Sparkling Wide Pressure - Golden Thread (Kimberly Dawn 3" CD-R)

Here's an interesting one. Basically a remix album, this finds Frank gripping some recordings made by a friend of his, Blake Barton, and using them as the source for this little 3"er. Strange sounds abound, but it all has the distinct feel of a Sparkling Wide Pressure release, a testament to the strength of vision practiced by Baugh.

The little thing starts off with some looped smokers-cough vocals that growl over and over while clanging guitar sort of rebounds around beneath. Takes its time spreading out, but when it does it sprawls all the way, lending itself toward drawn out percussion and semi-tonal murmur. Starts to really lift-off about minute eight, when the tin pan, rain on steel rhythm accompanies some increasingly sci-fi laser drones that shoot right out, emitting toward some sun without a glance back. Real spaced stuff here that serves the noggin well if it's incorporating the proper ingredients. Baugh's control of the material is clear too, as he really lets each little part evolve all on its own, some heading toward the trees, others dipping deeper into the oceanic bowel systems, and some skipping the life step and turning right into pure energy with its eye on the quasars. As the whole thing pitters out, it sorta lets slip each part at a time, leaving the skeleton but getting rid of the muscle so all you have left is this odd space of hollowed out activity that you can still bend; it just can't do it willingly anymore. Has to lay there limp instead until someone else comes and gives it a bend. By the finale the thing's disintegrating between your thumbs, dust-to-dust, but man what a journey.

Second track is a little more neon, even nearly dancey, with little statements of melody below ping pong ball rolls and reversed plate clatters. Sort of gentle-ish before it slips into pure sound zones for a stretch, weighing still while the blade gets closer. Might as well be the sounds of some Rube Goldberg machine in motion, spewing out Seussian sludge till the nimblequacks emerge to sing their songs of peace. Short and sweet, but again, it sure is sweet.

Anvil Salute - Cosmic Yes (House of Alchemy CD-R)

Here's another new contribution to the pool from House of Alchemy, this time in the form of a nice little disc from a group I hadn't heard of before this, Anvil Salute. Apparently they hail from the Midwest, but they sound like they might as well be from the Far East, or at least New York circa '68, imploring a nice combination of free jazz, raga and free-folk into a kind of ESP meets Impulse meets Folkways sound that's super together.

Track titles here are super extended too, which gives the whole thing the feel of a journey of sorts, going from the opener, "The answer is YES; the question doesn't matter" to the fourth and final track, whose title is long enough that I won't recreate it here but suffice it to say it has as much to do with Trout Fishing in America as it does not. Along the way they really go some places, opening with the Indian strings and bells of the opener, whose clacking rhythms find the album steaming in off some pale shores a la Alice Coltrane's Journey in Satchidananda. A smoky sax even rolls about among the mini celeste melody as the thing unfolds into some desert sands lope whose pace is just steady enough so as to give it that Lawrence of Arabia, sun rising behind you feel as the sax loosens it up and gets some silt in its shorts. Feeds right into the next track too, which skitters over some sea shell bells and a snare tap or too for a real brief go of it before falling right over itself and into some languid guitar lines on the aptly titled "The Virtues of the Fuck-Up," whose little celeste melody sort of twinkles along above the increasingly swampy guitar work. A real clean sound though, focused way more in pacing and steady coagulation then seeking out some muddied psychedelic mess. Kind of precious in its own way, though not unenjoyable for it as is so often the case.

The closing track sees reentry for the saxophone, which opens the tune with a billow and a blare while a trumpet sort of mutters to itself underneath. Steady little thing that sounds like the percussion from Art Ensemble mixed in with some post-fire number. Some surprising horn playing too here, real good sound and nice movement around each other, kinda fumbling over one another while the atmospheric backing adds flourishes to the falls. A lot of restraint on hand too, with no one really willing to push through all the way and go for it--the result being that it's never cluttered at all, each sound clear and each line fluid. Nice piano interspersions too that give it an even more percussive feel that's as light as air. Good stuff, the band clearly has a conception and is willing to step out of the proverbial box in subtle and surprising ways that keep the whole thing super fresh. Another glorious one from House of Alchemy, and somehow the spare construction paper cover gets the right idea entirely.

