP is a bit of a stopover until the next full length with a few originals, a few solo vocal/guitar tracks and some unique covers. The Jam cover is an obvious choice ("Ghosts"), then there's a version of the celtic sixties standard "Dirty Old Town", and a Split Enz cover. THAT could have been a travesty, and although it makes me want to hear the original more than anything, Leo manages to make it enough his own that it's worth checking out! Can't wait for the next full length.
Aah, we haven't heard the sweet sweet voice of Ms April March in years! Her last album Chrominance Decoder came out back in 1999! Her records have always been warmly received for their kicky kitten-heeled retro French stylings. Often resembling a '60s ye-ye girl, she's never fails to deliver the delightful pop in spades. Which is why the first track off of her newest full length is such a jarring jolt. It's a very mid/late '90s-ish electronica number that overwhelms her vocals and comes off sounding like a weak loungey downtempo track. Ick! Fortunately things promptly take a turn for the better after that -- achieving more of a balance between her old crunch'n'jangle guitar bounce, grand Bacharach-esque escapades and her newer electronic leanings. With her English/French vocals and the sleek Euro-pop sounds courtesy of her frequent collaborator Bertrand Burgalat (he played a multitude of instruments, mixed and produced this album), this often veers close to Stereolab and Broadcast territory. So if you enjoy the lighter sides of those two bands, you just might find yourself smitten by Ms March.
This album compiles the bountiful fruits of Mirah Yom Tov Zeitlyn and Ginger Brooks Takahashi's month-long musical stay at a friend's grandmother's home in the small town of Black Mountain, NC. If you enjoyed Mirah's last album, the adventurous indie epic Advisory Commitee, you'll surely take a shine to this home-spun delight. The plucking of a ukelele echoes the plink plonk of raindrops in a washtub. The scrape of a bow across a cello's strings chirps like a cricket's evening song. And the area's natural ambience found its way onto the recordings too - the welcome sound of cicadas and birds crept in around Mirah, Ginger and their friends' keyboards, drums, guitars and voices. Ah, the voices! They ring so strong and clear even when the women are singing ever so softly. As with most everything Ms Mirah lends her hand to, this is a glorious and empowering project. Proceeds from this album are going to The Pentridge Children's Garden (a community garden for children in Philadelphia cared for by volunteers) and the Rock'n'Roll Camp For Girls (it's exactly that! ... a music and art day camp in Portland, OR for girls age 8-18).
Working under his Mount Vernon Arts Lab guise, Drew Mulholland had the good fortune to perform alongside Coil at the Megalithomania festival in London, thoroughly impressing them with his drug addled electronic psychedelia, so much so that Coil offered to put out an album. Mulholland showed his appreciation by referencing Coil's legendary dabbling in occult magick in his choice of the slightly altered mystical moniker Mount Vernon Astral Temple as well as within the music itself, producing Musick That Destroys Itself as ritualist pieces centered around occult numerology, which as far as we can tell has something to do with the palindrome of the date February 2, 2002, and a purported 'time machine' which exists in the Brompton cemetary(!). If you've dug Coil's recent experiments with analog synths or the tripped out, ring modulator work-outs of Acid Mother's Temple, Mount Vernon Astral Temple's cosmic jams of dense electronic percolations and gaping reverberations will definitely be the perfect soundtrack for your next pagan ritual or secret ceremony! Strictly limited to 1000 copies.
Is it just us, or have the smouldering coals been rather aggressively stoked in My Morning Jacket's ol' iron potbelly stove? From the get-go, their third full length It Still Moves pushs forth with much gusto. Still deeply enmeshed with the darkest yearnings and driven by an unyielding torment, Jim James and co's newest effort (and their first for RCA) draws together all the shining elements of Neil Young's folk-rock eccentricities, Uncle Tupelo's hybrid pop and country, and Tim Buckley's soaring impassioned vocals. It seems they've relinquished most of the slow, haunted atmospherics of past releases in favor of boot stompin' exorcisms of whiskey toting demons. And although we quite liked the former, gotta say, we just might prefer this new fiery My Morning Jacket. At any rate, this is a mighty good example of ass-kicking, fully fleshed out country rock.
