Binges - Flame of the Millenium (Night People CD-R)

Binges are the Chicago duo of Anthony Decanini and Chris Robert. I found out about this group from a friend of mine who had gotten the CD in search of more stuff along the same punctured vein as Graveyards. Well, Binges was way off the mark, but what a glorious miss this one was! Utilizing Robert's drums, and assorted percussive elements (I'm guessing tables, chairs, walls, tables and chairs against walls, etc.) along with Decanini's electronics, sax, gee-tar, and bass, Binges conjure up some of the tightest and most focused improv this side of Actuel. Flame of the Millenium is their second effort, and first on tour buddies Raccoo-oo-oon's label Night People.

Comprised of eight untitled tracks, the album hauls ass the whole way through. Kicking things off with a DNA-style melody, all harsh and assaultive like, the album never slows down, even when exploring more ambient territory. Drums clammer in, stuttering and plugging along, driving the looped and craggy mayhem of this sonic canyon. These lands is hot though, so bring sunscreen.

What's best about the album is the overt precision that these guys cull forth. While a lot of bands might pride themselves on loose and loping rhythms and aimless meanderings, Binges is of a more focused sort, and the amount of power that the duo is able to wield because of it pays off big time. The second track opts to display a completely different side to their focus, culling forth frothing loops and warm ambient electronics as they slide along towards an increasingly manic end. Never playing more than necessary, this is clearly a pair who shares some kind of twisted and volatile vision of post-Mars, post-Shepp, post-Stockhausen orgies.

Track three is all stuttering and bleeping, a workout session for the circuit board and hi-hat. Again, the depth and resilience these guys attain is really killer. Its out there, for sure, but it never loses its repetitive nature or its mobility. Same goes for the fourth track, which is all excess energy and movement. This Robert fellow may not be the next Sunny Murray, but he's certainly nodding his head in that particular direction. His swells and activity really keep the pieces grooving throughout, like Tom Bruno (of Test) jamming out with John Olson.

Track five is another patient builder of a piece, with the sounds of clay pipes and bowels huddling together in the cold. The whole thing is vaguely reminiscent of some complex wind harnessing mechanism that merges pipes, chimes, and electronic currents into one naturally ebbing, clattery piece of sonic debris. Tracks six and seven reharness their harsher leanings, and definitely morph their ways towards respective danger zones.

Oddly, track eight is the closest of the bunch to Graveyards, though much less minimal and lurching. Binges never fail to keep it swinging--it's all kinetic focus and maniacal maneuvers. The group's already released another album on Arbor, so hopefully they will continue to hone their quickly developing sound. Hell, they've already been hailed as future kings of the Chicago underground, so who am I to tout their excellence? Limited to 200 copies. Definitely one to watch.

Burnt Hills - Green Blare (The Lotus Sound CD-R)

When I first met Jack, guitar slinger and shelter-provider for Burnt Hills, he came into the record store I work at with his son. My boss introduced us, mentioned that he was in the group, and we shot the shit for a bit before his son picked out a Hilary Duff CD for purchase. He looked at me and said something along the lines of "you know what? I've always told him that he should never let anyone tell him what to like. Guess he really listened to me huh?" It's true in a way. If Jack's son is trying to rebel by listening to the music most unlike his dad's, he found it.

I had said I would get around to reviewing these guys in that Century Plants review below, and I sure hope I ain't no deceiver, so here goes. My sister came down to visit me at school midweek, starting the whole college search and whatnot, and I had to bring her back up so I decided I'd make a weekend of it. Well no weekend home is complete without a stop by my sometimes employer and always-times music buddy Hal March's Toonerville Trolley Records. As far as my high school years went, Hal's is the epicenter of musical happenings in my town, let alone the closest hour--he's got it all, knows it all, and sells it all. One of those real deal independent record stores that are disappearing so fast nowadays. So anyway, I swung through, chatted a while, and Hal laid the latest Burnt Hills on me. Jack, the man behind the madness, had sent two complimentary copies of it for me and Hal, so I was psyched. Free is good, but it wouldn't be quite as good had Burnt Hills not had that special something that always made my feet tingle and my head travel in just the right direction. So thanks ahead of time to Jack for hooking me up--and if you haven't already been clued in, Jack runs the killer label and distribution center Flipped Out Records. Check it out for all kinds of goodies.