Sutra - Sutra (Small Doses CD-R)

Also in from Foxy Digitalis:

Another project of Haare mastermind Ilkka Vekka, Sutra draws out a more psychedelically minded blueprint, sketching out a drone dialect that is far more concerned with free floating forms than fastened fidgets. The opening track, named after both artist and album, combines raga style sitar loops on clacking snare drum patter and heavily handed strummings that chunk along like Robert Johnson on cigar box. Behind all that is ample electronic perversion, shimmying up and down in muted derangement over the course of the track. Parts of it almost read like one spaced Hawkwind moment looped on top of itself, frozen in immobile stasis. The cut does move though, layering on a heavy hit of fuzz for its latter half before lightening up a bit and increasing the weird quotient, switching between free-folk fuckery and fumed out sun-splotching.

The second track—“The Howling Sun,” as it would turn out—sticks with the more crucified sound for the most part, drilling holes in drills drilling holes in Teflon. Eternal damnation guitar/vocal bellows glide over the grinding, gorged out backdrop, providing it with just enough of the human element that it’s alarming to one’s personal sense of safety; clearly, whoever’s in there does not belong down there, so near the molten coal, but they keep singing something sweet anyhow. Does come up to breathe for moments though, picking up intangible meter as it works its way through spider webs down in Indonesia, but the end result is a one way trip back down to the brine. Savage and quite beautiful.

Anonymeye - The Disambiguation of Anonymeye (Sound & Fury CD-R)

In from Foxy Digitalis:

The moniker of experimental artist Andrew Tuttle, this disc, named in honor of John Fahey, Mariah Carey and Wikipedia according to the liner notes, find the experimental artist supplementing his finger-picked guitar works with a number of synthesizers, giving the album a strange habitation between the mechanistic and acoustic that gives it a highly unique feel.

The first two tracks, “Memorandums 1 & 2,” are pure synth stasis, giving little hint of the sound to be explored on “Hill Loop,” a gently lilting guitar progression finger-picked within sheets of gliding synth lines that morph between alien signals and pure warm hum as the guitar fades out and is replaced by a banjo that closes the track with a kind of bristling, thistle enwrapped joy. “If at First You Don’t Secede…” finds the same sense of warmth in the synth work meeting a sliding string line that keeps things firmly in the yellow grasses of the South, its humming overtones displaying the stars’ clarity from the expansive fields. There’s an almost Henry Flynt feel here in terms of bluegrass being reinterpreted to more experimental ends, though the addition of synths calls for very stripped lines and a humble feel often lost in Flynt’s hyper-conscious work.

Other highlights here include “Janitor of Luna Park,” a real tune that has a nervous sense of nostalgic excitement, single note synths chattering amongst Appalachian valleys of guitar pluck and strum. “Sabbatical from Procedure” starts faintly before crackling inward, its thudding underbelly pushing it along the dune lines until it slips out on the water, riding crests of waves toward coasts unknown. The closing title track is perhaps the most Fahey-like one here, and almost could be off of “The Yellow Princess” in the way it moves between folk interpretation and sheer experimental what-the-fuckery. A nice little disc, understated and well conceived, with appearances by Seaworthy’s Cameron Webb and Mirrored Silver Seas’ Tim Condon.

Jah Lion - Dub Bible (Roll Over Rover CS)

Well well, it's been a might long break between reviews it's true, but once confronted this little number what can I say, it just settled me into some kind of summer slumber that had me off in nether-lands for a hot minute. Hard to believe this one really, a straight up dub tape courtesy of the fine folks over at Roll Over Rover that's concerned with little beyond Augustus Pablo, Lee Perry and Adrian Sherwood--just the way we like it.

First side of this tape, which was way too limited and sold out in about twenty minutes, is one straight extended dub session called "Rasta Takeover." Not sure whether they're the rastas taking over or they're being taken over by the rastas but who cares. Cut it either way and it's still dub crazy. They go all out too, calling on the talents of Jr. Dr. Tristan for drums, Dave "Bucketface" Shakespeare on geetar and Sir Miles David Shakespeare II rock steady on bass. Great effects laden stuff throughout here too, with the drums delaying outward into oblivion so as to really drag out the tropical sunset vibe. Nice too that the material is good enough so as to avoid being straight tongue-in-cheek style stuff. White people rarely make reggae sound this good, weird though that might be. Drifting vocals abound too, giving it a real dub-me-crazy version feel.