The much anticipated return of Paris. A man who's no stranger to controversy, Paris' new album is certainly going to sell a few copies and/or cause some consternation over the cover alone. Most people can remember his debut The Devil Made Me Do It as a kick ass record for its time, and his 1992 track "Bush Killa" certainly garnered him some attention. But his following albums suffered from good intentions coupled with tepid production values. Sadly, if it wasn't for the bold cover and title we honestly probably wouldn't have picked up his newest. Sonic Jihad isn't a complete disappointment though. And depending on one's predilection toward late nineties west coast production values you might get even more mileage. The funky bass low rider optimized rhythms here smack of Ice Cube and Snoop Dogg's hey day. But the worst of it is the background soul vocals of the slow jam variety that do the biggest diservice to the album. On the upside, there's a great cameo appearance from Capelton (Dead Prez, Public Enemy and Kam also make appearances). And lyrically, it's a great album. While everyone else in hip hop seems content to press their street credentials ad naseum, it's about time that someone stepped up and bitch slapped Dubb-yuh. Paris and the Dixie Chicks, what strange bedfellows.
Lookie, here's Peaches' second album. Can she top the the disturbingly rauchy raps of her debut The Teaches Of Peaches? Well, first off, we've gotta hand it to her for the album cover, if not the title. Byram prefers to call this Amish And Proud or perhaps The C. Everett Koop record. As for the musical content, well we don't think Peaches fans will be disappointed! As to what those of us here who aren't Peaches fans (she's had a polarizing effect on the Aquarius staff) think, well, as the lead off track goes (and goes and goes) Peaches "don't give a fuck". So if she's "the kind of bitch you want to get with" then go to it. Rockin' rawer than '80s beat-box grooves and rawer than Lil' Kim rhymes, Fatherfucker is maybe what Pink would sound like if she really was punk like she poses. And as if to prove how punk Peaches is, this features a duet with none other than Iggy Pop, on the track "Kick It", and elsewhere she puts "Rock 'n' Roll" on her set list. Simple but effective, this album doesn't slack on Peaches' provocative sexual/gender stance while always rockin' the parti like Gold Chains. So if you can hang with song titles like "Shake Yer Dix" then you're only $14.98 away from a good time. The cd also includes some video for computers, if you dare.
Pelt, those Terrastock-levitatin', coolie-hat wearin' boys from Virginia have a new disc (along with Sunroof! and Vibracathedral Orchestra, one of three new VHF goodies). We've been lookin' forward to more from Pelt ever since their fine 2001 double cd Ayahuasca, and Jack Rose (1/3 of Pelt)'s contribution to that great Wooden Guitar compilation also whet our appetite for more. And more we get, the Pearls From The River being three long tracks of instrumental acoustic pseudo-ethnic drone-folk psych raga. Repetitive, mantric, stone-zoned.
Are Pelt ISB wanna-bes? Sure. Why not? Are they white guys inspired by the musics of other cultures, from India to Appalachia? Sure. Of course. More power to 'em. Tune in, or turn on your own drone makin' mojo. We can't say Pelt are a better listen than some Indian classical music, or your old Incredible String Band LPs, or whatever -- and they wouldn't either. But you'd have to be super uptight not to enjoy their bowed, bassed, and banjoed journeys into both darkness and light. And I also dig Byron Coley's parody of radical '60s drug-speak styled liner notes. They're a joke right? I mean, "Fuck Death"? I dunno how this music exactly expresses resistance to the regime of George W. Bush & Co., as Coley suggests, although it's true that somehow it doesn't seem like it could have been made by Republicans!