So on to the soundz. The Lotus Sound has released killer works by the likes of Graveyards, Loren Mazzacane Connors, Arthur Doyle, Milo Fine and Suishou no Fune, so when I heard that our very own local titans of madness would be releasing with them I got all kinds of excited. Handed the package, it looked just the way I hoped it would, with simple paste-on art over a cardstock fold over case just like all those other little "Handmade Series" numbers. The CD, laser etched, was cautiously placed in my car player, and off I was to the sonic no-man's land.

Burnt Hills sounds like exactly what they say they sound like. This is the music of flames ripping down canyons, bears and rabbits booking it trying to escape. The music starts off quite differently than many of their efforts on this one actually, sounding like the septet is trying to cover some Replacements demo or something before they begin to get loose and head into darker, murkier, sludgier terrain. Comprised of, get this, four guitarists, a bassist, a drummer, and this time around a xylophonist (Llana, whose cover art is as compelling as her playing, when you can hear it at least), so you can assume that there's not much room to breath on this platter. Knowing that these sounds are consistently recorded in Jack's basement, where all those riffs are able to mesh and echo against each other like huge swelling waves clashing on some poor deserted island, makes it all the more compelling.

Saw these guys live once the same night that that new Peasant Magik Century Plants 3" and Dead Machines played and they all switched instruments all the time, just slaying the walls. Surprised they can still hear, though I guess the senses aren't exactly what this stuff is about. This is more in line with overcoming your body through sonic means, like driving towards the sun and forcing yourself to maintain visual contact with the sinking rays. You might go blind, but at least you'll be one step closer to enlightenment.

Another destructo blast from a killer Albany unit. Sure, it's composed of those cautious noise mongers Century Plants, but the approach really couldn't be more different. Opposite approach, same level of delicious. Eat it up. Yum.

Sunburned Hand of the Man - Attica Rectangle (Manhand CD-R)

Well, here we go again. Another week has passed, and another Sunburned album hath descended upon us. Manhand #68, Attica Rectangle. And again, Sunburned have displayed yet another facet of their sound, this time in the form of amateur sounding, noodly industrial tunes. Field songs for uranium.

The album opens with "Inside/Outside," which might as well be a jam session between the Godz and No-Neck Blues Band. It lurks along in aimless fashion, grinding its way towards some uncertain end. By the time the second track hits, they've already got you right where they want you, halfway between your inner ear and outer space. "Shiv Giver" maintains the momentum with its dronescape, though the piece is far less meditative than what that term may bring to mind. This is all undulating displacement, mammoth conveyor belt noises driven by rust-laden cogs. Yet Sunburned never let it achieve the mayhem that it seems to point toward. Their restraint is more than decipherable.

Which leads me to something that would like to take a moment and discuss. Sunburned is great at doing what they do, yes, but what do they do exactly? How do they command such seemingly disparate musical ideas without ever losing touch of their inner Manhand? The trick, I think, is just that restraint mentioned above. Whether they be jamming on funky psychedelic groove sessions or tweaking out to some noise bliss mayhem, Sunburned rarely show all of their cards at any point in a piece. It is the fine art of listening displayed on a canvas as wide as the River Styx. As the fifth track, "Attitude: Wargang," rumbles in, with its space age guns and pulsing, fuzzed-to-hell bass jam moves in and out of your consciousness, you are never overwhelmed with all of the elements at once. They come, go, and come again, building into one amorphous mass lurching along the ground seeking its prey. But really I digress. You're here to read about Attica Rectangle, not to here my theories on why Sunburned might just be the greatest band of the last fifteen years. Arguments? Anyone?

