Proprietor of London's 323 Sound shop and protagonist in the New London Silence movement that bridges the ethos of minimalism within the scope of Birtish improv and academic composition, Mark Wastell is a figure whose name has been popping up more and more in recent months. Vibra #2 is a limited edition CD-R release of his solo work upon a tam-tam. In fact, the gong he used for this recording was previously owned by the late Roger Sutherland, to whom this album is dedicated. In softly tapping this gong, Wastell offers an exceptional drone construction of soft resonant timbres, clouds of natural metallic reverberation, and harmonic shimmers that give the impression of electronic treatments, even when Wastell used no such devices. The slow pacing of Wastell's performance adds to the languid almost submariner haze of the recording, providing something of a mix between Thomas Koner and Stockhausen's tam-tam composition Mikrophonie. Beautiful stuff! It's limited to 200 copies, of which we only have a handful. You know what that means!
AT LAST, back in print. We haven't had this crucial black metal album for a couple years now, the original Drakkar version (reviewed on list #203) is out of print. But now Seaon Of Mist has licensed it for a domestic reissue WITH A BONUS TRACK - so if you missed it before, get it now! They just were through here on tour, bloody tour, and hopefully you didn't miss that either... (we did, we were working, it was a list night!). Here's what we said about this Satanic masterpiece originally:
Like Anaal Nathrakh's debut The Codex Necro, we first saw this release reviewed (and awarded Album of the Month honors) in the UK's monthly extreme metal bible Terrorizer, long before we were actually able to track down copies to sell. Our suppliers either didn't know what it was, or had already sold out of the few copies they possessed. But now, we have finally gotten a hold of a few and thought we ought to let you know... Basically, Sweden's Watain are a blazing raw blackened metal monster, thrashing and buzzing and blasting. Sinister melodies bleed from behind cracks in the band's armored exterior. We're strongly reminded of Immortal and especially Dissection, with "Where Dead Angels Lie" haunting these proceedings for sure. At first our reaction was, yeah, this IS pretty good...but then, an undefinable X-factor started to emerge, as the album progressed and Watain's sounds sunk in and we realized that this was more than just pretty good. There's a constantly complex and subtle "shifting" going on Watain's songwriting, a layering of riffs amid the band's blur of speed that just takes it to another level. It's fierce and exquisite black metal mastery on display here. Maybe it's easy to go a certain distance with the black metal thing, y'know initially all you need is the right distorted guitar sound and raspy vocals and occult lyrics, the image and the musical basics. But once those black metal "signifiers" are in place, and a certain standard of competence is achieved, the playing field is level. Going the extra league (with Satan) as Watain do here is rare and impressive. Nicely done (as is the packaging!).
PS there's a picture disc vinyl reissue supposedly coming too, but we haven't gotten ours yet... fingers crossed...
Another awesome issue of one of the best music magazines around. This time out, AQ favorite Shuggie Otis is on the cover and there's a really interesting interview with him inside. Also featured are MF Doom, Slick Rick, Larry Coryell, Mickey Dread, Os Mutantes, and Patrick Adams. Nice memorial pieces on Isaac Hayes, Roy Shirley and Jerry Wexler. We could go on and on as we really do read Wax Poetics cover to cover and it's one of the few music magazines we always keep around as they lend themselves to repeated reads and second looks.
Last year these guys teamed up with Robert Lowe, aka Lichens, for a killer collab on Holy Mountain that left us floored. Black Acts harbors the same type of synthy, visual drones that come reeling out of White/Lichens, only this time around the White/Light boys weave their brand of bliss into more desolate territory. The Chicago duo manage to conjure an impressive brand of dark analog hypnosis, like waking up in the middle of the desert to a shimmering pyramid mirage made of sound and light. Even while parts of the record hint at the early minimalist legacies of dudes like La Monte Young and Henry Flint, there is a subtle buzzy edge to these songs that set them apart from the work of their predecessors. The record opens with creeping high end crunch that builds into a pulsing haze of all-encompassing droooone. More low-end, distorted swells of heavy bass kick in and, man, talk about headphone dreamland. These dudes really know how to rocket a listener into another dimension. As the record spins the duo cover all kinds of territory, cosmic feedback bleeps from the cockpit of a spaceship, orchestral beams of long-winded swells, single note droners that leave you dazed and entranced. A heap of bodies on the cover and a heap of guitars, pedals and amps on the back, the artwork is cryptic and elusive, perfect for a beautifully arranged record of analog dreamscapes for the mellow minded.