"Hardcore is a place where upper-middle-class white kids take all the good pan handling spots away from the bums who really need them". So said the irreverent punk rock sage that is Joe Pop-O-Pie in his classic "The Words of Jamal -- The Rainbow Bridge Version". Along with the Butthole Surfers, the Pop-O-Pies were the perfect antidote for punks who were tiring of a stale, formulaic genre and a scene that took itself way too seriously. Started in 1981, the Pop-O-Pies were the brain child of New Jersey raised, 'Frisco' transplant Joe Callahan (A.K.A. Joe Pop-O-Pie). And for those who weren't there for the legendary first two years of its existence, the rumor is true, the Pop-O-Pies really did play only one song: "Truckin'". According to Joe the reason was because the band's lineup changed so often, there really wasn't much time to learn anything more. The end result however, was a band tailor made to piss off punks and hippies (or pseudo-radical youth culture) alike. Joe eventually found a competent, and consistent backing band in the form of none other than Faith No More and recorded the now out of print (and master tapes lost forever, sigh) "White EP" on 415 Records. But that, due to its nonexistent nature, is not the subject of this anthology. The bulk of the material here are the complete Joe's Second (also featuring Faith No More) and Joe's Third Records released in 1984 and 1986 on Subterranean Records -- at the height of punk rock's uber-hip, uber-tough, uber-serious "hardcore" era. If there's one thing that self righteous punks needed at that time, it was a good satirical slap in the face and Joe Pop-O-Pie was there to administer it. And administer he did, replete with well played, overindulgent Hendrix-esque guitar parts market tested to irritate the minimalist punk rock purists. To be fair (to the punks and Joe), that isn't all that the Pop-O-Pies satirize. Joe takes on the music industry ("Industrial Rap"), New York City ("I Love New York"), the Beatles ("I Am the Walrus"), bummed out guys ("Bummed-Out-Guy"), morons ("World-O-Morons"), the Grateful Dead ("Truckin' Slow Version" and "Sugar Magnolia") and much more and all throughout peppered with the unique punk rock salt-of-the-earth wisdom of Joe Pop-O-Pie. Not only does this anthology contain the Second and Third Records in their entirety, but also includes four additional tracks: two from Joe's 1993 comeback "The In Frisco Single" released on Amarillo and two previously unreleased tracks from the same recording session (featuring Mr. Bungle alumni Trey Spruance, Danny Heifetz and Dieselhed bassist Atom Ellis). Included with the disc is a three panel fold out featuring historical notes on the Pop-O-Pies, photos new and old and a brief account of an actual conversation overheard by Robert Mailer Anderson. And what's best is that, buying this, you don't have to worry about the artist getting screwed. Yes, that's right, Joe has come out of hiding himself to put this collection together in 100% true D.I.Y. fashion. So every dollar goes to Joe and not some A&R clown in some office building somewhere.
You just never know what to expect from Mac MacCaughan's Portastatic project. He's taken it through playful numbers based around keyboards, samples and programmed beats, some respectful '60s Tropicalia inspired excursions and film soundtracks. Yet, he quite often brings it all back to sweet, breezy guitar-driven pop that evokes the glow of a summer evening sunset and draws Portastatic closer to Superchunk territory. Autumn Was A Lark is the newest release, and although this appears to be a five song EP, it actually boasts fourteen songs total. That's right folks, you get eight bonus live on the radio acoustic performances). The band tackles covers of songs by Bruce Springsteen ("Bobby Jean" and "Growin' Up"), Ronnie Lane ("One For The Road") and Badfinger ("Baby Blue") with great aplomb, and offers up an alternate version of "In The Lines" (the original appears on their last album) as well as a punchy new song called "Autumn Got Dark". If you enjoyed Summer Of The Shark, scoop this goodie up too. It's sure to please!
The weirder-than-thou Argentinian trio Reynols have made a lot of records. That much we can all agree on. Some are conceptual (Blank Tapes, ten thousand chickens, even a 'dematerialized' cd) some are more rock -- messed-up, primitive, psychedelic rock. And this is one of those. It's also two other things: one of the best Reynols we've heard (which, from us, is high praise 'cause we love Reynols) and unfortunately quite limited in availability. We've got six (6) of these, dunno if we'll ever be able to get more, fyi. Fans should consider rushing down here pronto, in other words. From track one, side one (ok, it's a cd so there's only one side, but with Reyols you never know, there could be an imaginary 2nd side) it's a blissful marriage of Miguel's gentle soul singing and a throbbing bed of percussion, heavy amp-drone and stabbing, soothing guitar-skronk. Detours (like the very 2nd track) are made into celebratory, shambling grooves, like Reynols are busking for 'change' in the way I'm writing this review. But most of Sosina Arada Mica could be a Reynolisan religious ceremony, totally spacey and effects-laden. The drone-quotient is high, and so are you.
