Anemone Lodge - S/T (Bezoar Formations CD-R)

Billed as a co-effort by the mugs behind Number None, The Opera Glove Sinks in the Sea and the previously reviewed Radiant Husk, this quartet effort is comprised of Jeremy Bushnell, Matthew Erickson, Gwyneth Merner and Chris Miller. Barely sounds like four people though, as it slips right into some pretty soupy textural trappings from the get go. Loving this Bezoar Formations approach lately, nice and airy but with some real weight to it, this one sounds like some fuller Super Minerals effort or something.

First track is called "Aunt Beast" and it conjures up some pretty heavy duty humpback whale, ocean territory. Nice bathings in fuzz and odd, acousmatic textures that glide along deep between the drowned pirate ship and the anemone forest. Even sounds like a cello joins the mix, which gives it all a pretty palpable feel without becoming any less gooey. Same goes for "Now It Still Murmurs Ripples," whose odd delayed string tweaks and low end murmur manage to cover all the timbral ranges without overloading it with sound. Everything being as well placed and carefully considered as it is gives the murk a sheen that's often lacking in this kind of thing. This is no doom drone, nor is it the earthy Housecraft style approach... really some kind of conglomeration of the two that moves like a leviathan on its way to the breeding pond.

Seems the group's on to the water metaphors too, as the third track is called "I Often Dream I am Drowning." Yet this is exactly the right feel actually--there's nothing overtly hostile or terrifying about any of this, but it's definitely some submerged, last minutes of consciousness stuff. Just never thought it would be so peaceful. Here, there're these broad sweeps of high tone that nestle into the upper vertebrae and really manage to fuck mental operations up. It's the kind of slow, creeping psychedelia that's always been way more personally effective than your standard onslaught of "trippy" sounds and psych-rock heaviness. Really gets in the brain and freezes it up for bit.

The disc closes with "Nerve Sparks in his Glass Feet," a 7-minute jaunt that closes the too-short 24 minutes of the work with a real slow and soft, airy horn thing. Kind of like Greg Kelley jamming it out with some synth tone, only Kelley's mic is turned way down. Real beauty though, slips right along and lets the album close right into the ether from whence it came. Another Bezoar winner for sure, and again, a beautiful package to boot.

Swamp Horse - Melted Gem (905 Tapes CS)

Also just published at Foxy Digitalis:

These days it seems like everywhere you look there’s some new doom and gloom drone unit harkening the darker forces of the universe. While much of this material takes a similar stance however, Swamp Horse manages to carve out its own niche in the approach. On “Melted Gem” the Kentucky duo of Josh Lay and Morgan Rankin continue to hone their warm and insular musical spaces. Presenting a tapered down version of the epically-inclined proportions of so many working in this vein, they are able to pursue a sound that meets somewhere between the basement murk of Sick Llama and the static immobility of Evenings as infused by bellows of burning air.

Despite the tape being only 20 minutes in length, the proceedings are so dense and so monolithically slow that there is plenty of time for total immersion here. Thick vaults of dark lava creep along in swampy catacombs that lead straight to the heart of Nowheresville. Whereas so many exporters of this brand seem to approach the sound from a gloom metal standpoint, whose goal is ultimately either riffage or at least deliverance unto some demonic catharsis, Swamp Horse come at the sound from the opposite end. Nary a hint of relief can be found in the thickly painted bass drones, guitar crevices and synth textures that inhabit this psychedelic sinkhole as every sound is spread so far out that the sound waves themselves become apparent, if not all-consuming.

If anything taints the proceedings here, it is simply that there is not enough. Sure, the album’s brevity makes for a taut and effective release, but one can’t help but wish for a longer swim in these waters. The deep beckons, but at this pace it’ll take a while to get there. Hey, I’m willing to make the trip if Swamp Horse is. An encouraging morsel from a unit that definitely has its act together, and on the always killer 905 Tapes, to boot. Quite the combination indeed.