The album rings in at a brief 28 minutes, with most of the second half of the album evolving from where "Attitude: Wargang" leads off. By the time you hit the last song, "Ape in the Hole Time," you've really just been witnessing one monstrous trick after another, all elements growing with steady precision, metamorphosizing into some bizarre hybrid of noise, drone, rock, and industrial. Another hit by the Sunburned crew, and theoretically the first in the "mental prison" series, whatever that may be. Here's looking forward to the rest, if it should ever rear its ugly head, but keep a keen eye out. This one was limited to 100 copies only. Which I guess is a whole hell of a lot better than two of their other releases from this year. Sugar Magnolia was limited to only 10, and believe it or not, Animal Andrew Crew was only given a pressing of ONE. Wonder who the lucky recipient of that was...

Century Plants - Sound System Sound (Tape Drift CD-R)

Century Plants are Eric Hardiman and Ray Hare, two axe-slinging skull soothers who you might know from Albany muckrackers Burnt Hills (a review of whom will shortly come). Whereas that group obliterates mental towers though, Century Plants sees the duo pairing down to guitar and effect methods, where they engage and converse in some of the most stunning nothingness I've heard in quite some time.

Of course, again, the album I'm reviewing is not their latest--they have a release out on the estimable Peasant Magik label which I hear is ridiculously great--but Sound System Sound is an album that has not received quite the attention that it deserved. Which may partly be due to its fifty copy release, but either way. Let's move on to the music.

The album is made of two membrane monster tracks, "Glue" and "Glass." Each make for approximately thirty minutes of mayhem, grinding, slurring, and grating their weapons of choice towards some sort of strange meeting point just over the border of insanity. "Glue" is the less noisy track, though upon throwing on the album you certainly would have to come to terms with what I'm saying, and may even question my reviewing capabilities, but yes. It is the less noisy of the two. It creeps slowly in at first, oozing and sputtering warm electric currents out of some Neptune volcano before it heads into the dark, eyes closed and arms out. Only problem is then you can't see what's lurking out there, and there are things out to get you on this alien planet, god damn it. So yeah, it basically twists and turns into some lurching metallic cockroach, and you're running, and all that green goo is getting on you and, oh shit! Why did you come to this planet anyway?! The soundtrack's killer, that's why.

"Glass," as previously stated, is much more heavy and dense, lurching as spikes and shards of, well, "glass" emerge from within. To me, the weaker track, but equally powerful and mind-bending. The interaction between these two really is spot on, weaving in and out of the deepest, darkest, and most beautiful caverns, not dissimilar from those grounds once tread upon by the likes of Fripp and Eno, though certainly with a bit more expansive of a sonic pallet.

One heavy package, and believe it or not I think this was only the second time these guys played together. Keep an eye out, even more stuff is on the way I hear. Who knows, Tape Drift might even have a few copies left kicking around...

Axolotl - Trade Ye No Mere Moneyed Art (Loci CD-R)

I'll never forget the first time I encountered Axolotl. I was shopping around during my first fated trip to Yod, noise mecca and digs of Ecstatic Peacers Thurston Moore and Byron Coley, as well as more recent helping (sunburned) hand John Moloney. Whilst perusing the vaults, getting all tingly and such, Moloney slapped on "Memory Theater," a compilation of Axolotl works put out on Important. Needless to say it blew me away from the get go, and both I and my cohort immediately expressed interest. Come to find out that, despite the seemingly endless piles of weirdness lying around the store, they didn't have it in stock, and no, Moloney wouldn't sell us his copy. It's wide availability did allow for my eventual acquisition of it though, and that disc was spun for many moons before I found a used copy of his self titled release on Psych-O-Path lying around the Other Music bins. Again, maximum spinnage was obtained, and my Axolotl craze was in full bloom.