Sweden's Sagor & Swing are an instrumental drums and Hammond organ duo. HAMMOND ORGAN! We know some of you are crazy for the Hammond organ. We are too. And Hammond-freaks or not, this is a lovely, lovely record. Super melodic and dreamy, calm and mesmerizing. Eric Malmberg (organ) and Ulf Moeller (drums) take much inspiration from dark and sleepy Swedish forests, we're told, but we're sure the music of legendary Swedish '60s Hammond/drums duo Hansson & Karlsson is also a big influence! Malmberg actually plays a Hammond that Bo Hansson used on his beloved 1970 Sagan Om Ringen (Lord Of The Rings) album! Not only that, but he writes a comic strip published in a Swedish newspaper called -- get this -- Hansson & Karlsson In Outer Space. The duo's H&K obsession serves them well, without them becoming mere copyists at all. Some tracks are lively and spirited, with stick-in-your-head folk-derived hooks a la fellow Swede Bjorn Olsson (himself a sort of Bo Hansson protege), while others are more like slightly sinister Dario Argento/Goblinesque lullabies, that combine music box melodies with one-note ambient minimalism a bit like that one Aphex Twin-esque track on Burzum's Filosofem. Just a bit. Some Kraftwerk rhythms are hinted at as well, and Magyar Posse's cinematic epics too. This is definitely a universal AQ-staff fave, and we think you'll love it too. Apparently it's S&S fourth album, so we'll have to track down their other two asap!
Janek Schaefer's Weather Report is a noticable contrast to the polished surfaces that twist through his previous albums of desolate isolationism, Black Immure and Le Petit Theatre De Mercelis. During his Residency in Minneapolis as part of the American Composers Forum, Schaefer was astounded by the hostility of the storms, tornados, snow, and cold; thus, set out to make a sound portrait of a Minnesotan winter. Schaefer didn't just focus on field recordings of weather, but of media sounds associated with weather. He offers the cryptic taxonomy of his sounds as "underwater ice skaters; flapping; old meteorological kit; leaf blowers; repairing weather damage; various 60's archive audio; melting ice, ski across snow, Minnesota forecasts on radio, in the car and on TV; Tornado chasing & test equipment; snow flakes landing on mic; squeaky tree; National Weather Service balloon launch."
Using very rough splices to join his material together, Schaefer looks back towards the pioneers of musique concrete to aid him through this psychogeographic piece of sound poetry. A brief 21 minutes long.
Ben Chasny: hot guy. Bedroom eyes and a bottle of beer. What's up with the cover?? Well, apparently Ben's sick of people thinking he's some sort of sexless mystical elf, so he chose to pose for pictures on a rumpled bed complete with prone girlfriend (or groupie?). But even without the usual murky, evocative artwork of ghostly treelines this new, fourth album from Ben's Six Organs of Admittance is again a lovely piece of psych-folk-pop. Hippie jams updated for the kids today, taking cues from both Bolan and Basho. Gently drifting or discretely chugging, the majority of this record is devoted to mellow song-craft of exqusite beauty. So when the heavy psych guitar blow-out of the last track "Only The Sun Knows" (featuring Ethan Miller of Comets On Fire, who also plays the sitar elsewhere on the album) kicks in, your only warning will be this review! Recommended, from start to finish a really nice record.
BACK IN STOCK! We thought we'd relist this, 'cause we finally got a handful back in, and they went so quick the first time, back in April, you might have missed them. You'd think this would be easy to stock since they're an SF band, but the label is in Italy and we've been out of 'em for months...