Flip side divides it three ways, with "Jaded Mutha Dub (Babylawnmover Version)" getting into some more spaced, Creation Rebel-style material, way out and skittering stuff that features that signature McCann side that everyone's crazy for. Bowed banjo slips surprisingly well into this stuff too, and like melodica seems strangely suited to this type of stuff. "Two Sevens Clash," named after, well, "Two Sevens Clash," Culture's classic, may or not be a dub of the title track but who cares really? The spirit's the same, totally smoke-filled with the electronic manipulations falling in just the right crevices for most ample effect. "3 Guys and a Babylon )XXL Fluffy x 2 Version)" brings in RAS Iretha-Franklin III, who contributes some wonderfully suitable chant that ain't Big Youth, but sure as hell has the right idea. Also, props to the crew for the paint job on said cassette--really gets you to where you need to be. Mighty and surprising, ital vital style.

Black to Comm - Charlemagne & Pippin (Digitalis CD)

Also in from Brainwashed:

Marc Richeter's Black to Comm project has always been more or less singular in its scope, seeking no less than than the outer reaches of deep drone meditation. Calling on Renate Nikolaus and Ulf Schutte to contribute electronics, bells, percussion, violins, water and more on top of his own monolithic organ play, Richter has crafted a monster with this lone 35-minute piece. Just make sure submersion is an attractive state before descending.

With the sudden emergence of a new drone dialect in underground music, Richter brings a classical sense to his concoctions, drawing on the likes of Steve Reich's organ works, La Monte Young's extended sense of time, Hermann Nitsch's sound world and Charlemagne Palestine's power far more than psychedelic babble steeped in rounded edges. His is a focused maelstrom, less concerned with dips into the nether regions of his mind than in sharp trajectories directly towards the sun. Starting with a microcosm of a drone, the piece largely develops itself as an extended crescendo, continuously moving steadily forward into ever deeper waters.

This sort of constant upheaval in a piece has a way of falling short, but Richter is wiser than a lot of his cohorts, instead focusing on an internal build rather than one extending out from itself. The bulk of the work is enshrouded in the subtle organ play, which reads as singular in any given moment but whose constant flux is clear over the course of the work. Within that cloud Nikolaus and Schutte are constantly building, laying down increasinly kinetic details that clatter, murmur and spew there way out of the organ flow like larvae out of a heated pool. Nothing ever takes hold though, the chatter instead serving to divert attention away from the bold organ drone which, somehow, ingrains a kind of festering bother in the listener whose creepiness is far more internal and personal than overt drawings upon darkness.

Half way through the work breaks up entirely, the tickling metallics fumbling forward until, at last, the work explodes under its own weight. A thick smoke, sharp atop the smooth drone, ricochets across while warbling electronics distort themselves into dreams haunted by wolves and ghosts and ivy. By the time it all comes to a fore it has buried itself so deep that any semblance of self is surrounded, blown apart by the sheer quantity of sound. This, it seems, is why they recommend it be played loudly.

This sort of slow development does more than its share of demolition, but it also reveals a fully realized vision and a musician whose focus and sonic sense are at once contributing to and one step removed from so much of the drone music coming out now. This is not music to take drugs to so much as it is music as drug, an intoxicating and immersive experience akin to the very MC5 song it is named after. Not in sound perhaps, but certainly in attitude and scope.

Social Junk - Born Into It (Digitalis CD)

From Brainwashed:

Primarily the duo of Heather Young and Noah Anthony—though others have been dragged in along the way—Social Junk uses pounding beats and minimal synth to concoct some of the most pummeling pop this side of the sun. With drenched vocals and spare but wisely utilized parts the duo draw on tactics as far reaching as industrial, post-punk and Krautrock in their rugged and broken songcraft. This, their most recent sonic tastament, reaches even further into their warped world.

Interestingly, the group is known for producing vastly different results, swerving between proto-industrial clunk to spacey synth pop over the course of albums and even songs. "Champos '08," for example, features electronic crud mixed in with rotator blades and squeal that reads more like some basement Michigan noise project, while the percussive organicism of "Dirty Cloud" largely explores a much more overtly pretty side of psychedelia. Concussion Summer, their most recent full length on the Not Not Fun label, grinds out mostly instrumental clatter that is in constant flux. This one seems to meld the brazenly fried feel of the latter while persuasively melding it with a kind of numb song form whose fuel is in its monotanous, dead-to-the-world attitude.

