Tunin' the motor, like a weekend boater
Stereo Sisterhood / Blog Graveyard:
- 7 Inches ; After Sabbath ; All Ages ; Another Nickel ; Anywhere Else ; Aphid Hair ; Asleep ; Bachelor ; BangtheBore ; Beard (R.I.P.?) ; Beyond The Implode (R.I.P.?) ; Birds ; Black Time ; Blues ; Boogie ; Bull ; Dancing ; DCB ; Destination:Out ; Did Not Chart ; Diskant (R.I.P.) ; Dreaming ; Dusted in Exile ; Fog ; Flux ; Free ; Freq ; F-in' Record Reviews ; Garage Hangover ; Gramophone ; Grant ; Gunslinger ; Head ; Hopper ; Jonathan ; KBD ; K-Punk ; Kulkarni ; Last Days (R.I.P.) ; Lexicon Devil ; Lost Prom ; LPCoverLover ; Mutant Sounds (R.I.P.?) ; Nick Thunk :( ; Norman ; Oddbox ; Peel (John) ; Plan B (R.I.P) ; Prepared Guitar ; PSF ; Quietus ; Science ; Still Single ; Teleport City ; Terminal Escape ; Tome ; Transistors ; Ubu ; Upset ; WFMU ; XRRF.
Wednesday, December 07, 2016
So, About the #1 Spot In This Comps & Reissues List…
…to be honest, I had a bit of rethink / change of heart on the records I was going to place at # 1, and I don’t currently have the time to unpack my feeling about them in any meaningful fashion – so basically, I’m not going to bother.
I won’t retrospectively edit the preceding posts or anything, but perhaps let’s just consider all the numbers shifted up one – cos let’s face it, nothing deserves to beat that Nigerian rock comp.
Meanwhile, I’m about to start work on my usual “best new records” list, and there is lots and lots of fantastic stuff that I need to cover on it, almost all of which I have neglected to write any words about at an earlier point in the year. I’ve got to fit it all somehow betwixt freelance work deadlines and family/social engagements however, so please expect things to drag on way into January at best. Last time I checked, records by contemporary musical units don’t turn into pumpkins at midnight on New Year’s Eve, so hopefully it won’t be too late for me to try to sell you on some good stuff you may have overlooked.
(Boy, I’ll bet you don’t get this kind of crap on Pitchfork, do you – come what may, I’ll always have my amateurism!)
Prior to all that however, I should note that this Saturday will find me standing behind a table at this record fair hosted by my favourite new London record shop in my favourite new music-focused London community space.
I’ll be manning my wife’s stall, and also flogging some choice mix CDs and VHS movies on a “name yr price” basis for the benefit of charity (a fairly marginal benefit, I’ll be the first to admit, but what the hell – it’s something). If you still read these benighted pages and find yourself in the neighbourhood, pop in and say ‘hi’. It’ll be lovely.
Wednesday, November 23, 2016
The Best Comps & Reissues of 2016 (thus far):
2. Wake Up You!
The Rise and Fall of Nigerian Rock, Vol # 1
The Rise and Fall of Nigerian Rock, Vol # 1
Anyone who has visited a record shop in the past five years will no doubt have noted, attractively repackaged collections of ‘70s African music have been claiming ever more space in the reissue racks, and, by this point it is probably a fair bet that most open-minded (read: financially solvent) music fans will have taken the bait and started to give ‘em a go.
Whilst there is no doubt much opportunity here is begin moaning about the excesses of first world ‘boutique’ vinyl snobbery and context-free assimilation of other cultural forms etc, I’ll leave that to others, because personally speaking, the process of digging this stuff (as processed via the reigning comp-lords at labels like Now Again, Soundway etc) has proved an extremely rewarding process, hepping me to all manner of intoxicating sounds whose varied nature and significance I shan’t strain your patience by listing and unpacking here.
In a similar spirit of conciseness then, let’s just say that if, like me, you have developed a particular taste for that sweet spot where indigenous African pop/folk traditions collide head-first with the overriding influence of Anglo-American rock and soul, this new compendium represents The Motherlode as far as Nigeria’s post-civil war ‘afro rock’ boom is concerned.
Though it was the epochal World Psychedelic Classics 3: Love’s a Real Thing comp that first drawn my attention to cuts like OFO The Black Company’s incendiary ‘Allah Wakbarr’, and Soundway’s mammoth Nigeria Rock Special may have filled in the gaps, familiarising me with names like Ofege and The Funkees, focus and context is nonetheless the key when it comes to this sort of thing, and this is what puts ‘Wake Up You!’ ahead of the pack.
From the gut-punch of Gilles Caron’s cover photograph to the extensive historical background outlined in Uchenna Ikonne’s near book-length liner notes, there is I think much to be said for Now Again’s decision to tackle head-on the kind of uncomfortable realities surrounding this music that other African reissues can be a touch too shy about fully acknowledging.
And I don’t need to say much more on that score really – you’ve listened to Fela, you’ve read around a bit - you know the deal. When investigating African rock, jazz and highlife for the first time, Western listeners (myself included) will often tend to feel disappointed that so little of this music is overtly angry or political, but, as a few spins of this comp and a perusal of Ikonne’s text will make clear, such a train of thought is an exercise in grievous point-missing. With a hellish civil war and corrupt authoritarian lockdown bookending the period of relative freedom within which the groups represented on this comp flourished, many of the musicians herein faced down the worst of both no less than any of the country’s other citizens, and the fact that they came out of it smiling and ready to party is in many ways the only political statement required.
Without wishing to labour the point, there is an argument to be made that the kind of aggression and anguish that overflows from – and indeed, increasingly defines – the rock music of stable, democratic countries is entirely surplus to requirements in an environment in which the eventual results of such self-destructive social currents must be dealt with on a day to day basis. Whilst Ikonne’s text inevitably soon falls back into a familiar pattern of chronicling the kind of management entanglements, ego-clashes and band break-ups that render ‘rock history’ a drag the world over, none of this hum-drum backstage business carries across into the music itself – and neither, more pointedly, does the musicians’ rather varied experiences during the war. (Amongst other things, I was astonished to read in Ikonne’s text that pop music was considered such a vital aid to morale in the Biafran conflict that fighting units on both sides were encouraged to ‘adopt’ their own regimental rock bands, and that it was in this context that many of the outfits represented here received their first exposure.)