AQ's favorite cult true heavy metal band, The (one and only) Lord Weird Slough Feg, are back with their fourth (can it be?!) compact disc of chaos and conquest, this time conjuring visions of cosmic adventure in a galaxy-spanning science-fictional Imperium of the sixth millenium AD, rather than the battefields of the Celtic fantasy world which inspired such previous Slough Feg albums as "Down Among The Deadmen" and "Twilight Of The Idols", though they've taken some of their trademark Celtic-tinged riffs with 'em into the future.
Yep, the Feg boys have come up with a full-on scifi concept album here, each song contributing to a space opera story of far-future genetic warfare. It's convoluted and not just a little bit absurd (we'd expect nothing less from the Lord Weird) involving a megalomaniac mad scientist, dangerous alien spores, a hybrid race of sentient dogs known as Vargr (as pictured on the cover), asteroid miners, and a space pirate named Baltech Budapest who develops psionic powers after being turned into a dog-man! Huh? Well, all this is an excuse for Slough Feg to flex their collective metal muscles, showing off with dueling shredding guitar solos, majestic harmonies, dramatic vocals, shuddering doom riffs, and so forth. The European power metal legions traffic in such wares as well, but none with such flamboyant eccentricity and sheer insanity as the Slough Feg crew. Lost Horizon, Rhapsody, Blind Guardian, Hammerfall and the like might be more polished and synthesized, but for indomitable metal spirit and over-the-top anything-goes chutzpah you've got to hand it to San Francisco's Slough Feg, they'll take on all comers musically while upping the bizarreness quotient to impossible extremes. Raw, bombastic heaviness gives way to acoustic guitars, adrenalized thrash collides with show-tune catchiness, and the story of course is completely fucked. With their two Les Pauls going full bore, this is perhaps the last word in galloping, epic, multi-tracked guitar harmony metal... Their forbears like Iron Maiden, Queen, and Thin Lizzy should be proud (and a little confused). What Drunk Horse are to '70s boogie rock these guys are to '80s metal, except... Slough Feg really mean it! Even when it's hard to figure out *what* they mean.
Fans will probably agree that the grandiose "Traveller" is the Slough Feg album most similar to "The Bastard" by their sister band Hammers of Misfortune -- both being continuous narratives ("Traveller" having but one vocalist to handle all the roles however). But while the Hammers' masterful metal operetta seemed all Dungeons & Dragons, this concept record is actually specifically based on -- and named after -- a once-popular science fiction role playing game called Traveller, D&D's spacefaring cousin. The cover design, and some of the lyrics, will make a lot more sense if you're familiar with that game!
Newest ep from everybody's favorite Neu! worshipping modern krautrockers. And lucky for us, not much has changed. Propulsive rhythms, bubbling synths, angelic vocals, sun dappled and sparkling, hypnotic and soothing, dreamy and blissed out. Like Neu! meets the Free Design, Enoch Light fronting Can, an easy listening Faust or Tortoise playing the Agitation Free catalog. Lovely as always.
More scattered, primal free folk pagan minimalism from this Massachussets ensemble who have quickly humbled the mighty No Neck Blues Band in terms of hipster mystique but also in terms of recorded output. It seems like everytime a Sunburned Hand gets up to take a piss, it's documented on tape, and then released as a cd-r or limited lp. But as with the weekly Acid Mothers releases, the quality remains high enough that all you connoisseurs of "weird America" and all things free folk tribalism, at least for now, still have to pick up every last artifact. This lp is the latest document of SHOTM's not so expanding sonic universe. Krautrock hippy jams, wah guitars, chaotic ramshackle percussion, wild whoops and shouts, all occasionally slipping into some seriously propulsive grooves, but just as quickly falling apart, into space-is-the-place jazz skronk and Crash Worship / Wicker Man stumbling tribal rhythmic workouts.