Recently though, Karl Bauer, the main man behind the group, hit the world with a piece of news that could not have been more welcome. He was starting his own label, Loci, and was to initiate the label with three new releases, two Axolotl and one in tandem with Weyes Bluhd. Well I certainly wasn't gonna turn down this opportunity, but my being a starving college kid and all I had to make my decisions wisely, and decided that the obvious choice would have to be to go ahead and snag Loci numero uno. Housed in a plastic sleeve with a super cheapo xerox cover and an even more bootleg CDR (literally just one of those blank Memorex discs with the word Axolotl written on it) my hopes were slightly diminished. Momentarily. After all, this was the first release on the label, and according to descriptions of the "Live" album a mere taste of what is to come, so let's press onward into the sounds shall we?

Who was I kidding? Axolotl has released beautiful packages before, but what this release is missing in aesthetics it more than makes up for in sonic beauty. Bauer's unique blend of violin, electronics, and vocals, are masterfully blended to create drones far superior to your average over-hyped drone act. Where most contemporary drone acts opt for murkier waters, Axolotl is all bright sheen and layers. Rarely one to bother with a buildup, Bauer instead throws the listener right into the middle of it, an act that displays his confidence in not feeling the need to lead his audience through his fine craftsmanship. Nay, he'd much prefer to just throw you int here and let you meddle around the construction for a while like some gaping pantheon with a plethora of tunnels and hideaways to play hide and seek in.

The album consists of six untitled tracks amounting to nearly forty minutes of music which, to my ear, is never enough. The first track creeps in, sounding like a fan directed into a trumpet, creating strange overtones and building worlds of air. The trick is that, while other bands opt to either send you into the stratosphere or demolish you back into the bowels of the land, Axolotl keeps you hovering just over the salty brine, sprawled out and swaying. Halfway through, an encroaching train of bucket percussion and savory gliding tones emerge from the distance, providing the same feelings of uncertainty and seeking as Charles Ives' "The Unanswered Question." Of course Bauer too is smart enough to understand that the question CAN'T be answered, so the only solution is to continue moving forward as before.

Highlights include the fourth track, with its undulating waves of glowing breezes over the clicking and static murkiness of a darker place. Truly the sound of a lonely beach on a gorgeous, cool summer day. Yet Bauer is always wise enough to remind you of the microbes under your feet, tearing at your skin as you walk by. The vocals drift in and out before the song cuts short, interrupted by electronic humming and snapping and tribal yalping emerging from beyond the tree line. Again though, Bauer's patience in confidence in his constructions allows even these seemingly harsh noises to lull themselves into a gentle slumber. The last track, the longest by a stretch, is all blissed out electronics that lead from point Z right back to point A. Never one to give in to any need for proper conclusion is Axolotl's forte, and he does it better than anyone. One track ends, another begins, and before you know another Axolotl release has come and gone.

We should thank our lucky air waves that there's a label by this chap, because if #1 is any sign, great things will continue to emerge and evolve out of the Loci catalog. I only wish I could have grabbed all three of them.

Emeralds/Quintana Roo - Split (Arbor LP)

Ah, Arbor. That most unusual of labels that releases great experimental music in (sometimes) relatively large pressings and beautiful packaging. And to think it's run by a seventeen-year-old... what have I been doing all these years?! In a day where most of the bands on their roster either release the majority of their material themselves or through other like-minded, minuscule-proportioned pressing agents, Arbor puts out high quality vinyl that sounds great and really gives the bands present a chance to do what they do best in a swell environment. So when it was announced that they would be releasing a split LP featuring one of my favorite current bands, Emeralds, I snagged it up right quick. And, as an added bonus, Arbor had chosen to follow in the grand tradition of the split LP, tagging Emeralds up with similarly atmospheric group Quintana Roo, the split release kings (seriously, look into it. it's absurd how many splits these guys have been on...). Anyway, despite their prevalence, they remained a band I heard much of, but whose sonic pleasures had not attained contact with my ear drums. So yay for split releases.