If such a background played upon the minds of the band members, there seems to have been a collective understanding that their audience – whether military or civilian - simply didn’t want to hear about it, and as working musicians, probably struggling to make the weekly payments on their rare & precious equipment, the groups didn’t feel much inclined to force it upon them. (A welcome counter-point to the introspective, heart-on-sleeve drudgery that was becoming increasingly prevalent in Anglo-American rock of the same period.)
At one point, Ikonne describes the heavier, post-civil war sound of pioneering ‘60s pop band The Hykkers as “..rugged and murky, pulsing with the threat of barely contained violence; Guitars screeching like low-flying fighter jets, bass lines thrumming like trundling tank tracks”. With the best will in the world however, listeners accustomed to the bombastic hullabaloo of post-1970 Western rock will have trouble identifying such intent within the highlife-indebted James Brown shuffle of the group’s mild-mannered anti-drugs anthem ‘Stone The Flower’ - or indeed in most of the other selections included on ‘Wake Up You!’.
Indeed, “anger has no place on the dance floor” would seem to be the unspoken message of many of the cuts featured herein, and, as cloying as direct hymns to love and togetherness may have become in Anglo-American rock culture in the aftermath of the collapse of the ‘60s counter-culture, here by contrast they maintain a power and strength of feeling which suggests that irony, ennui and easy cynicism had precious little relevance for musicians and listeners who have just spent a few years at the mercy of all-too-real hunger and violence.
From the opening chords of Formulars Dance Band’s ‘Never Never Let Me Down’ – gentle funk strumming and fudge-thick, spiralling organ notes breaking through the patina of surface noise alongside a heart-breakingly earnest, imperfect declaration of undying love - to the everyone-on-the-floor inclusive funk throw-downs of The Hygrades and The Funkees, the Zam-Rock-esque riff lullaby of Waves’ ‘Mother’ and the exploratory, Fela-indebted groove-outs of Aktion’s ‘Groove the Funk’ and Wrinkar Experience’s exquisitely melancholy dance floor smash ‘Ballad of a Sad Young Woman’, this is music that sinks into your soul like cosmic butter, forcibly reminding you that, however bad life on this planet may become, however much soul-withering, genocidal shit might go down over the next few years, as long as somewhere in the world there is a generator, a stage, a PA, some amps, and a bunch of people up there willing to give of themselves as generously and joyously as the guys in these bands did whilst an audience eats and drinks and smokes what they please, as long as there is one foot being placed in front of the other as the dance begins – things are still gonna be alright.
And then, just when you’ve finally reconciled yourself to the outlook described above and given up hope of ever finding The African Stooges, an outfit named War-Head Constriction suddenly come crashing in with the most assaultive outbursts of fuzz-wah whiteout I’ve heard all year, like Mizutani-San himself just got up on stage for a guest spot. Holy shit.
So, in closing – the next time you find yourself sinking into ennui, sick of festivals, sick of bloody gigs, sick of records – just put this on for an immediate reminder of what the fucking point is, and more importantly, what it sounds like.
In fact, I still have volume # 2 of this comp lying untouched – saving it up because volume # 1 is just too good.
Available direct from Now-Again in the US, consult yr local dealer elsewhere.
Tuesday, November 15, 2016
The Best Comps & Reissues of 2016 (thus far):
3. D.R. Hooker – The Truth LP
(Veals and Geeks Records)
Well, life goes on, so let’s try to finally get this reissues count-down in the can…
Though it was not new to me in 2016, the unexpected reappearance on vinyl of this little number gives me the opportunity both to experience one of the most remarkable artefacts unearthed by the post-hippy/x-tian rock obscurity-collectin’ community in the form of spinning black plastic, and just as importantly, to tell you all about it.
And, to be honest, I don’t really know how to get started on this one without alienating a fair swathe of my hypothetical readership right off the bat. I mean, if I tell you that, sometime in 1972, some mysterious dude who styled himself as “D.R. Hooker” rounded up some local musicians in New Haven, Connecticut, laid down a bunch of songs and pressed 99 copies of an LP containing the results with a grainy picture of (presumably) himself in full Jesus Christ get-up wielding an acoustic guitar on the cover, then apparently disappeared off the face of the earth…. well, you’ll already be conjuring up a very specific idea of what this record probably sounds like – but frankly you should check their expectations, because our man Mr. Hooker had a hell of a lot more up his sleeve than yr average gospelisin’ private press misfit.
Pointedly failing to fully adhere to any known genre template at any point, “The Truth” is in fact a slinky, street-walking masterpiece of casually devastating quasi-psychedelic groove-pop that has never failed to please me immeasurably.
On first exposure, the vibe here seems predominantly mellow, with brushed drums, unhinged, dub-like echo and phase effects, meandering, head-nodding bass lines and a kind of shufflin’, understated lounge feel that almost Hooker and his buddies were subject to the gravitational pull of then-contemporary landmarks like ‘What’s Going On?’ and ‘Superfly’.
As with those records though, it soon becomes clear that, whilst the playing itself is light-touch, the groove beneath it is H-E-A-V-Y – as best befits Herr Hooker’s stoned, vibrato-laden, baritone drawl, which drifts through the ether like a kind of ego-less, faintly nerd-ified Jim Morrison, shifting from strip joint pick-up routines to earnest spiritual reflections to baleful condemnations of human excess on the turn of a dime, as weird subtleties of the musical backing follow his lead. Regardless of what his ‘deal’ may have been in real life, for the forty-odd minutes of this LP, D.R.H. sounds like the coolest, most confident motherfucker ever to stalk these strange musical back waters – a legend and a true star, a smooth-talkin’ scholar, unlikely musical genius and a genuine, 24-carat enigma.
Tracks like ‘Weather Girl’ (cascading chimes, thunder samples and a groove so relaxed it should be illegal) and ‘A Stranger’s Smile’ (“nice weather we’re having lately / wait, tell me your name..” D.R. intones in strange, robot/research scientist speaking voice) are pure, libidinous pop, like the Jesus Man on the cover flashing you his pure white teeth and standing you a drink in the hotel bar. Just don’t expect it to be a strong one though, as Hooker opens Side B with the cut that is arguably his masterpiece, ‘Forge Your Own Chains’, a spectacularly sinister slice of stoned easy listening paranoia in which hip society’s impending doom at the hands of self-inflicted intoxicants is delineated in a manner whose strange mixture of gut churning unease and jazz-inflicted pastoral beauty recalls the West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band’s Bob Markley at his sublime freakiest. “Maybe one more cigarette, will clear your head,” Hooker deadpans as finger-picked electric guitar fades in and out of the track’s dense wash of sound; “Today you’re living / tomorrow you’re dead” he continues, as a spectral clarinet rises from the void to celebrate “your” imminent demise. Like I say – HEAVY.