Number 323 (or thereabouts) in Matthew Bower's 1432 point plan for mind expansion via comsic ur-drone and shambolic shimmer. Following close on the heels of the recent Skullflower, Cloudz shares much of that release's Krautrockish rhythmic pulse, but keeps it suitably mired in that sweet, sweet Sunroof! haze. Tinkling piano with a thick patina of reverb throbs beneath a luxuriously sonic sparkle, tweaky electronic twitter, guitarish grooviness, some downright sun dappled Stereolabed sonic sweetness and even moments of British psych-folkiness, although appropriately chopped and fuzzed, are all spread into dreamy abstract smears. And throughout it all the cloudz of the title wrap each song, no matter how sleepy or lazy or chaotic or crunchy in swaddling sonic syrup. So good.
Rosie Thomas' sophomore release is a soft, subdued affair. The first song is definitely one of its standouts. It might even make you want to keep hitting the "repeat" button, but listen on and you'll be treated to ten more hushed, intimate folky tunes. Luminous notes from a piano hang gently in the air. Thomas exudes a quiet confidence, delivering her introspective lyrics with an emotive lilt that brings to mind Shawn Colvin or Sarah McLachlan. Only With Laughter Can You Win gracefully walks the line between adult contemporary and indie alt-country. Perhaps pushing it further into the latter and adding to the close-to-home-and-heart feel are the presence of a number of her relatives - her mother, father, sister and brothers all join Ms Thomas on a song or two. As well, Iron & Wine's vocalist Sam Beam hops aboard for one song too.
Cool comp collecting the current crop of NY underground hipster nosieniks. Exclusive tracks from the No Neck Blues Band, Sightings, Terrestrial Tones (feturing Black Dice/Animal Collective folks), Enos Slaughter (NNCK/Sunburned Hand Of The Man folks), Breast Fed Yak and a bunch more.
On which perhaps our favorite troop of UK blissed out dronesters takes the percussive clatter, free jazz bleats, and latent Krautrockery of weird America's No Neck Blues Band and Sunburned Hand of The Man, adds some Eastern raga to the mix and then melds it to their already divine cosmic drones resulting in Vibracathedral Orchestra become perhaps the only true heir to the long vacant Krautrock throne. Epic and unfettered, VCO emit long peals of sweet sonics that leisurely unfurl into massive expanses of cosmic hippy bliss, but the pulsing rhythms and relentless throb, harness the ethereal ambience, and manage to squeeze free sonic strum into ultra hypnotic, pounding perfection.
Yay, it's a live recording from one of AQ's fave bands, the Bavarian post-rock combo known as Village of Savoonga! It seems, sadly, that they've broken up (too busy with Notwist, Lali Puna, Tied and Tickled Trio, and all their other projects, perhaps?) so this disc might well be their final release. Probably the last, or only other, chance anyone reading this (outside of Germany) got to hear VoS live was at the Aquarius Records 30th Anniversary party at the Bottom of the Hill here in San Francisco three years ago. Remember? We flew the Savoogan Villagers over here to play with Circle, Milk Cult, and Outhud. Kinda crazy, but *that's* how much we like this band! So, how's this live disc stack up to our memories (and their other albums)? Recorded at one of their final shows, at the annual Hausmusik Festival in September 2001, it sounds great, the band plays great, it's sheer post-rock mastery a la Slint. And it also sounds like maybe VoS had been revisiting... nay, scrutinizing their old This Heat records even more than usual. Their percussive rhythmic attack and live looping sound displayed here have that nervous energy we love. While drawing material from their albums Score, Philip Schatz, and their self-titled debut, this live show yet demonstrates an especially powerful, sinewy side to VoS, an intensity we recall from their performance at the AQ-party. Noisy, hypnotic, gritty. Talk about going out with a bang!