The Emeralds side is titled "Bubble Quiet Complication," and boy do they have a knack for titles. To begin with, I couldn't think of a better band name to brand Emeralds' unique style of blissed-out, droning serenity. Shimmers all green like the stone. Get it? And "Bubble Quiet Complication" is merely a continuation of that apt description, flowing inward and outward, upward and downward, all undulatory-like. You know those phosphorescent algae that hang out in lagoons in Mexico? You wade on into this glowing sapphire ooze in the water, get covered in it, and you actually glow green. Secret of the Ooze anyone? That's about as close as I can get to the sound on this one. It doesn't really go anywhere, just shimmers and glides across the surface. Why would you want to move when your starting point is oh so well-suited to your mind state anyways? The only qualm is that it ends too soon. If I could have this soundtrack my excursion down the Amazon I would. And that's a long trip, I hear. Added bonus is that the label on this side, if held the right way, looks just like a big green jack-o-lantern. A Granny-Smith-o Lantern if you will... and I will!

The Quintana Roo side is another single-pieced side that attains much the same level of transcendental power as the Emeralds', but through vastly different means. Where Emeralds are all about shiny, stagnant poise, "Beheaded Dynasty" brings in a serious dose of tribal warfare. Sure, they move around the place slowly and deliberately, the percussion, trumpet, and synth lines building with great patience. But this is a fuckin onslaught. It is that particular breed of foreboding that can only be achieved by slow and steady repetition, like some far off Mongol army trumpeting their arrival. Thank god they never actually arrive. The trumpet (I think it's a trumpet line, though who knows... could be processed vocals, handmade weirdo electronics, who knows...) is a constant and steady presence, its ethereal quality nicely contrasted with the steady building of the drum line. Vocal lines pass in and out like the ghosts of soldiers past, all heeby jeeby like. When the guitar strums in, the face off begins, and boy does it seem like those Mongols are gonna slay us all with all their clattering wilderness driven intensity. This is heavy shit, and the intimidation lasts good and long, as any session of this sort should. By the end of it, your glad they've marched back into the wilderness, but the adrenaline's still pumping so you decide to shoot off an arrow anyway.

Basically, the album is great, and a must for any fans of the contemporary school of drone. Bonus points to Arbor for the weird portrait on the cover, which somehow encapsulates Quintana Roo's sound better than Emeralds'. But wait. Joy of joys. The vinyl itself is a rich Emerald green. Someone out there likes me, and I think it's Arbor. And Emeralds. And Quintana Roo. Limited to 450 copies, but definitely still snaggable. See, I finally got to one before discussion of it became obsolete! Huzzah!

Blues Control - Puff (Woodsist LP)

This past fall, Sunburned came and played their almost becoming annual show at my school, and a unit by the name of Blues Control opened for them. Now I must have been living in a tin can, but I hadn't heard of them, and frankly didn't expect much despite Moloney's cautioning of their rockingness. I stood and waited for them to set up, yapping with friends and such, when out of nowhere came the loudest guitar howl I'd heard in along time. Needless to say, I didn't pick up anything from them that night. Sunburned rocked equally hard, encircled by the frenzy of mayhem that was the Bard student body, so I had to put my money in to the old dependables. Well, I kept reading about them after that, and it seemed their new record, Puff, was a real dinger of a ringer. It also was a Woodsist release, the vinyl end of the fantastically great Fuck it Tapes. So I finally got it. Took me long enough. Let's see what the hype's about.

Blues Control is a duo from Brooklyn consisting of Lea Cho (keyboards, vocals, harmonica) and Russ Waterhouse (guitar, tape effects). They have'nt released much, but from what I've heard--which isn't much so mind who you're listening to--the unit is consistently killer. Their self titled CD released on Holy Mountain is a great mix of keyboard scenery over patch worked tape loops and crushing guitar demolition. Puff is a bit more sprawling considering that there are only five tracks on the album, and this seems to work to their advantage, allowing for ample space to construct the tomb I'm currently residing cozily in.