Uniquely amongst reborn hippy weirdo types, there is not a trace of wide-eyed naivety in Hooker’s persona here. Though he never breaks out into to full-blown aggression, he comes across as a canny, soft-spoken hustler just as likely to finger the wallet straight from your back pocket as to beseech you to leave it on his collection plate.
When he does deign to bust out the fuzz though, he really goes for it, dredging up time-worn, cyclopean riffs and epic, damaged soloing that would be the envy of any ‘70s Heavy contenders. More bestial weather sound effects and startling, feedback-drenched synthesizer(!?) squiggles lend an almost Eno/Ubu art-rock feel to the vast, degraded distorto-riff that anchors opener ‘The Sea’, and if reading ‘The Bible’ was actually half as exciting as Hooker makes it sound via the ass-blasting majesty of his song of that name (“..father of the dragon / and the son of man!”), I’d probably be writing this from the reading room of the nearest Jehovah’s Witnesses temple. Seriously, I don’t care how much the Xtian stuff outs you off, if you like slightly off-kilter rock music, you should look it up – it’s awesome.
And, well, I mean… what else can I tell you? I must have listened to this album a hundred times over the years (on mp3 before I acquired the vinyl this year, natch), and still it leaves me speechless. D.R. Hooker, if you’re out ther somewhere, you strange, chemically-altered Jesus-imitating, guitar-strumming mystery motherfucker, know that you RULE, and that I love you for it.
A note on the label that put this out: as far as I can ascertain, the original D.R. Hooker LP was issued on the amusingly monikered “VAG Records”. To my surprise meanwhile, it turns out that the somewhat unsavoury sounding “Veals and Geeks” label is actually a spin-off from a record shop of the same name in Brussels, and they have previously released a number of other things. Therefore, I can only assume that the fact their name allows them to re-use the ‘VAG’ acronym on their ‘almost exact repress’ style packaging of “The Truth” is nothing more or less than a happy coincidence.
Anyway, whatever - you can stream and buy it from them straight from their Bandcamp here.
Friday, November 11, 2016
More Fun With Laughin’ Len.
I fought in the old revolution
On the side of the ghosts and the king
Of course I was very young
And I thought that we were winning
I can't pretend I still feel very much like singing
As they carry the bodies away
It’s funny, when Satori asked me this morning about this ‘Leonardo Cohen’ who’d died*, one of the first things I managed to mumble was “well, I liked a lot of his stuff, but I’m not really a big fan or anything…”.
Well, maybe it’s the timing, or maybe sometimes you just don’t realise you’re a ‘big fan’ until the moment arrives, but nine hours later I’m finding it difficult to keep it together and remain dry-eyed today.
The more I think back on his songs – bits I recall from them, bits I’ve looked up online or seen quoted in tribute – the more I realise how serious this guy was about his job as a poet, an artist, whatever you want to call it, and how much of an example his success must set for others who would purport to assume such a role.
Whilst I’ll admit that much of his stuff can be overly personal, or ridiculously obtuse, or even somewhat cringe-worthy, when he had a mind to, he could craft couplets or stanzas that hit like hammer blows. A few painstakingly chosen words in a casual pop/folk rhyming pattern that could alter people’s understanding of their position in life, could shift their moods from bottom to top or vice versa, could re-arrange entire worldviews, could remind people what their priorities need to be.
And, we’re not just talking *some* people here. I don’t think Leonard Cohen was writing for some sub-set of the population, some particular demographic or age/geography-defined cult following. His words (especially in his later years) were explicitly aimed at *all* people. Whether he achieved it or not, the ‘tent pole’ songs in his catalogue (and many of the deep cuts besides) aspire to a kind of universality that I think is the highest goal a creator of human culture can seek.
I don’t need to point you toward quotes and examples – just go google some up, they are everywhere.
Of course, each of his albums has its throwaways and its goof-offs and missteps, but you feel that if he came up with a batch of songs whose lines didn’t hit that mark often enough, he’d probably have just thrown out the whole lot and started again. For all the humour in his work, he wasn’t messing around.
It sounds ridiculous, but reading his lyrics on the page today (as I have rarely done in the past), they remind me more than anything of William Blake – that particular mixture of frustrating obscurity, chest-beating melodrama and absolute, crushing directness – and I’d almost go as far as to say that his “greatest hits” have entered the collective lexicon in a similarly indelible fashion.
I don’t know quite where I’m going with this – it’s all going a bit “gripping the lectern and shaking fist at the heavens”, isn’t it? Sorry about that. I don’t have an ending or a final sign off planned, or any gags. Perhaps there is more to come. This plus a BBC World Service panel discussion of the incoming President’s likely foreign policy agenda has all proved a bit too much to take in today, so we’ll leave it there for now. As Cohen reminded us, buried amid the apocalyptic visions of the song I linked to in the post below,
“love is the only engine of survival”.
* Apparently Leonard Cohen is almost entirely unknown in Japan, which I suppose is understandable given the extent to which the appeal of his work relies upon knowledge of the English language, although I’d imagine outfits like The Jacks must have cultivated at least a passing familiarity with his output…?
So Long, Len.
But today I just don’t have the heart.
As one or two people have no doubt already noted, Field Commander Cohen was so cool, he somehow managed to record the perfect song for 2016, back in the relatively care-free days of 1992.
I recall hearing this song on the radio a few years back and finding its lyrical bombast absolutely ridiculous. This week? It fits like a glove, and its prescience is terrifying.
Your servant here, he has been told
To say it clear, to say it cold
It ain't going any further
Wednesday, November 09, 2016
Jesus Fucking Christ.
Since we're now incapable of sensibly choosing anything, you only have one song choice for today.
Labels: bad news
Monday, November 07, 2016
The Best Comps & Reissues of 2016 (thus far):
4. Golden State Psychedelia: 1966-69
By this stage in the game, we might well have assumed that the glory-days of ‘60s garage/psych excavations are well and truly over (at least with regards to the US and UK). I mean, surely by now even the most dogged collectors and researchers of such material must have felt their brains finally turning to mush as they cue up that only-known-copy acetate of the 84,000th gang of Arkansas teenagers to knock out a shaky Bo Diddley rip-off in 1966 and/or the 604th mob of swinging London toy-town chancers. The well is dry, the dust is toxic, the ruins are earmarked for demolition, and the vast majority of more canny comp-lords have long since moved on to play and pillage amongst the relatively untouched realms of regional ‘70s heavy rock.