First vinyl release from these NY based drug addled space rock explorers, featuring a new member and a somewhat different sound. The new member is Kid Millions, drummer for the band Oneida, whose most recent disc, Preteen Weaponry, was a huge hit around here. But the addition of Millions doesn't signify a shift towards the abstract rhythmic heaviness of Oneida, instead, White Hills seem to have gone in the opposite direction, ditching some of their heavy freak out tendencies, and instead sprawling languorously, letting the instruments unwind, the songs unfurl, laid back, blissed out, far out, and endlessly drifting space rock, heavier on the space than the rock.
Two sidelong jams, the first, is thick with wah guitars, but those guitars are suspended in wide open stretches of whir and hum, wreathed in reverb, and allowed to drift and shimmer, the drums are the steadiest part, alternately jazzy and shuffling, subtle and propulsive, the recording and production is raw and immediate, almost like a rehearsal space demo, but it definitely suits the sound. The track wanders and meanders, like a super stripped down Hawkwind, until the various sounds become enveloped in soft clouds of spacey FX and buzzing synths, a crescendo of sorts, but the track never explodes, never gets heavy, it's almost like a field recording of some eternal space jam, a neverending sonic entity that continues forever in both directions, backwards until the birth of the universe, forward into infinity, we're just offered a glimpse as it passes us by.
The flipside is a bit dirgier, more garagey, a sort of stripped down Stooges-y stomp, but slowed way down, until it's almost a doomy dirge, more clouds of spaced out FX, this time a bit more raw, the sound a bit heavier, but still more spacey and abstract, the second half of side two a tripped out ambient bliss out, layers of drones and buzz, whirling beneath random minimal effects and some creepy looped vocals.
LIMITED TO 333 COPIES. White sleeves with paste on art, front and back, inside a red vellum insert, we did get a whole bunch of these, but as with most White Hills releases, they'll probably go pretty fast, and odds are we won't be able to get more.
Debut full length from this East Coast one man black metal band, and from note one, A Spell For The Death Of Man reveals itself as something not even remotely typical, a distinctly different, and surprisingly melodic take on the old blast and buzz. The opening minute or two of the nine minute "Solitude" is just guitar, all soaring mournful and minor key, playing out a distinctly post rock riff, unfurling lazily, wreathed in reverb, majestic and epic, sorrowful and distinctly indie, gradually growing slower and slower, before stick clicks bring on the blackness, a furious tangle of squiggly buzzsaw riffage and blasting beats, buried blackened shrieks. Somehow, even though on the surface the song seems to have switched gears completely, elements of the intro remain, within and beneath the roiling heaviness, lending the music a distinctly 'indie rock' vibe, especially when the track shifts again, and suddenly it sounds a a little like Superchunk or Seam, only supercharged and blackened and Satanized. Not to say this is super poppy and jangly, but it is, sort of. Once you hear it, it's tough to ignore, but then why the heck would you want to? Folks with a super limited musical scope, say, ONLY metal, probably won't hear it as much, especially if they're open to more melodic stuff like Alcest or Amesoeurs, but for those who maybe didn't grow up listening to only metal, as we're guessing is the case with Woe mainman (and only man) Xos. Just wait until the breakdown near the end, when that opening riff is wrapped around some muffled chugging, and some dense tribal drumming, suddenly it's equal parts Husker Du, Bastro and black metal.
The rest of the record is a bit more traditionally black, but even then, with galloping rhythms and dizzying black riffage, the songs still manage to sound strangely melodic, and in some super abstract sense, kind of poppy. But again, all of this pop and jangle and post rock, is totally tangled up with some seriously dense thrashing and super heavy, blasting black metal. It's that unlikely mix that makes Woe sound so different, and makes this record so awesome, deftly balancing the grim and the kvlt with the moody and hooky and melodic. The record closes with an even less black metal number than the opener, strange angular midtempo minor key guitars, plodding drums, very postrock / mathrock, the vocals still in black metal shriek mode, but draped over a lilting almost dirgey slowcore groove, definitely pretty, and a bit woozy and mysterious, but still heavy, and just the slightest bit black.
