Our Love Will Destroy the World - Broken Spine Fantasia (Tape Drift CS)

Went to see Burnt Hills, Cruudeuces and Graveyards this past Sunday which was a ball--got to catch up with Riggs and Hall a tad, met Olson and saw all the Burnt Hills crew and Nathaniel from Cruudeuces, so overall a swell night. Tough to argue with it. Anyway, bought a bunch of Grave merch including that tour box, a tape and the new Brokenresearch Graveyards LP, but also was given a bunch of stuff from Chris, Nathaniel, and Eric of Century Plants/Burnt Hills/Tape Drift fame. Had been a stretch since I'd gotten to give Tape Drift a go, so it was swell to receive the morsels I did, including this one from Campbell Kneale's post-Birchville Cat Motel project Our Love Will Destroy the World.

To be honest, I'd never really heard Birchville Cat Motel despite the project's sterling reputation, so I was psyched to give this new one a go. Apparently this project presents a new approach for the man, but from what I've heard the sounds are more or less just the same. And by just the same they must mean some full on tectonic blasts, cause the first side here, "Charmed Haruspax," is a storm of electro-glitch out mayhem, just sheets of buzz and scuzz with these little bleeps meandering about like a moth to flame. Real crushing material that leaves little room for misconceptions, just throws it all out there and lets it invest type stuff. It's not entirely brutal though--there's way harsher stuff out there--it's just full on electronic weight with so many little sounds packed in it's a veritable sardine can of sound. I know, delicious right? Sounds like it could all crumble apart and melt into a million colors but somehow he keeps it going throughout, moving along some psychedelic train of contortion whose destination is neither here nor there, but OUT THERE. Somewhere.

Flip side presents the title track, another live document that finds the due in a similar vein only with a whole new bag of sounds to pull from. Clashing plates are droned out while rumble underneath gives it a festering quality that suggests of organs and deep body grumbles. Kneale's willingness to let it happen of its own volition is a nice thing to bear witness to, as he sort of allows it all to creep in over time. Almost like an ambient framework only the beginning is so full on that it wakes you right up, leaving no room for soporific proclivities. Shard after shard here, and once they're in they're in, so it's a real good time for all. A beautiful one, gone from Eric but likely findable else where due to the "extended" run of 150. More to come from Eric soon in the form of that Simon Wickham-Smith disc. Also, the rumor mill has it that the label's considering moving into wax territory, so that's something we can all get excited about for sure...

Kellen Shipley - Deep Breaths (Roll Over Rover CD-R)

Here's another number from that latest Roll Over Rover batch to get sent my way, this one coming from another previously unknown dude to me. Apparently the man himself has mostly been making songs for a spin but this is a real drifter, totally unraveled and expansive in scope. Which falls right in there for me given the hot weather and sedentary nature of working in the record store. Nice little soundtrack for perusing clientele as well.

Starts off with this buzzer of a drone track that features some pen drawn horizontal lines that fade from green to yellow to orange and back. Dave McPeters' organ contribution gives it that organic sound too, so as to really lift it off and into the clouds, albeit with a tinge of sadness for soils left beneath. Spare enough to really float though, the thing isn't bogged down by anything at all, as ephemeral as they come. Nice thing here too is that the album closes in on an hour in length, so over the course of seven tracks there's a ton of diversity, but the vision's all the same. Twinkling bells and life force swells on track two, which sees McCann and Ashlinn Smith contributing drums and vocals respectively. Flies right into some neo-nexus space age discovery too, at which point the unbearable blackness of nothing goes white and time stands still till you arrive on Xenu, where all plants are purple and no one is alone. Third done creeps right up from the ponds of the first one too, presenting a kind of chilly haze where McCann's synth co-mingles with Shipley's whatever-the-hell to conjure some zones that bob about, reveling in the oil slicks for their buoyant properties. Slides right on out too, real slippery-like, all shiny black but with rainbows when the light hits it right. Of course in comparison to track four it seems more like a pool of sludge than a graceful little oil pool, as four is so momentously hypnotic as to tear aside any of its less welcoming properties with measly little key melodies that trickle about under McCann's swell drum work. Perhaps the most focused thing on here, but not without settling beautifully in among the rest of it with sun dappled outlooks and fuzzy beaming insides. Really grabs hold of some Lion King vibes without sounding like a whack African hijacking scenario.

Fifth track mellows it out a bit, McCann again contributing with some lovely viola work, getting nearly bluesy but still maintaining the lofty, not even close to down-and-out feel. Just restful and content while harmonica and guitar twang gratifyingly across each others chicken coops, sipping on bourbon and getting increasingly light in the ol' loafers. More guitar fry on six, with Smith again offering up talents on organ, giving it a kind of arcade dream state feel--fuzzed and fine by me, I say. Seven sees McPeters and Smith on organ and pennywhistle, but no matter how you cut it it's clear this is one concept and I reckon it must all be that of Shipley's, as sliding nimbus sounds sift through one another across pale birds wings and grazes of sun. It's a lovely closer that's as peaceful as anything here, settling it all back down to within earshot of the houses, but far enough away that not a voice can be heard. Just nice folks scuttling around. Lovely.

Zebulon - Webolo (Vanishing Hour Revival CS)

Here's another one received as part of that first Vanishing Hour batch, and like the Antigua Ibis it falls into a weird little category all its own, combining field recordings with odd instrumental interludes and electric current for a pastiche of subterranean sounds.

First side opens with some pastor, whose proclamations are quickly derailed in the name of contact mic futzing and choral drift while some barber gets the old electric razor out beneath and has at. Muddles about a while while guitar comes in and presents a few chords over some bird clatter, but none of it goes anywhere at all, instead opting to sort of ruminate it over a bit. Keeping an eye on it while it hardens and becomes brittle. A nice go of it, totally allows itself to just wander the grounds and take in the scenery until it comes to some nice looking lap pool speckled with potted plants around its exterior, so you dive right in and lo and behold there's some tiny humpback whale living down there, no longer than your fore arm I'd say, and it's sort of scoping you out for awhile, taking in your impressive size and gorging itself on plankton, till you've had enough and leap out, wet as hell, and head right for the fair on the other side of the field. Tough to get there though, so attention starts to wander and you settle in on some workers banging away at some concrete and chattering their chatter while they're at it. A real strange land no doubt, but one that's a pleasure to dabble in.

Flip explores much the same ideals, if in a slightly more focused--or at least diverse--landscape. Little metallic clatters rebound it into being before it mellows down a notch and starts to hover just over the crisply cut grass. Still that same suburban surreality though, with voices of red-haired wives tending garden or men in "Kiss the Cook" aprons flipping burgers while the chilluns huff paint behind the swingset. Only still spot seems to be where the cat's lying, on a carpet letting the sun fall over him and dreaming of mice. It's these moments that really keep it lively too, and somehow the movement from convoluted sensory overload to simple statements of quiet beauty flow nicely, giving it a chance to get you somewhere beyond mere residence. Really cool little tape, interesting straight through, though apparently there are only two left at the label HQ so you might want to move in for the kill quick. Otherwise Tomentosa and, apparently, Discriminate Music have copies.

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.