Russian Tsarlag - Community Death Tube (Night People LP)

Just published over at Foxy Digitalis:

Sometimes there’s just no room for the sun. The debut full length LP from Providence-based Carlos Gonzalez’s Russian Tsarlag project, here issued by the much-lauded Night People label, is a sink hole of stark strip mall-hewn loner punk that leaves little untarnished in its wake. Yet this is no mere complaining—there is a snarky depth here that pushes it away from mere junkie poetics toward a distinct take on industrial bedroom pop. Think two parts John Bender, and one part each of Black Randy and Alan Vega, with special guest appearances by the slowest gamelan unit yet assembled.

Steeped in bleak concrete echo, Gonzalez’s vocals are the main act here; he has, through clenched teeth and slackened jowls, a unique and compelling delivery on lyrics that run the topical gamut from indecipherable to inconceivable. Drawn out over what are typically hyper slow drum machine tempos, the words take on new levels of desolation, even when they previously had no connotations whatsoever. The near perverse repetition of the one word title on “Roungina,” as one example. Or the declaration that “I Know David” as another… though I suppose we all do know one, don’t we?

Which isn’t to say that this is all mindless muttering—buried beneath the silt is, well, more silt, but it’s pretty compelling silt. Gonzalez’s minimal tin can aesthetic is humorous enough to give his oppressed statements credibility strengthened by odd intervallic skits where Gonzalez further hones the grime bathed in throughout. Through these become visible a distinctly paranoid, urban apocalypticism: ““We’ve gotta find a way to expel these feelings, or at least come to terms with them. Perhaps the ancient bleach party dog calendar can give us some advice to come to terms with this strange unknown energy.” I’m gonna have to go with him on this one.

Other points feature dirt-infused movie snippets or horror aesthetics, but the whole effect goes far beyond mere stylistic recycling. Moments here are quite beautiful, as on the closing “I’ll Walk Through It,” where synth keyboards and gentle, bruised vocals croon for the end of time. It is these sparse moments of tender fragility that lend the album emotive resonance, making it a lasting document from a most effecting sage of Wasteland, America. “I’ve got problems,” he states dryly. Suffice it to say that most can relate to that.

Loren Connors - The Curse of Midnight Mary (Family Vineyard CD)

As published at Brainwashed:

The already mysterious musical world of Loren Connors is made even more so by these recordings, finally unearthed after being lost for nearly 30 years. Of course the loss would not be nearly so poignant if it weren't for the fact that the recording shows Connors serenading the grave of Midnight Mary, the ghost of whom will apparently kill anyone who remains in the graveyard after midnight. While Connors clearly came out the other side alive, it does give these delta-drenched chants a certain weight as once more a bluesman—albeit a fairly loose interpretation of one—once more play games with the devil in search of musical ends. Keeping consistent with the folklore, it works yet again.

More importantly though, the album provides an early glimpse into the formative years of this modern guitar hero. Presented are nine tracks, all recorded to cassette on the same day in 1981, that see Connors mixing acoustic, delta-inspired guitar abstractions in duet with moaning vocal accompaniment. With only these two sound sources to work with, this is an intimate and haunting display of Connors' creativity within the blues medium, stretching Charley Patton's gospel vocals and Skip James' country blues style into his own collagist breakdown of the form.

As strange as his version of the blues may be though, Connors' play is steeped in tradition, as can be seen by numerous blues covers and allusions throughout. Twice, on "Chant 3" and "Chant 6," he stretches out on the themes of "Amazing Grace," infusing it with the deep gospel soul of its past while giving it an angular, exploratory quality too often lacking in covers of such well-known material. Rarely does the avant-garde so neatly coalesce with tradition without losing any of its soul.