The first side consists of only two tracks,"Puff" and "Always on Time," though I'd be hard pressed to figure out where one ends and the other begins. The slowly building keyboard work of Cho, who seems willing to sit and rest on the same expansive riffage just long enough for the next addition to make complete sense, is unreal. Behind these meandeirngs are Waterhouse's environmental loops, subtely swaying in and out of the breeze while his guitar points towards the demons dancing just behind the light. The group's clearly got a concept here, and these are immense constructions with a bit more subtlety than your run-of-the-mill bong band. As Cho's keyboards gradually disperse the goblins reveal themselves. Turns out they're not all that bad after all. This is skull-stretching beauty, heavy enough to cause a stir in your bones but with such effervescent translucence that it keeps you fastened. It screams quietly, if you will, evoking huge summer storms over some arctic jungle.

Side two opens with some heavy, crushing, axe-wielded mayhem from Waterhouse while Cho sends shards of scattered humming above via that harmonica I mentioned up there in the proper intros. Fuck, this is totally different from the first side, and fuck, thank god it sought to take me there. I could ride this riff straight to the monochrome motherland. The rumblings build in the background like they're tearing those tape players apart. Like dull yellow, one viewer added. Sounds more like the darkest, deepest purple if you ask me, and that isn't even a reference to the band that might suggest.

The riff continues its disintegration into the second track, always building and shifting like a slowed down, spaced out Reich line. This googleplex of nod off behavior always tickles me in that specialist of places. Don't disbelieve the hype, it really is that good.

Graveyards - Formless Music from a Coming Age Graveyards - Enlightening Minds, Enriching Souls, Extending Hands (American Tapes LP/CD-R)

You know the boys. The Graveboyz. Those three arbiters of sound and aesthetic who coalesced into one heaping mound of gritty, zonked out dreariness. You got the ever-present John Olson, sax slung around his neck, warped gadgetry at his feet, a regular outlaw of the sound waves. Then there's Ben (Bunny, Hell, etc.) Hall, the drummer from another mother who sculpts his cymbals with bows and weirdness like Michaelangelo himself. And of course Hans Buetow, the classical demon, brought forth from the bowels of god-knows where to haunt Yo-Yo Ma forever. This is them, a rowdy cast of infidels. And they are Graveyards.

Despite their chilly sonic disposition, Graveyards is one of those groups who will always hold a warm and fuzzy place in my heart. They were the ones who really kick-started my decent into limited edition, handmade mayhem, and I still maintain that among their compatriots they stand just a little higher. Problem is, like so many of these groups they release more shit than a horse on hay day, jumping labels with such frequency that it's next to impossible to keep up with em. Recently, I got lucky enough to be able to snag their two most recent American Tapes releases, although, shit. Too late. Endings Vol. 8's already out, and long gone. Nay, that won't deter me. I'll press on blindly into these blizzards. But seriously. These things came out what? A month or two ago? And Olson's already got at least thirty more releases under his belt. ACTUALLY?... The man is truly unstoppable.

But enough of my yackin, let's get crackin. As far as I can tell, these two releases came out at the same time, probably to be brought on tour or something. One, Formless Music from a Coming Age, is a one-sided LP limited to 100, and the other, Enlightening Minds, Enriching Souls, Extending Hands, is a cd-r, also limited to 100 or so I would assume. Guess I'll yack short on the long player first.