This is more or less clear right from the opener, "It Just Isn't the Same," whose constant thud is at once primitive and futuristic, the battle cry for an interstellar war fought with spears and rocks. While the parts are all simple—the three note synth melody unendingly stuttering forward, the bleating scrapes—they are mixed so masterfully, brought forth, drawn back, reworked, that the sound is in constant motion, providing a spaced drift for the half-dead vocals to drift across.

"Those Final Seconds," which begins with a fax machine running across the rattles of snakes and delayed vocal punctuations, creates a sort of endless loop that feels overwhelmingly trapped, stuck in place until, somehow, it manages to wriggle itself into slightly new positions, slowly freeing itself of its confines while free rock drum clatter mashes it to a pulp from beneath. This is some blown out stuff and truly fried material, a sax bellowing outward signaling the approaching peak of a seven-minute buildup. Having wrestled itself free, "Grief" seems to a signal a kind of anti-climax, a new and placid world where synths drape over one another as they reach toward a mangled synth pop dreamworld as abstract as it is tangible. Jon Rickman and Bobby Caution join the duo on this (Rickman also plays on the title track), giving it a more full sound while still retaining the distorted peace within the work. It serves as a fine example of the different sounds the group can draw upon while still managing to sound like itself.

The following title track, the longest work on the album, moves between so many modes that it's tough to pin down. It glitches about, building and dying under its own weight like a Robert Ashley piece gone awry, or better yet as covered by Dead C. It is a true monster that feeds right into the brief "Behind a Wall" before the smoldering simmer of "Someone Upstairs" drifts through the coals. When all is said and done it is difficult to not be a convert, and even tougher not to believe in the group's increasing potential. Every release seems to push the bar further, and this one is another impressive statement along their path, as twisted as it is sincere.

Antigua Ibis - Bisected by Ravines (Vanishing Hour Revival CS)

A new label out of Gainesville, formed in the wake of Housecraft frontman Jeff Astin's departure as a means of continuing the seemingly fertile action down there I suppose, Vanishing Hour Revival is headed by Evan, whose first batch features this, a tape of him and David Toro's unit Antigua Ibis. Gotta say when Evan got in touch with me I knew from the get-go I'd be into it, what with the gorgeous cover art on all three releases in the first batch and the general atmosphere of goodness surrounding all things Xiphiidae. Bold move to have catalog numero uno a vinyl too, but they did such a beautiful job on that one, seriously, go pick it up. That'll get the review soon too for shiz.

For now though I though I'd stick with this little one, a stripped down affair far more concerned with sway and bend then plug and grind modes of mystery. First side kind of slips in and out of focus, crystal bowl loops and keyboard twinkles blowing out in hums of iridescent light hung from white fixtures dangling effortlessly from fishing line. Periodically drifts from subtle winds too, letting the warm glow find all corners of the empty space it inhabits, fueling the growth of the weeds coming in through the cracks. Not so much concerned with totally losing it, the tape lets its understatement lead the noggin into far off realms of dreamy conga lines and ecstatic gestures of relief made lackadaisical by their distance in time. Voices come and go, lines like spikes through the canvas of time before switching off and entering another space entirely, replete with bird chirps and hog grunts while streams fuel forests of insect activity. Interesting stuff for sure, and strange/alien enough that the new agey elements serve a purpose and don't become plodding.

Flip side is a bit more blustery in nature, with meandering keys dabbling among wind strewn dunes and elderberries. Nice sand piper vibe here that's totally content traipsing about in search of microscopic crustaceans, all the while the clouds darkening and the waves frothing whiter and whiter. Starts to bring in a real eerie stance over its course, giving a full tidal go of it that exudes abandonment and small natural moments looked at with utter fascination. Very little necessary here, and they stick with it wisely. Like some lonely young brunette nestled in the sand and watching the very waters that Dolphins into the Future inhabits. A nice flip too, gives the tape an edge of melancholy that adds a lot of depth to the material as a whole, contributing to these being a real winner of a first batch. Basking stuff.