(Expect that market in turn to bottom out in the next year or two, given the speed with which it’s being exploited, and, with outsider punk, post-punk and ‘80s goth already being strip-mined from the other direction, where can they run to after that? God help the poor lost souls, they might have to start listening to music from non-English speaking countries, or stuff that’s not white guitar rock, if you can imagine such a thing..)
BUT, we would do well to remember the first rule of any form of retrospective cultural obsession: THERE IS ALWAYS MORE.
Just as the last stragglers in ‘60s-ville prepare to pack their bags and move on though, Ace Records have come out of nowhere and dropped ‘Golden State Psychedelia’, a collection of largely unheard recordings made on-spec for potential sale to labels and distributors at Leo Kulka’s Golden State Recorders studio in San Francisco between ’66 and ’69. The only familiar name here to genre fans will be The Gants (of “I Wonder” non-fame), with the other tracks consisting of largely or entirely unknown outfits, and - take a deep breath here folks – the bulk of this stuff is *really good*.
Beginning in eye-opening fashion with a grizzled, proto-Hawkwind intro burn, The Goody Box’s ‘Blow Up’ explodes into a delightfully punkoid Standells stomp, and many of the following numbers here provide a similarly thrilling bolt from the blue for long-jaded garage fans, running the gamut from The Carnival’s hyperactive choral psyche (which sounds a bit like The Fifth Dimension played at the wrong speed) to the bleary-eyed dawn-after-a-night-lost-in-the-forest atmos of The Bristol Boxkite’s superbly desolate ‘Sunless Night’.
Lashings of PROPER PSYCHE follows, as the faux-communal freak out vibes of The Immediate Family’s ‘Rubaiyat’ open up like a goldleaf sunflower into a chorus melody that could slay saints; joint male/female vox enliven the punked up Jefferson Airplane stylings of The Short Yellow, whilst the aptly named Celestial Hysteria come on like a witchy, female-fronted Iron Butterfly. Actually, it is the Airplane influence can be felt most strongly felt throughout this comp – as I suppose is only natural, given the time and place in which these tracks were recorded. If nothing else, this seemingly encouraged the participation of a number of ballsy, deep-voiced female vocialists in the bands represented here, which is certainly a welcome development, with The Seventh Dawn’s ‘Don't Worry Me’ in particular standing out as a dead ringer for a lost Great Society recording.
Best of all though is ‘Fuck For Peace’, as performed by “Magician” – an absolutely first rate fucked up, drug-freak hipster nightmare blaster, about as wilfully uncommercial as you’d expect of a group who seemingly rocked up at a pro studio in 1968 and start dropping the F-word over blasts of fuzz-tone that sound like a cat frying against an electrified wire fence.
I’d continue with “…and that’s just the first half!”, but, to be honest with you, the track list here is somewhat front-loaded; additional cuts from many of the acts mentioned above betray a more-of-the-same / deliberate B-side quality, but nonetheless, at least two thirds of the cuts here are keepers, which is a frankly astonishing feat for a never-before-heard garage comp in 2016.
Historically speaking, the Golden State material presents a fascinating insight into a sub-set of professional-ish musicians (well, I mean, not regional high schoolers at any rate) who still had one foot in the producer/studio owner-guided, Top 40-orientated pop scene, whilst the toes of the other curled outward toward the new world of the ostensibly ‘underground’ psychedelic ballroom culture that was exploding just across town, bridging the transition toward rootsy, album-orientated Woodstock-era rock that would render these kind of colourful, three minute psychesploitation smilers a terminally square anachronism by the close of this comp's timeframe.
Happily, the results of this aesthetic mix-up proves exciting and unpredictable enough to delight and confound even today, serving to remind us – if only for a minute or two here and there - just how rich and unhinged and exciting all that Nuggets/Pebbles stuff was back when we heard it for the first time all those years ago.
Sounding at its best moments like ‘Epitaph For a Legend’ force-fed through a letterbox of jittery Nuggets bounce, this is probably my favourite psyche comp since Now-Again’s fabulous Forge Your Own Chains, and come to think of it, that one was mainly a ‘70s affair, so… I think that makes this the best purely ‘60s comp in donkey’s years. Just remember, the next time you don't quite have the heart to give ‘Back From The Grave # 15' that third listen it probably deserves - THERE IS ALWAYS MORE.
Buy directly from Ace Records.
Tuesday, October 25, 2016
The Ninth Annual Stereo Sanctity / Breakfast in the Ruins Samhain Freakout.
Cross-posted with Breakfast in the Ruins.
Hopefully arriving with sufficient notice for you to fully absorb it as you set about cultivating appropriate state of mind prior to next week’s big night, I’m afraid I must warn you that, for better or worse, this year’s Halloween comp has emerged as quite possibly the darkest and gnarliest to date. Decidedly low on jollity, what we have here is a thoroughly shuddersome mixture of anguished subterranean punk, ferocious funereal metal and eerie psychedelic aberrations of one kind or another, guaranteed to get you in the mood for a full-on, cemetery-stalking Halloween.
Once this general atmosphere had taken hold, I thought I might as well go with it, and as such I have finally taken the opportunity to include in its entirety one of my all time favourite trad doom tracks, Reverend Bizarre’s ‘Strange Horizons’. You may think you know ‘epic metal’ with yr new fangled Neurosis and Opeth and what-not, but trust me my friends – this is one you need to experience. It’s a thing of beauty.
Also noteworthy here meanwhile is the inclusion of the first ever hip-hop track on one of these mixes (courtesy of my long overdue immersion in Gravediggaz’ ‘Six Feet Deep’ album – hey, only nineteen years late), and, I believe, our first ever vocal jazz ballad too, courtesy of Ada Moore. Let’s hope there’s more of both to come in future.
Relatively little movie content this year, but nonetheless, featured films include: ‘Les Demons’ (Jess Franco, 1972), ‘All The Colors of the Dark’ (Sergio Martino, 1972) and ‘Eugenie: The Story of Her Journey Into Perversion’ (Jess Franco, 1970).
As ever – enjoy.
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
The Best Comps & Reissues of 2016 (thus far):
5. Delia Derbyshire & Elsa Stansfield –
Circle of Light OST
If Delia Derbyshire hadn’t existed, someone would have had to invent her, and indeed if someone had to invent a hypothetical masterwork for her fictional alter ego, they couldn’t do much better than this long lost soundtrack, which was originally created to accompany a 1972 short film based around the work of experimental photographer Pamela Bone.