Elsewhere on the disc, Connors calls upon any variety of influences, always handling them with aplomb and imbuing them with his own highly developed improvisational signature. Though often associated with a more folk-based (and seemingly classicist) tradition, Connors is an improviser at heart; barely able to read music, he has to be. With the same vigor that he would later bring to duo recordings with Jandek then, he croons and moans his way around these dark tunes with a loose and dissonant grace. The notes are important, sure, but what is ultimately more interesting is the proximity that Connors has to the guitar as an object; the sliding of his fingers, the banging of the wood, all add to the richness of these pieces.

Vocally too, Connors presents a highly elastic and deeply felt style that, while wordless, is never secondary to the guitar work here. Instead it moves around the thick chords and twanging runs, humming and vibrating in conjunction before breaking off to present some variant on the melody beneath the guitar's own distractions. While it may not be the kind of singing most often associated with the blues, there is a cathartic and spiritual quality here that is wholly Connors'. And ultimately, isn't that what good blues is all about anyway?

Special note too should be made that Connors presents a cryptic message on the back of the album, suggesting that no one listen to it due to the circumstances surrounding its recording and subsequent loss. Well I'm still here, and having survived the night, can safely say that music with this much life should never be missed for fear of some mysterious undoing.

Hope that doesn't jinx it for me...

C. Spencer Yeh and Paul Flaherty (w/ Greg Kelley) - New York Nuts & Boston Beans (Important Records CD)

As published at Brainwashed:

Splitting off briefly from usual drummer Chris Corsano, Burning Star Core's C. Spencer Yeh and experimental jazz elder statesman Paul Flaherty embarked on a brief Northeast jaunt in the closing months of summer, 2007. Taking full advantage of the abandoned rhythm section, the violin and saxophone duo lose none of their power or chaotic potential while skillfully wielding the precise interactions allowed for in such an intimate musical setting. A logical addition is found in trumpeter Greg Kelley's inclusion on two of the pieces, as his breathy playing fits neatly in with the obtuse sonics explored throughout.

Given that these pieces are primarily violin and saxophone duets, and that both members have a penchant for jazz inspired work—Yeh in groups such as the New Monuments, a trio featuring percussionist Ben Hall and Borbetomagus sax demolitionist Don Dietrich; Flaherty in groups including Orange and Cold Bleak Heat—it may be a surprise to find that, while these improvisations surely call upon the free jazz tradition, they are not overtly such.

Both Yeh and Flaherty are among a burgeoning few who traverse the grounds between free jazz and the underground experimental and noise camps, and it is this diversity which allows for such fertile material to be chiseled throughout the proceedings. Yeh's violin is nimble, but rarely does a clean tone or traditional bowing tactic reveal itself. Rather, his instrument is sonically ground down to its very elements, just wood and string, from which he creates any number of scrapes, whispers and shrieks. Flaherty too is well versed in a "sound as sound" approach, having played with members of No-Neck Blues Band and Sunburned Hand of the Man among many, and his saxophone dives from Ornette Coleman-like runs to deep crevices of saxophone bellow and airy fluttering.

Yeh also displays a penchant for vocals, as on the second track from a show at Issue Project Room in Brooklyn. With elastic verbalizings, Yeh belches and guffaws sounds that fit right into his violin approach, even mixing in harmonica at one point. This experimental versatility is impressive, but more impressive is the fact that he gets away with it. Flaherty's lack of playing allows Yeh enough space to turn his voice into its own odd sonic landscape, a necessity in its avoidance of seeming mere self-indulgence, and in lesser hands it might. But Yeh's control and energy mean that it is as effective as any other instrument on display. That Flaherty joins in to end the piece in a torrential duet only makes the approach all the more effective.

When Kelley steps in on the fourth and fifth tracks, both recorded at the Nom D'Artiste in Boston, his breathy play weaves effortlessly into the duo's folds. With plenty of experience playing with both representatives here, Kelley is more than comfortable in this environment. Like Bill Dixon filtered down to mere wind and brass, his broad trumpet tones stretch across the tumultuous landscape above, providing a subtle touch without being rendered useless or lost in the anarchic mix.