Fans of more melodic blackness will definitely dig, while dabblers and newbies might have just found the perfect black metal gateway drug.
Oh, how we wish sometimes that we had more time to spend with some of the records we review. In some cases, it's an hour or two, maybe 2 or 3 times through an album, sometimes, unfortunately, it's even less than that. With so many records, it's not always possible to totally immerse yourself, and some music requires that sort of immersion, for it to be fully appreciated, for the sounds to open up, the layers to peel back, revealing the music's beating heart. Such is the case with the music of David Eugene Edwards, formerly of 16 Horsepower, now spreading his dark apocalyptic folk gospel via Woven Hand.
The music of Woven Hand, as is evidenced by past aQ reviews (3 of the past 4 WH albums, well, now 4 out of 5, were aQ Records Of The Week, and when we try to figure out why the other one wasn't, for the life of us, we just can't), is the rare music that moves and inspires, sends shivers down our spines, gives us goosebumps, brings us to the edge of tears, a music powerful and personal, and so so intense. The sounds of Woven Hand, while gorgeous, are also ominous and haunting, the message even moreso. Edwards' lyrics deal almost exclusively with death and damnation, sin and salvation. He, more than any modern performer is the rock equivalent of a revivalist preacher, testifying like his life depended on it, and perhaps it does. The music backing up Edwards' passionate vocals, is a dark swirl of backwoods folk, of gothic rock (not to be confused with goth-rock), sweeping cinematic soundscapes, old time blues, lush and almost orchestrated, strings moan, sweet sad melodies are plucked out on old pianos, or unfurled from wheezing harmoniums. Woven Hand is the sound of some old dusty ghost town, or some strange traveling minstrel, set up on the back of a rickety old wagon, playing for coal miners, and forest folk, lit from below by flickering firelight, shadows dancing behind the band like some sort of mysterious back up band of spirits.
Ten Stones remains true to the first few books in the Gospel of the Woven Hand, from the first few notes, this could be nothing else, Edwards' super dramatic rich velvety croon, the tone of the guitars, those melodies, minor key yet shot through with some sort of hopeful warmth, some ineffable otherworldly glow, the one thing that is different, is just how rocking some of this is, almost heavy at points, the guitars thick and growling, the drums pounding and frenzied, strings singing, but all kept in check by Edwards' vocals. This new found heaviness is not a new direction, just another arrow in Edwards' musical quiver, as many of the songs still slither and crawl through those lost backwoods of tarnished souls and wasted lives, the twang left to drift in wide open spaces as often as it's wrapped around the heft of crunch and bluster. The record does manage to move in unexpected directions, the accordion driven filthy blues jam that is "White Knuckle Grip", or the moody torch song shimmer of "Quite Nights Of Quiet Stars", the pounding bluegrass buzz of "Kicking Bird", but even those anomalous excursions, somehow fit perfectly into the long winding musical road of Ten Stones. The last three tracks finish off things about as perfectly as possible, "Kingdom Of Ice" is total apocalyptic drama, the twang of banjo beneath a buzzing drone, Edwards's spitting fire, "His Loyal Love", a swoonsome, murky drift of soft smeared guitar buzz, shuffled percussion, and haunting reverb drenched vocals, the entire song wreathed in a swirling gauzy fog, and finally the untitled closer, a deep whizzing, nearly static drone, long tones slowly shifting, thick distorted guitar rumble and sweet soft tones, shimmering and spread out into a kaleidoscopic soft focus blur.
Another stirring apocalyptic missive, from one of the few, true remaining musical prophets, and even if your soul doesn't need saving, Ten Stones will have you wishing it did.
Musical salvation is at hand!
Couldn't really think of a much better match up. Xela, aka John Twells, who runs the Type label, and North Sea aka Brad Rose, who runs the Digitalis label, both explore similar sounds and sound making in their respective groups, as well as the various releases on their respective labels. This might be the first time these two have shared a record, but hopefully not the last. Perhaps the Volume 1 in the title does in fact hint at future volumes...