Conjured up out of the ether and pressed to vinyl this year by Trunk Records, this is indeed such a mightily potent relic of mid-century British esoterica that I’d have my doubts as to its authenticity were the sounds contained herein not so singularly bracing that no 21st century cartel of bakelite-fixated retromancers could possibly have willed them into existence.
After a brief spoken introduction from Bone and an unidentified announcer (both perfect RP, of course), proceedings get underway with a perfect marriage between Derbyshire’s carefully wrought take on early DIY electronica and a selection of exquisite tape-crackling field recordings – island winds and crashing waves creating a gentle wind tunnel ambience, as delicately treated ‘natural’ sounds blur into the ‘artificial’ realms of Delia’s faintly malevolent lampshade-scraping drones. Elsewhere, passing seagulls are reverbed until they become alien sonar pulses, whistling past like fireflies. Distant dog barks echo across the water; grasshoppers and flapping moth wings rise to the foreground sounding as close as yr own heartbeat.
Initially an aural equivalent of encountering an inexplicable alien presence whilst walking alone after midnight on a rocky south coast beach under a full moon, the atmosphere is gradually transformed beyond all recognition, until eventually we are faced with visions of unknown, multi-coloured birds calling across a pulsing extraterrestrial swamp – unknown beings squelching and swarming like something out of Brian Aldiss’s ‘Hothouse’. An utterly unearthly sound that proves impossible to pick apart, but that still can’t help but radiate fragments of that unmistakable ‘black & white telly’ radiophonic aesthetic.
Or, alternatively: forget all that, and just imagine sitting down to spot-check a large collection of reel-to-reel nature recordings, shortly after swallowing a powerful hallucinogen.
Like so much of Delia Derbyshire’s work, this stuff is fiercely experimental, incredibly atmospheric, but also singularly lacking in pretension, utilising what we would now probably think of as “ambient” techniques to create an experience that, far from sinking into the background, remains distracting, enthralling and intermittently alarming throughout.
Anyone who has spent quality time lurking in the contours of Delia’s ‘Blue Veils & Golden Sands’ will probably want to jump on this one straight away and sink deep into it’s wordless expanses of unexplored sonic landscape… and well they might. Just watch out for those bloody owl hoots halfway through Side A though - they’ll put the wind up you and no mistake.
Buy from Trunk here.
Friday, October 07, 2016
The Best Comps & Reissues of 2016 (thus far):
6. Martin Rev – s/t LP
Though it has been uncharitably accused of being little more than an instrumental Suicide LP that Vega couldn’t be bothered to come up with any vocals for, Martin Rev in fact put hell of a lot of effort into the tracks on his solo debut, giving them atonal depth and melodic sensibility that feels like a natural and wonderful progression from the primitivism of the first Suicide album, fitting in neatly before the woozy disco-damaged weirdness of their 2nd LP took hold.
Opener ‘Mari’ in particular stands out as a real feather in Rev’s cap as an electronic composer - a toweringly optimistic masterwork of minimal synth beauty, like a ray of light shining across Manhattan’s skyscrapers, bold super-hero sky-gazing with a melody disarming enough to melt perma-shaded hearts all along 42nd St.
Attempts to mimic Vega’s vocal style on the following ‘Baby Oh Baby’ are something of a misstep, but the track itself is still a fine precursor of the kind of street-walkin’ psychedelic stew Rev cooked up for that aforementioned 2nd LP, laser blast wave patterns ebbing and flowing giddily whilst a ‘Ghost-Rider’ worthy bass riff lurks in the background, ready to slay all.
The whole LP in fact is a similarly perfect match of punk-ass lo-fi technique and single-minded composer-ly precision. Whilst the sounds themselves are often wild and alien, when it comes to writing, Rev proves a no nonsense populist, working with rhythms and melodies that are simple, strong and unashamed, refuting the avant-abstraction that normally went hand-in-hand with this sort of electronic experimentation back in the day. Simply put, the best moments here could go toe to toe with anything John Carpenter produced in the minimal synth stakes, and come out on top with slinky, gooey, kaleidoscopic atmosphere to spare.
That said, it does all get rather oppressively hypnotic in places, employing dense ultra-repetitive masses of squiggles comparable to Astral Social Club, but nonetheless, Marty stays faithfully at the controls, and by the time we get to ‘Asia’s sublime scrape-along-the-marimba perma-echo kick, the tension of a looming back alley knife fight seems to have merged wholesale into the kind of mystic beautification being practiced by Reich, LaMonte Young and the rest of that gang up-town.
Like most Rev solo endeavours, this LP effortlessly surpasses the anticipated limitations of a dude playing two finger organ riffs over a ‘robot marching bad’ drum machine to emerge as a unique, multi-faceted and engrossing recording – a great album and a legit trip for close headphone scrutiny.
Post-script # 1: When I began writing this I was under the impression Superior Viaduct’s reissue dated from 2016, but turns out they actually put it out years ago as one of their first releases. Well, what the hell – I bought it in 2016, so what do you want me to do – change my list, dump this post and NOT tell you how much I like it? Pfff….
Post-script # 2: Until reading the sleeve notes for this reissue, I never knew that Martin Rev’s full name is ‘Martin Reverbi’. Can you believe he shortened it for his music career…!? Go figure.
Now sold out from Superior Viaduct, so best check Discogs and/or yr local dealer.
Tuesday, October 04, 2016
The Best Comps & Reissues of 2016 (thus far):
7. Jean-Bernard Raiteux -
‘Les Demons’ OST
Watching Jess Franco’s particularly crack-brained 1972 sexploitation cash-in on ‘The Devils’ and ‘Mark of the Devil’ for the first time, most viewers will be especially struck (and likely amused) by post-production supervisor Gerard Kikione’s decision to demolish the film’s almost shaky period setting via the application of masses and masses of pungent psychedelic rock… and lo and behold, all these years later, here it all is on vinyl, lovingly pasted together by Finders Keepers.
Largely pulled from French composer Jean-Bernard Raiteux’s ‘Trafic Pop’ album, the cues used for ‘Les Demons’ pulse with pungent, historically inappropriate jazz-funk beat-downs, alongside eerie piano meanderings, wistfully priggish flute/guitar concoctions, absolutely STINKIN’ fuzz-wah freak-outs and, well, everything that makes the early 1970s the unquestioned high watermark of Western civilisation, basically – all served with a generous side order of witch-finder ranting, witches’ curses, lashing, beating, screaming and, uh… more lashing, beating and screaming.