That these duets are so successful is testament not only to the abilities of those performing, but also to the health of experimental music in general. Yeh and Flaherty are astute improvisers whose interest in music spans gaps that, in this climate of interconnectivity and availability, need to at last be spanned, i.e. noise and free jazz, lower case improv and drone, and a whole slew of other subforms whose similarities number far greater than their differences. These recordings are a display of three key representatives in a burgeoning subculture that is quietly doing just that, albeit through some pretty noisy means.

Traum - Tanto Impresos Como Sistemas (Bug Incision Records CD-R)

Alright, I also write for All About Jazz and while those reviews rarely apply here, this one definitely does. So here's one from there... not to be stacking the blog, but it's all my writing and I figured people who are into this kind of thing are probably reading here. Right. So here it is:

Drummer Ben Hall and cellist Hans Buetow have been frequent musical collaborators since their time at Bennington College in Vermont, USA, participating in various group settings that tread the boundaries between basement noise, free jazz and modern composition. Employing Oberlin graduate Chris Riggs' guitar work, the tandem has resuscitated Traum, a unit whose work sways from lower case experimental spaces to hyper explosions of free punk attitudes.

On Tanto Impresos Como Sistemas, a document of the trio's first performance together, it already exhibits an affinity for the kinds of active exploratory environments traversed by groups like AMM and Air. Hall's percussion rattles about in miniature pockets of textural pace setting, Buetow's cello hums and sputters reverberative gusts and Riggs' guitar shoots outward toward some strange space between the utter still of Loren Connors and the destructive power of Alan Licht. That it stays together as well as it does is testament to the near telepathic musical language that the group displays.

The first of three untitled tracks moves between dense fits of movement and punctuated silence as it grows from Buetow's impressively bravado entrance. Hall enters to deepen the gray scale range being worked in, reacting beautifully as the two find a perfect symbiosis. Riggs' elastic lines snake around Buetow's as the trio quickly find its footing, only too willing to loosen it before grabbing another motivic fragment around which to regroup.

The second track explores an even sparser layout as various bellows and thrusts emerge from the air before settling back down. Hall's kit maintains a material physicality as Buetow and Riggs trade off between coaxing sliding swathes of breath and scraping metallic noise from their instruments, eventually brewing the work into a brief but strange sort of expanding African jazz work before moving back toward quieter realms.

In a group such as this, whose sonic palette and open forms leave the possibilities so vast as to make each moment exciting, a tangible proximity evolves that is truly about the sounds and their interaction. This sensuality is once again displayed on the closing track as plucks, bows and cymbal crashes are turned into droplets, motors and waves. It is the empathetic performances by all members that weave the album into a work that is impressive far beyond merely being a document of the trio's first sessions together. Rather, it is the astounding initiation of a group that is sure to continue expanding its already simpatico musical relationship.

Travellers - The Sound of Travellers (Plustapes CS)

So now that I'm writing for Foxy Digitalis as well, I'll post some of the reviews I do for them over here too... this and the one below are both from this week's run over at that fine establishment:

Last year saw Chicago’s Plustapes emerge as a major dispenser of obscure world music via the equally obscure cassette medium. That this combination managed to catapult the label to the fore of all the right circles is testament to both the strength of their material and their careful habitation of a distinct niche. This trend continues with their release of this tape by Singapore’s Travellers, whose soundtrack worthy grooves nestle themselves right in between that comfy oceanic getaway between Los Angeles and Bangkok.

The whole vibe is fairly ascertainable from the cover alone. Just six guys in tuxedos who are so beautifully removed from the western tunes that they’ve been spinning that they can’t draw a line between Ennio Morricone, Junior Walker and the Ventures. The recipe combines a healthy dose of Duane Eddy guitar twang, frolicking drum lines, Meters-style bass work, watered down synth runs and just about every number that’s ever had you discreetly tapping your foot in the local sushi joint, and the result is Travellers leaving you gladly abandoned on the Isla of your choice, complete with margaritas in constant, toxic flow.