Gown / Chapels - Split (House of Alchemy CS)

Another nice split from the House of Alchemy label, presented like Rambutan/Chapels number in a super stripped down and ultra classy cover. This time around it's the label leader himself in cohoots with Gown, whose exploits are well known and always glowing. A brief number--only 10 minutes a side--means that both efforts have to be even more focused. Neither falters of course, and these two sides burn with a real glory.

First side belongs to Gown, aka Andrew MacGregor, member of Bark Haze, whose "Early Morning Missing" finds intertwining, molten lines meshing into a string twanging call to arms. Steady and smoldering stuff, it's pure guitar catharsis here, gliding rumbles buried under ringing smatters that coalesce into polygons of gray crisscrossing over flattened landscapes. Parts sound like they were unleashed from some underground vault, prehistoric and new. Some unwary scientist having hit the wrong (or right, depending on how you look at it I suppose) chasm with his shovel blade and suddenly the skies were filled with primordial squall. Really lovely, and so brief as to just get your feet off the ground before dropping you back down for maximum effect. Rejoice!

Whereas the Gown side lifts its head toward the rising sun, the Chapels offering, "Ran Past 10 Dark Houses," shields its eyes from the celestial rays, instead seeking its own inner heat source by burying downward into the dark. Not that this is all nasty business, it's just a tad less open to the world at large, forming jabs in the dirt just below the decaying leaf matter and three floors above the mole men. Simmers too though, warmed by the channels of heated air blowing through these subterranean caverns. Digs its head up and smells the logs and the mulch when the moment's right too, humming its crackling melodies through the hollowed cavities until they've intercepted one another and turned themselves inside out, skewed but not entirely indecipherable. Another awesome split from the label, and one with plenty to be found in the folds. Time constraints are certainly no obstruction here, as all those ideas in such a small area makes it burn twice as hot.

Island's Eyelid's - Eyelands I (Roll Over Rover CS)

Soooo many beautiful items in of late, so I'll just hit the ground running with this representative from the new Roll Over Rover batch, all of which is beautiful. This one presents the solo work of one of the ROR lads' high school friends, proudly presented as the first east coast title in the label's catalog. Being an east coast boy myself it's comforting to know that we're not excluded from the magic happening over there in Sun Land--I was beginning to feel left out.

Anyway--and wouldn't ya know it?--this lad is super capable as well, finding a nice crevice of mush to slink into that's just as blissed and blown as anything else on the label, substituting the folk/Appalachian hints of the Westies for bubbly pounding and momentous bathing. Whole thing gives off the vibe of one gigantic group bathhouse, with everyone feeling wild and soapy and totally cleansed. "Geometric Hangover (((one more likwid knight)))" sorta gargles its way forward into some leviathan stomachs, nice and warm and intestinal but also loose enough to warrant the general excitement associated with said devouring. "Constant Comet///////and the view from Istanbeach" is, somehow, a real a song, even claiming lyrical content with lines such as "One by One, Who Won?," though the whole thing slips away soon as it arrives and you could just as well decipher a word of it as you could try and screw your skull back on once its over and done with. Real pulsing noggin brainwashing undergone here. HeaV/Dy stuff.

Blackout rain coming in over here, which according to the maestro's words means that I've somehow positioned myself in the ideal listening conditions--whole thing was made during June when it rained nigh every day in New York and, being an East coaster and having some pride at stake in the matter here, I suppose that gives me a bit of a leg up here on the narrative. Or not though. The second side is just as warped, opening with "Pelican Praises it's Prey," whose looped cackle actually does resemble the lightning it's supposed to, though it sure feels a bit more super heated than anything I've seen in these summer months. Nice trickling lines drift under though, splotching the beats into submission and making it damn pretty in the process; a real cruiser if you will. "Circle Round the Son" has an equally punny (yuk yuk...) title as "Possibleye Gone Wrong," but it's a bit more grooving. I do declare, the whole second side is damn near club worthy if I do say so myself. Neon night style, only without the over indulgent drug vision--just pure, good old fashioned fun with a pitstop off at some reservoir-hidden rave. A good bit stoned maybe, but a relatively clean crowd after little more than a hot night in the Big Apple. Great. "Try Angles & Bees" drips about nicely too, caressing jagged brick-lined window panes with its muted punctuation and hazy recognition. A nice closer to a real good time. Real good. Time. Thanks to Karl Bauer aka Axolotl in there too, so you know the dude's in good company.