As was the case with some of Finders Keepers’ Jean Rollin soundtrack releases a few years back, the label’s presentation of the material will no doubt have many serious soundtrack aficionados grinding their teeth to a bloody pulp as a result of audio that seems to have been pulled at least partially from the film print itself, as is clearly signalled by the utterly gratuitous chunks of fruity English dub dialogue and sadistic sound effects liberally scattered throughout. Meanwhile, FK’s apparent decision to rename tracks previously featured on the ‘Trafic Pop’ album to reflect the scenes they soundtrack in the film seems decidedly questionable, and could no doubt raise further consternation from those aforementioned serious soundtrack types, together with much potential confusion for those of a scholarly disposition… but no matter.
For us more casual listeners, it’s lovely to have the chance to enjoy this stuff purely as a long lost Jess Franco OST, packaged and sequenced in entirely the manner it might have been had the great man’s terminally marginal, shadily distributed films proved a hot enough ticket in the early ‘70s to justify the release of their own historically inappropriate Tarantino-esque mass market soundtrack LPs.
Another instant room clearance device, a perfect Halloween party disc, a further chance to convince your neighbours that you’re a heinous pervert, or just another reminder of the singular world of creation that spun around the axis of that sainted sinner Jesus Franco – take it however you wish… but take it!
Buy directly from Finders Keepers here.
Sunday, October 02, 2016
The Best Comps & Reissues of 2016 (thus far):
8. Gerardo Iacoucci –
Simbolismo Psichedelico LP
Picking up this reissued Italian library disc as an entirely blind buy (how could I not?), I must admit I had my fingers crossed for some H. Tical/‘Distortions Pop’ type heavy rock freakouts, or some foot-tapping, Bruno Nicolai-esque weirdo-giallo jams – but for better or worse, it turns out maestro Iacoucci was going more a rather more literal and primal interpretation of the term “psychedelic”.
As such, proceedings opens with some weird tone generator stuff that sounds like a pair of Clangers attempting to sing opera, before subsequent pieces bring in harpsichord, piano, scittering free drumming and stridently atonal bass for some studio-warped “jazz on the moon” type shenanigans that might have escaped from the more fragrant end of Sun Ra’s planet of sound. Climbing-the-mountains-of-Mars reverbed kettle drum crescendos are up next, then bleeping sci-fi movie sonar noises, before the flip-side opens with something that briefly sounds like one of those atonal nightmare dirges that Morricone used to bust out for gialli soundtracks… and then it’s back to Moon Base Alpha again for laughing gas cocktails in the jazz capsule.
Basically then: if you’ve ever felt the urge to create a parody of an aggressively experimental Italian library music album from the early 1970s (a pretty niche audience for those laffs, I’m guessing), give up immediately - ‘Simbolismo Psichedelico’ already covers that ground so perfectly as to render your efforts surplus to requirements.
To be honest, only a maniac would be likely to deem this LP ‘essential’, and with so much of this kind of way-out weirdness popping up in the reissue racks these days, I’m not sure that ‘Simbolismo Psichedelico’ will claim much space in many listeners’ lives. Although there are moments here that arguably break through to the increasingly busy plateau of “long lost avant garde genius”, the more persistent feeling is that of “a couple of blokes farting about in the studio for the few days after the boss demanded ‘something spacey and psychedelic’”. But, well, I dunno - I like it nonetheless. It’s quite the mood-setter, that’s for sure – especially if the mood you tend to favour is one in which everyone else leaves the building, leaving you to watch a Czech sci-fi movie in peace. Score.
You can listen and download directly from Intervallo’s bandcamp, or check Discogs for the vinyl.
Monday, July 18, 2016
Ghost Rider, motorcycle hero.
America, America’s killing its youth.
Dream, baby, dream.
Of course, Alan Vega will be remembered for what he brought to Suicide’s first album; it would be foolish to try to claim otherwise.
Words (and delivery thereof) as simple, as striking, as dangerous, as lustful, as otherworldly as anything that emerged from the ‘50s/’60s rock n’ roll / rhythm & blues culture he obviously admired so much, and just as much of an indelible part of American culture (or at least, the segments of it that matter) as a result.
Forty years on, you cannot reduce these songs, or laugh them off. You cannot play them on the radio without getting complaints; you cannot play them in the car with friends or relatives without breaking a sweat. “Punk”? “Avant Garde”? Posturing? Stupidity? Success? You tell me. Love them or hate them, once you’ve heard them, they will be with you forever.
You’d have to be a pretty unhinged individual to have owned and enjoyed everything Mr. Vega has put out over the years (in fact for a long time I had a record shopping rule that whilst solo/collaborative discs bearing Martin Rev’s name should be purchased immediately, anything involving Vega should be treated with extreme caution), but I’ve been undertaking somewhat of an accidental reassessment of his post-’77 oeuvre of recent, and am hopefully in the process of gaining a greater appreciation of the uniqueness of his voice, and of the perverse, compelling artistry that ran through all of his work, even when (as was often the case) he was making records that sounded like most listeners’ idea of hell.
The way I like to look at it is: if the still much missed Lux Interior (Satan rest his soul) summed up his stage persona as “half Elvis Presley, half Frankenstein’s Monster”, Vega – consciously or otherwise - took the idea behind this combo far further, developing a style that sounds like the wandering, unquiet spirits of Presley and Roy Orbison being evoked through some sort of unholy electronic séance, issuing tormented, incoherent fragments of rock n’ roll jive and damning indictments of the culture they see decaying around them, channelled seemingly at random through Vega’s reverb-drenched tonsils. Ghosts of an old America, crawling from the bricks, the pavement and the recording consoles, passing baleful spectral judgement on the weaponised bummer of a country that now surrounds them, crying out in weird, leather-clad despair.
Whilst some of Vega’s best moments saw him indulging in straight narrative and street level reportage, more often than not he went in for what sounds like a wholly improvisational, almost unconscious, approach that, once you get a taste for it, proves kind of extraordinary.
It’s like rock n’ roll as reduced to a series of desperate, garbled exhortations from another plain, related over a grinding, ritualistic back-beat, presented like an ancient incantation whose precise meaning has long been lost to the ages, but that can still occasionally melt without warning into pools of pure, shimmering tenderness, with Vega’s ghosts rising to the occasion in response. (“Finally, this I understand!”, the hazy greaser apparition declares, pulling a comb through his hair as he enters full seduction mode, lost in some Lynchian velvet dream of the perfect moment of love, until the stentorian reminder of modernity intrudes again via Rev’s juddering drum machine (or nearest available equivalent), forcing him into another tirade of swaggering, subway stalkin’ confusion.)