Graveyards on vinyl is always a treat, and to my reckoning quite the handsome sight. Those early Brokenresearch releases (Bare Those Excellent Teeth, Vulture's Banquet, etc) are fucking gorgeous, and even that Lost Treasures of the Underworld release, which was unfortunately packaged in a clear slip case, utilized the drawbacks for the powers of good with that beautiful Olson etching on the back. Maybe it's just something about their sound that bodes well for vinyl--a dark, stark package always looks sleak, especially big, and that aesthetic just happens to be exactly what those Graveboyz residing on the grooves sound like. So when I heard American Tapes was cutting up a piece of vinyl I got psyched. And rightfully so it seems. Formless Music from a Coming Age is just the kind of directionless exploration that Graveyards are so good at. But get this. The track opens with a real live drum beat. Minimal it is, and primitive too, but it is a clear, clean beat. Basically, the track is broken up into two parts I think. The first part uses this slow beat to build on top of, underneath, and all manner of angles and dimensions through. Electronics creep themselves up out of the silence to mourn their mortality before slinking back into the shadows, and Olson's sax, which sounds quite a bit looser here than it does much of the time, bounces sound off the cavern walls with huge bellows of smoldering sax. My girlfriend thinks Graveyards sound like cow fucking, and honestly she's not so far off on this one. Guess the difference between me and her is that that doesn't detract from it for me. Quite the opposite really. By the time the beat dies down, it is left to just the electronics and the sax, although Buetow's cello seems to make appearances. Part of what's so wonderful about these guys is how well they play together. Buetow can here a squealing electric drone and virtually mimic it on his cello, creating a sea of uncertainty as to who the hell is doing what, and how the hell are they doing it. A real sonorous space for your consideration. Anyway, as with all the best Graveyards stuff it goes nowhere quick, and stays there right up until the record stops.

A brief hiatus, and on to the CD. This one might be even more smoking than the vinyl platter, though I guess it mostly is your personal taste. Me, I like Graveyards at their most intoxicatingly sludgey and aimless, and Enlightening Minds, Enriching Souls, Extending Hands is that. They actually expanded this one to a quartet, bringing in Lambsbread guitar slayer Zac Davis to add some variety to the mix. Anyone who knows Lambsbread knows how maniacally Davis tears his guitar apart, but on this one he displays a wholly different side, strumming his guitar for an eerie warmth when necessary (a la Loren Connors) or scratching at the strings with wands of walrus tusks (a la Derek Bailey) when things could go just a little deeper into the abyss. Instead of sounding like Graveyards jamming with some stoner-rock king, it sounds just like Graveyards as we know and love them. Still no shortage of that enveloping, intimidating silence. Anyway, the band slogs their way through four tracks on the disc, making for some forty minutes of Stockhausen meets Threadgill meets lucid dreaming bliss. Davis' guitar at times adds just the slightest psychedelic flourishes to the mix, but these come and go as quickly as any of the other textural shadows. Olson's sax yanks and tugs at the harsh electronics, and when Hall joins him on saxophone on the second track, it makes for blissed screeching that is oh so lovely to my ears. This is some weird, weird jazz. When it comes down to it, I don't really care if any of these guys even know how to play their instruments. They listen better than virtually any unit out there, and with great sensitivity add just a little more ice to the world. Keep em coming boys, global warming is real. I'll try to keep up.

Sunburned Hand of the Man - A Taste of Never (Ecstatic Yod LP)

Alright, I know I haven't been so great about consistent posting, but I'm in school and I'm busy, damn-it. I also don't mean to be overdoing the Sunburned material, but that last release was so disappointing (despite the obtuse, polite description I had to give for the folks over at blogcritics) that I felt I needed to post another about one that's actually quite smoking. A Taste of Never is a vinyl reissue of a previous CD-R that was released in 2007 (or 2006?) containing music that as far as I can tell dates back to 2003, but that release, which came with a poster by Hexit, was limited to 32 copies, so odds are you don't have it, making this beauty a (slightly) more viable option. If that's not a convoluted start to things, I din;t know what is!

Ok, on to the music. But first, allow me to weave you a tale. I have just gotten back to school, moved into my new digs in an old converted barn, and am settling in nicely to the trash heap that was becoming our living space. All the moving and schmoozing exhausts my poor little body though, so I come down with a bit of a bout with a head cold. Engulfed up to my britches in congestive grossnesses, and sprawled on the couch in a blanket, I thought that it might be a good idea to catch up on my music accumulation from over break. Figured this groggy state warranted dabbling in some new sonic territory that typically would call for a much higher aspirin dosage. Turns out this was the right medicine after all.