Xela gives us two track of his particular 'electronic music', and it sounds, thankfully, much like his more organic music, a bit more abstract perhaps, a lot less doomy, but just as mysterious and evocative, long sweeping soundscapes made up of sculpted hiss, and buried high pulses, ultra minimal but thick and layered, peppered with buried streaks of feedback, fragmented melodies, what sounds like manipulated samples from other songs, all manner of glitch and buzz, deftly woven into two movements, the first, noisy and staticky, powerful and intense, but still strangely pretty, the second, much more abstract, beginning as a whisper, a barely there drift of found sounds, before drifting forward, and accumulating various sounds as it goes, building to a strange and haunting piece of active ambience, very cinematic, haunting and again, in it's own difficult way, quite lovely.
The North Sea continues on in the same direction as the last few releases, ditching much of the folk and flutter, for churning low end crunch. At this point it does seem that perhaps the title Electronic Music was not necessarily meant literally, cuz at least to our ears this sounds like big heaving slabs of downtuned guitar, glacial doomdronedirge, roiling swirls of rumble and buzz, eventually breaking down to something much more ambient, an ominous blackened drift, rife with bits of electronic glitch and swirling space-y FX, before finally transforming into something much more blown out and blissful, a sort of static soft noise jam equal parts Tim Hecker and Aidan Baker, smeared and blurred into one smoldering expanse of soft focus heaviness. Quite gorgeous.
LIMITED TO 300 COPIES. Housed in plain white sleeves, hand stamped, the text mostly in Cyrillic.
Be warned. This is another one of those tiny, tiny, tiny editions from Digitalis; and it's undoubtedly out of print from the source. Yek Koo is the solo project of Helga Fassonaki, the Los Angeles half of the trans-Pacific duo Metal Rouge, who blew us away with their last record on Root Strata. She follows a similar path as Metal Rouge on Psychic Atonement For Land Deaths, mining a deconstructed post-Krautrock vein all the way down to its droning core. It's all voice and lapsteel on this album; and not surprisingly, she shares more than a few similarities to the freeform atmospherics of Heather Leigh Murray (Taurpis Tula, ex-Charalambides) or even to the earlier Grouper albums. Much to her advantage, Fassonaki uses her voice with a restrained panache when it comes to these distant siren songs bathed in thick clouds of reverb and delay. The lapsteel itself melts into magical cascades of bliss out drones, roughly swirled ambience, and sustained chords. Everything comes together into three gorgeous longform pieces of seductively creepy feral drone work. Fans of Fursaxa, Grouper, and Charalambides should not miss this one! LIMITED TO 81 COPIES!!!
Seems like only yesterday we got Yeti #5. Well, it was actually March of this year, but by Yeti standards that IS practically yesterday. So it seems that Yeti is finally on a more normal release schedules, which is good news for fans, like us, who hated the interminable wait between dispatches from Yeti HQ, each missive a gorgeous perfect bound mag packed chock full of art, and music, and interviews, and art, and photography, and always bundled with a kick ass cd, packed with tons of tracks from cool bands. This issue is no different.
Let's give a quick run down of what's in the magazine:
An interview with David Fair of Half Japanese about his cut out paper art, and several pages featuring various examples, an interview with New Zealand pop heroes The Clean, the art and music of Mingering Mike, an outsider artist who crafted his own record jackets, even going so far as to make fake price tags and label stickers, an interview with the Vivian Girls, an article on folk photography and old time post cards, Sic Alps and Eat Skull interviewed and then interviewing each other, a piece about music in NYC in the seventies and eighties, photos by Ted Barron, an archival interview with the Sun City Girls, an interview with novelist and photographer Peter Doyle, an interview with A.R.E. Weapons' Thom Bullock about DISCO and some of his various projects, as well as plenty of original fiction, art and even some poetry.
The cd this time around features tracks from The Great Unwashed, The Clean, Crystal Stilts, Ilyas Ahmed, Sun City Girls, Collections Of Colonies Of Bees, Times New Viking, Eat Skull, Devendra Banharts's Megapuss and more more more. All for a measly $12.00. Not bad. Not bad at all... ----* ----* Compilations : ----*