And… I could probably continue in this vein for some time. For now, let it simply be noted that, hare-brained and unapproachable though it may often seem, I believe that Vega’s body of work holds depths and mysteries that very few of us have yet managed to get a handle on. Take a deep breath and throw the dice the next time you see his name on some weird looking 7", and maybe one day we’ll catch up with him.
Viva La Vega
1. Suicide – 23 Minutes Over Brussels (excerpt) [0:00]
2. Alan Vega / Alex Chilton / Ben Vaughn – Fat City [4:45]
3. Suicide – 96 Tears (Radiation) [CBGBs, 1978] [13:00]
4. Suicide – Diamonds, Fur Coats, Champagne [16:45]
5. Alan Vega / Alex Chilton / Ben Vaughn – Too Late [20:00]
6. Suicide – Frankie Teardrop [25:40]
7. The Gories – Ghostrider [35.53]
8. Suicide – Keep your Dreams [CBGBs, 1978] [39.37]
Thursday, July 14, 2016
Dog Chocolate –
Snack Fans LP
(Upset The Rhythm)
Watching Dog Chocolate thrashing about in the basement of Deptford’s estimable Vinyl shop/café/venue recently, it struck me that they kinda, sorta, in some sense remind me of The Band. (Yes, that The Band.) An off-the-wall comparison, I’ll grant you, but bear with me, and we’ll see where we go with it.
You see, the joy of listening to both bands arises primarily from hearing a group of musicians who each have their own uniquely idiosyncratic musical personalities nonetheless coming together and, without in any way compromising their individual styles, fusing themselves into the tangled, mangled, exultant celebration of their own collaborative fellowship, each element fitting together like a puzzle whose completion seems so organic and inevitable you wonder how you could ever have contemplated the idea that the pieces didn’t fit together just so.
(Pauses for breath.)
Live, Dog Chocolate are a band who seem to be almost preternaturally skilled in the arts of flexibility and spontaneity, adapting to potentially challenging performance situations with an ease that is little short of awe-inspiring, whilst their interaction with their audience fosters a sense of positivity and inclusivity that it is difficult for even the grumpiest of souls to resent. Whilst I am obviously lacking in first-hand experience by which to make a comparison, I can easily imagine that The Band were similarly gifted in this respect, and certainly, it is a spirit of practical, adaptable music-making expertise and an indefatigable dedication to the delivery of FUN that shines through strongly in their recordings and pre-stardom concert footage.
Can you imagine a member of either band grumping about and halting the show for the sake of a broken string, an irksome audience member or an iffy power cable? No, I say, you cannot! And I would further venture perhaps to suggest that such admirable stage conduct is a much under-appreciated barometer in assessing the qualities that go towards making a band truly great.
What separates the two bands of course (well, I mean, clearly you could write an extremely lengthy list of the factors that separate the two bands, but sticking to one most pertinent to my argument here) is the fact that, whereas The Band built their chosen aesthetic upon a deep immersion in American roots music and all the comforting, ol’ timey homeliness that that entails, DC (if I may) arise from a culture that in many ways seems the polar opposite of such fusty, authentic, furniture whittlin’ type concerns, borne instead from the waste, detritus, trivial anxieties, shallow consumerism and perpetual dislocation of 21st century urban life, as filtered through the seething backyard paddling pool of obtuse art-rock and disgruntled DIY indie.
Which is to say, there is no dream of Ragtime Willy’s rockin’ chair for these restlessly imaginative “cats”, for that time has passed and gone. What we face now is more the brute reality of some plastic shelled Ikea office chair you found on the street, one wheel missing, that kills your back even to look at it, but you dragged it home a while back cos you needed a chair and now what are we supposed to, lug it all the way to the Refuse Reclamation Centre, or whatever it is they call “the tip” these days? Could we just chop it up and put a piece in the bin each week like chair serial killers, hope no one notices? But we’d need some sort of hacksaw for that, and the blade on that cheap one I bought broke almost straight away, so, fuck it, let’s just continue sitting on it anyway.
You get the picture. (You get the back ache.)
When this train of thought first occurred to me (well, not all that shit about the chair – the basic Dog Chocolate / The Band stuff), I couldn’t take it much further, as someone was headbutting my back and I had to find a safe place to dispose of my empty beer bottle, but I later found myself returning to it whilst playing the Dog Chocolate’s first proper LP ‘Snack Fans’ at excessive volume whilst walking home from Lewisham High Street in heavy rain (optimum Dog Chocolate listening conditions, I would suggest).
Whereas a high standard of bonhomie and banter lends a jovial character to the brightly hued abrasion of DC’s live appearances, the LP swiftly reveals a darker side to the band’s headspace, as dissonant, trouble-packed songs whose rough edges can so easily get lost in the shuffle on stage become fevered, nail-biting expressions of anxiety and loss of control. Suddenly, musings on random objects (‘Plastic Canoe’, ‘Wet Bandana’) and temporarily uncomfortable states of being (not knowing, being on a roundabout) – the kind of thing you’d expect a comically inclined band to shrug off as a goof, in other words – are set upon with an intensity that eventually becomes quite harrowing, as the off-hand technical proficiency behind the “someone is emptying a bin on your head” chaos of the band’s music tips over into a vicious breed of wacky, art school grindcore that really does not sound terribly healthy for either creators or listeners.
The twiddly-ness is an issue for me here, I’ll admit. Not egocentric, guitar soloy twiddling (I am *always* cool with that), but more the kind of Deerhoof/Ponytail styled hyper-active structural twiddlyness, if you get my drift. All this stop-start and sudden left turns and cascading, octo-fingered sing-songy riffs - it’s just not my bag, man. No critical judgment intended of course; it’s just that, as a person with generally low energy levels who dislikes surprises, I tend to favour pieces of music that start out doing a thing and keep on doing it until the end with a minimum of variation. [You can check back over my lists of favourite records from past years for surprisingly compelling evidence of this broad generalisation.]
Live, the more technical aspect of Dog Chocolate’s playing tends to get lost amid the clamour and good cheer. One member (Matt?) plays one of those tiny, rectangular guitars with no body (you know the ones) fed through a board of about a dozen Boss/Digitech sized pedals, and it’s a sort of running joke that we can never really hear very much of what he’s doing, his modest contributions lost beneath the gleeful puppy blurts of Rob’s straight-into-the-amp overdriven Les Paul. On record though, properly mixed, we can finally hear the two awarded equal prominence, and the full reality of their queasily off-kilter, interlocking lead lines, driven on by the staccato conjurations of drummer Jonno and the barking, shrieking gang vocals led by front-man Andrew, is often utterly bananas, to be honest.