Some of these numbers are so colorful and cartoonish that they read more like the soundtrack to some ultra crude video game than a mammoth convergence of popular forms from every corner of the globe. But Travellers actually represent, in their own way, all of the most fascinating aspects of culture clashes. Their influences are so apparent, and to some degree so shoddily misinterpreted, that the product is a completely new sound that simultaneously signals the birth of some alternate universe musical phenomenon and the death of everything that Travellers have ever heard. Travellers are destroyers, but they only destroy in order to create.

The consequence of all this destruction is, ironically, a music suitable for practically any occasion, so far as it’s a good one. The small budget, big sound approach of the production would fit in as nicely at your favorite local restaurant as it would at your next birthday party. Whatever you may ask of them, Travellers are surely ready with one hand on their pistol and the other on their surfboard. I can’t tell whether this tape is so bad it’s good or just so good it’s good, but either way the outcome is clear. Travellers are a world all their own.

Drunjus / Xiphiidae - Split (Housecraft CS)

As published over at Foxy Digitalis:

Jeffry Astin’s Housecraft label had a spectacular 2008, planting its roots and earning a bevy of die-hard fans faster than Michael Phelps did with the Marijuana Reform Party. That Astin has managed to maintain momentum into the new year is an encouraging sign that 2009 will be just as sterling. This release, a split between Astin’s own Xiphiidae project and Madison improvisers Drunjus, is rife with fragile and airy drones that move with delicate tenacity over the entire course of the tape’s near hour-long journey.

The first side belongs to Drunjus, a duo comprised of Tony Endless and Dan Woodman that also had a bustling 2008 release schedule. Here they continue their exploration of tree-lined drone structures with two lengthy pieces, “Chicomoztoc” and “Memogovissioois,” bound by a similarly stagnant sense of organic warmth. Vats of moss and dirt encrust everything here, caking each sound in a haze of static whose age might as well be determined by rings rather than minutes. This lack of horizontal movement and subsequent textural focus—sounds shifting softly beneath the fuzz of the cassette tape—displays a daring and patient collaborative effort whose careful concoctions are fragile without being the least bit dainty.

The flip side is Xiphiidae’s, whose similarly minded drone works had me thoroughly blown throughout last year. And this side, consisting of one untitled track, is no disappointment. Utilizing field recordings, vocals, tapes, and who knows what else, Astin again creates a unique and spacious sound that taps right into those hollow areas in your skull, filling them with gooey ectoplasm. Moving through static minefields and quivering tumbleweeds, the side displays the same tactile use of the medium as the Drunjus side, allowing the tape itself to do much of the work atop mini muffled melodies buried in the floor of some colossal grey forest just north of the inner eye.

Both sides slip right into one another, making this one to be flipped long into the night. There is a tactile, sensory quality to both of these artists that allows for them to explore sonic spaces whose views may be vast, but whose weight lies in the earth directly beneath their feet. This is music that implies the infinite as well as any drone can, but Drunjus and Xiphiidae don’t leave their backyard to find it.

Radiant Husk - Several Potem (Bezoar Formations CD-R)

Just got a swell batch of items in from San Francisco based label Bezoar Formations. Beautiful little packages all. Figured I'd start the review damage off with this one from Matthew Erickson, aka Radiant Husk, who's put together a fine little sub-half hour meditation work with Several Potem's four tracks.

Using reeds, tapes, keyboard and "etc." (which seems to most notably include vocals), Erickson opens with "Bell Peel." Layers of keyboard drone emit outwards from some center a la Terry Riley while saxophone squeals and voice gel together into a nice and fluid four minutes, opening on a note that finds some pretty active material between stagnant drone and anarchic sax work. While sax seems to be making a comeback in the world of experimental tape release, usually you get the grimy, Olson via Doyle sound but Erickson goes a little lighter and airier on it. Sort of a Lee Konitz meets Bill Dixon thing if both were stripped of any jazz associations whatsoever, and limited to slow high end snake charm styles.