It was ineveitable that we'd be skeptical about this latest record from the Wrens. It's a little hard to be objective about a record that's as intensely praised/hyped as The Meadowlands. Not one, but TWO features in the New York Times! How often does that happen to a seemingly perpetual second string introspective indie rock band? Then Magnet magazine makes it one of the best indie rock records of the last decade! And it had only been out for a matter of months. Add to that a litany of ridiculously effusive critical praise, the sort usually reserved for the second coming, or a Pixies reunion. I guess for indie rockers that amounts to the same thing? Anyway, it made it difficult to approach the new Wrens record with an open mind. So we didn't, and on first listen, we all sort of had the same reaction: pretty good. But just pretty good. God knows no band could live up to that sort of hype. But then a strange thing began happening. It kept getting played in the store. We all found ourselves listening to it more and more. It found its way onto some of our ipods, and we decided that this record was really something special. As with lots of great records (and this IS a great record) it blossoms with repeated listens. In a big way! Revealing itself as a relentlessly, insideously catchy pop gem, embedding hook after hook in our brains until we find ourselves humming Wrens songs like crazy and wanting to put this record on all the time. So what is it exactly about this record that makes it so fucking good? On the surface it's an unassuming indie pop amalgam of all things Pavement, R.E.M., Neutral Milk Hotel, and Guided By Voices. Especially Guided By Voices. Like the last 15 years of college/indie rock boiled down into it's essence and then squeezed into perfectly subtle pop songs. And as always, it's THE SONGS, beautifully melancholic epics that are at once personal and introspective, but also grand and sweeping. Epic and wordly but also totally insular. Irresistable indie pop jangle camouflages amazing sonic complexities and dark rich textures, strange chords and shifting minor key melodies. The most obvious sonic precedent seems to be Guided By Voices, but an alternate GBV, raised on Pavement and the Pixies instead of the Kinks and the Beatles, and with a big ol' dose of ritalin, keeping them from yanking away the sort of hooks most bands spend a lifetime dreaming about writing after only thirty seconds, instead allowing us to sink in and luxuriate in the droning, ringing choruses that repeat and repeat, lulling us into a sweetly narcotized melancholy pop coma. So good. Pretty amazing that this went from a ho hum pop whatever to a contender for pop record of the year in the space of about 2 weeks. So make sure and give it plenty of time to grow on you. You won't be sorry.
Those crazies over at Troubleman have done gone and let Mick Barr (Orthrelm/Octis/ex-Crom Tech) 'curate' a series of releases under the Vothoc moniker, devoted to obscure prog-core weirdness from the NYC underground. The first Vothoc release is also the first release from Zs, a mostly-instrumental very very very prog band not unlike a chamber-rock version of Orthrelm, with a lineup of two drummers, two guitarists, and two saxophone players!
The first three tracks on here are total herkyjerky, typewritery, stop-start stuff, with that 'cartoon mouse tiptoeing around' kinda feel to it. All the more impressive considering how together six musicians have to be to do this. Math for math's sake. Can't call it math-rock, even, 'cause there's not a lot of rockin' going on. Guaranteed to drive certain people insane, whilst simultaneously provoking twisted delight in others (you know who you are). But, after three tracks of this maniacally hectic stuff -- culminating in the under-2-minute frenzy of "Olympics" -- they calm down quite a bit. Track four, "Mimesis", is a slow, spacious 15-minute epic of mournful jazz-drone. Real nice n' spooky. And then they follow that with an album-ending track that's even mellower and prettier and features some sorta Brian Eno-ish singing! When that's over, even if the first few tracks annoyed you, they will be long forgotten... But the proper audience for Zs is folks who are gonna like both the mathy and the mild.
ZZ Top have been crankin' out their unmistakable signature bluesy boogie rock for well over thirty years now. A big ol' tip of the hat to them! With each of their fourteen albums, they've followed their own path while keeping a finger on the pulse of current trends. As a result they've certainly had their high points, bizarre twists and missteps, but you just know you simply can't mess with Billy Gibbons, Dusty Hill and Frank Beard. You seldom if ever feel like these men are going through the motions. Hard roadhouse rawker or absurd synth rock turn, they deliver from the heart. This album proves to be no exception. In fact, a number of songs on Mescalero just might be ZZ Top at their most heavy, down-tuned and dirty. They sound really really grimy and mean! Gritty lung vocals, deep thumpin' floor toms, dank loose guitars... in less capable hands it could all add up to a big rock'n'roll mess, but commandeered by these rock vets, it, more often than not, falls into place for a mighty driving good time. Keep on truckin'!