So what's it sound like you ask? This is the kind of meandering layering that Sunburned have always been so good at. Chock-full of bubbling vents of sound, Sunburned maintain their spacious constructions in just the right way; always, there seems to be too much going on for it not to be a mess, but they never let it get there, patiently building, each member sometimes repeating lines for entire tracks, never giving into to the urge to break out of it all and let loose. You know, really express their feelings! Nay, Sunburned is a wise collective of gents and dames, working together to weave a collective tapestry (cliche, no?) like some medieval wall-hang of a deer and men with funny haircuts and petty coats romping amongst maroons and yellows. If this was a carpet, it would be have to be a damn big outdoor one. Maybe it would be orange and cover a mountain. If it were a tree, it would be a weeping willow who's so zonked out that he's stopped his blubbering. If I were a good reviewer, I would be less obvious when I'm making analogies.

Despite one lame attempt at a "song" on the first side, the whole thing is just good. This is what Sunburned is best at. And of course, as usual, the package is totally beautiful. Letter-pressed cardboard sleeve, clear vinyl, and each one comes with an insert, though everyone I've seen has been different. Mine came with a little sticker and a xerox of some bizarre note speaking of mixing, cheese, and how "in order you have to play you have to remain alive." Pretty esoteric stuff. It also happens to be Ecstatic Yod numero uno, the first release of a label that has no reason to continue putting out exceptional, beautiful releases. These guys know what they're doing. Limited to 400 (why can't everyone just have one?!) and absolutely worth picking up if you can snag a copy.

Aaron Dilloway - Chain Shot (Throne Heap LP)

Opening with the gyrating scum of a lint-filled wind turbine, Aaron Dilloway's Chain Shot is a go-nowhere-quick exploration of the bowels of an inferno. This might just be what it sounds like inside the volcano, the lava spluttering up on you before it hardens into its shiny metallic coating.

With only tape loops, metal, and horns (and sometimes, it seems, metal on horns) the two side long pieces, "Chain Shot" and "Execution Dock" respectively, explore the ugly underbelly of noise before just scraping right through and aiming for the insides. In a genre that has quickly turned into a broad and often inaccurate description of a certain breed of every-man experimental music, Dilloway sticks to the old-fashioned definition of noise, doing battle with the materials in front of him as he continues the construction of his impressive body of work.

Dilloway, a former member of noise-titans Wolf Eyes, has recently been releasing solo work that explores much more abstract and thoughtful terrain than his previous group's onslaughts. "Chain Shot" is more a sound collage than anything, and while it is a heaping glob of muddled debris, it is also a highly controlled one. Looping samples on top of samples, Dilloway builds a slowly encroaching beast before slowly disintegrating it, bone by bone. This is some highly textural and immediately emotive soundscape work.

"Execution Dock" begins with a repeating loop of what sounds like the beginning and the end syllables of some nut's conversation with a lamppost. In the distance sounds a pained song of sorts, like a rodent's death cry, or maybe its birth one. I'm guessing maybe this is the horn, though it would be tough to be certain about much of anything here. Delayed creaks and groans float in and around as the vocal sample dissipates, leaving you sloshing through the mud puddle only to realize that its a tar pit the size of La Brea.

Dilloway continues to put out increasingly interesting records, and Chain Shot may be his best solo work to date. This is some slow, ambling stuff that offers far more than the average noise act. Actually, he offers a lot more than the average act, period. Only repeated listens reveal the depth of control and subtle manipulation that Dilloway is operating under here, and it is a joy to be dragged down with him. Beautifully packaged with a screen printed pirate aboard the cover, the album is limited to 500 copies on the always interesting Throne Heap label, so hurry before this monster disappears in the fog.