The next track, "Kalpa Night," steps back from the near Gregorian clarity of the first one to get its hands a bit dirtier in some vacuum loop material. Nice and slow, everything here just sort of bubbles along, with odd little punctuations and breathes of tone repeating over one another to create an internal momentum like some caterpillar snaking about "find that milkweed" style. Erickson's got a knack too for filling these compositions with enough rich warmth without ever stepping over into cosmic territory. Everything is nice and grounded and subtle, each move important and distinct. As it all disintegrates towards the end, it does so more by washing itself out than cacophonizing it, slinking back into a pool of algae.

"Leaning Strata" continues with some nice keyboard excursions, kind of Ducktails tropical style only with more of a goth lo-fi overtone going on. Sort of reminds me of those old John Bender discs almost. Odd warbles and nauseating motions that keep everything nice and off balance as they build toward silence, only to be overtaken by the sonar squeals of a zillion hungry bats. Everything stays nice and unsettled though, with the melody still hovering gently in the thick air. There's an indecisiveness here that keeps it interesting and quite beautiful in its fragility.

The closing "Water Margins," the longest number here at over a third the length of the disc, explore some sparsely laid electronic drones that hum and stammer their way about beneath sax bid calls. Very subtle and not too distant from some of that Housecraft material in its intense and insular grace. Moves pop up, retract, overtake, in a constant epochal race to the top of the food chain. A nice end to an understated and super effective disc... more to come from this killer label for sure (oh and the two cover art pictures are the inside and outside in case that needs clarifying...).

Crudedecues - S/T (Twin Beds CD-R)

Here's a disc I just got in the mail from Nathaniel of Twin Beds fame. Here presenting his first solo outing under the Crudedeuces name, Brennan branches out from the group improv stylings of his other unit in favor of a more insular and personal approach that manages to focus the energies of his other unit down to a giant cosmic mashing of psychedelic sludge.

At four tracks and about 35 minutes, the work gives ample time for each track to develop at its own rate. The first track's 11 minutes flow gently through a thick haze of fog as sitar loops, drum patterigns, vocal utterances and who knows what else melt into each other with peaceful mis/indirection that treks similar ground as Ashtray Navigations, Vibracathedral Orchestra and Sunburned at their most psychedelically minded. Yet Brennan always infuses his work with his own sense of crude (there you go...), anything goes sonic experimentation and though the track sounds heavily crafted it still keeps intact all of the odd rhythms and "mesh as you will" sounds that keep the piece so interesting.

The second track is the shortest, presenting just over two minutes of guitar slaying, vocal moaning, radio chatter and static. Could be the soundtrack to some guitar god standing on the Mountains of Madness during a lightning storm, head banging as dragons careen in the skies above. Total slayer, blown to hell blast that nevertheless retains the densely intersecting, genre-defying qualities that keep the disc so interesting. Same goes for the third track, the longest on the disc, which starts as a typewriter in an air vent hum before moving through more motor and grind haze, feedback abounding. Even when working in this kind of tape filth and grime, Brennan's pieces always move and remain something to follow. There are enough small murmurs and background meshings here to keep it sounding fresh and exciting without losing any of its strange and mechanized atmosphere. Even presents minor little melodies here and there, puttering about like a tiny toy orchestra. Really nice.

The disc closes with further excursions into repetitive rumbling territory, here osunding less industrial and more just desert strewn garbage drone. Really weird little progressions take place, almost prog-sounding but with more than a hint of zonk underpinning it. Just stoned to hell, with busy little flashes of electrocuted riffage. A really excellent disc and great representation of Brennan's amazing sound. Beautiful little package too (they always are), but limited to 33 so contact the man himself if you want to snag one. Also saw it over at Tomentosa where it's a ridiculous bargain at $4. Awesome!