Were I a concerned parent or elderly relative, I could easily find myself pondering darkly on the details of the horrendous lives lived by young people driven to create and enjoy music like this, not in the name of the kind of self-conscious “extremity” that drives metal and grindcore, but just as a manner of course, as a natural mode of self-expression, primarily concerned with relatable, everyday topics.
A headache-inducing trip and no mistake, I would recommend taking ‘Snack Fans’ in small doses – perhaps five or six minutes max – and I feel the results of such compressed listening could prove extremely edifying.
After all, ‘Trout Mask Replica’ forever sits as exemplar of alienating, oddball twiddling utilised as a vessel for eternal, visionary artistry that it is nonetheless practically impossible to sit through front to back, and, although there is obviously no direct comparison to be made between Dog Chocolate and The Captain (at least six maze-like barriers of chipboard and plexi-glass separate the two vis-à-vis aesthetics and ambition), DC’s more down to earth outbursts are certainly on the side of the angels vis-à-vis the pantheon of twiddley-structured hullaballoo.
THAT SAID THOUGH, perhaps I’m over-stating the twiddley aspect here somewhat.
After all, songs like ‘I Don’t Know’ and ‘Every Day Is The End Of The World..’ on this record’s first side aren’t even twiddley in the slightest. In fact they sound more than anything like the kind of giddy, hyper-active nerdy “punk” songs that Jeff Lewis used to record with his brother (and, god willing, potentially will again in future). I think it is probably more the second half of ‘Snack Fans’, with ‘Wet Bandana’ and ‘Bent Wire Situation’ and such, that set me off on that tangent. I’m sorry.
So - I don’t know where I’m going with this really… I’ve hit a dead end. I hope this doesn’t end up sitting on the top of this weblog for too long – it’ll get embarrassing.
In conclusion then: Dog Chocolate represent a phenomenal expression of contemporary culture, making delightful fun & games from the rawest essence of honesty and self-doubt. If you are planning or organising any kind of event whatsoever, you should DEFINITELY book them for it – whatever the occasion, you will not be disappointed.
If planning some of those above-suggested compressed listening blurts, my top 5 favourite songs on ‘Snack Fans’ are:
1. Plastic Canoe
2. Con Air
3. Be a Bloody River
4. I Don’t Know
5. Emotionally Buff
You can buy ‘Snack Fans’ as a splendid, extra-packed LP package, or presumably in some slightly less extra-packed alternative formats, from Upset The Rhythm. There’s some much more informative and helpful writing about the band and their music on there too, should you prefer.
Dog Chocolate can be visited on Tumblr here.
- 05/01/2004 - 06/01/2004
- 06/01/2004 - 07/01/2004
- 07/01/2004 - 08/01/2004
- 08/01/2004 - 09/01/2004
- 09/01/2004 - 10/01/2004
- 10/01/2004 - 11/01/2004
- 11/01/2004 - 12/01/2004
- 12/01/2004 - 01/01/2005
- 01/01/2005 - 02/01/2005
- 02/01/2005 - 03/01/2005
- 03/01/2005 - 04/01/2005
- 04/01/2005 - 05/01/2005
- 05/01/2005 - 06/01/2005
- 06/01/2005 - 07/01/2005
- 07/01/2005 - 08/01/2005
- 08/01/2005 - 09/01/2005
- 09/01/2005 - 10/01/2005
- 10/01/2005 - 11/01/2005
- 11/01/2005 - 12/01/2005
- 12/01/2005 - 01/01/2006
- 01/01/2006 - 02/01/2006
- 02/01/2006 - 03/01/2006
- 03/01/2006 - 04/01/2006
- 04/01/2006 - 05/01/2006
- 05/01/2006 - 06/01/2006
- 06/01/2006 - 07/01/2006
- 07/01/2006 - 08/01/2006
- 08/01/2006 - 09/01/2006
- 09/01/2006 - 10/01/2006
- 10/01/2006 - 11/01/2006
- 11/01/2006 - 12/01/2006
- 12/01/2006 - 01/01/2007
- 01/01/2007 - 02/01/2007
- 02/01/2007 - 03/01/2007
- 03/01/2007 - 04/01/2007
- 04/01/2007 - 05/01/2007
- 05/01/2007 - 06/01/2007
- 06/01/2007 - 07/01/2007
- 07/01/2007 - 08/01/2007
- 08/01/2007 - 09/01/2007
- 09/01/2007 - 10/01/2007
- 10/01/2007 - 11/01/2007
- 11/01/2007 - 12/01/2007
- 12/01/2007 - 01/01/2008
- 01/01/2008 - 02/01/2008
- 02/01/2008 - 03/01/2008
- 03/01/2008 - 04/01/2008
- 04/01/2008 - 05/01/2008
- 05/01/2008 - 06/01/2008
- 06/01/2008 - 07/01/2008
- 07/01/2008 - 08/01/2008
- 08/01/2008 - 09/01/2008
- 09/01/2008 - 10/01/2008
- 10/01/2008 - 11/01/2008
- 11/01/2008 - 12/01/2008
- 12/01/2008 - 01/01/2009
- 01/01/2009 - 02/01/2009
- 02/01/2009 - 03/01/2009
- 03/01/2009 - 04/01/2009
- 04/01/2009 - 05/01/2009
- 05/01/2009 - 06/01/2009
- 06/01/2009 - 07/01/2009
- 07/01/2009 - 08/01/2009
- 08/01/2009 - 09/01/2009
- 09/01/2009 - 10/01/2009
- 10/01/2009 - 11/01/2009
- 11/01/2009 - 12/01/2009
- 12/01/2009 - 01/01/2010
- 01/01/2010 - 02/01/2010
- 02/01/2010 - 03/01/2010
- 03/01/2010 - 04/01/2010
- 04/01/2010 - 05/01/2010
- 05/01/2010 - 06/01/2010
- 06/01/2010 - 07/01/2010
- 07/01/2010 - 08/01/2010
- 08/01/2010 - 09/01/2010
- 09/01/2010 - 10/01/2010
- 10/01/2010 - 11/01/2010
- 11/01/2010 - 12/01/2010
- 12/01/2010 - 01/01/2011
- 01/01/2011 - 02/01/2011
- 02/01/2011 - 03/01/2011
- 03/01/2011 - 04/01/2011
- 04/01/2011 - 05/01/2011
- 05/01/2011 - 06/01/2011
- 06/01/2011 - 07/01/2011
- 07/01/2011 - 08/01/2011
- 08/01/2011 - 09/01/2011
- 09/01/2011 - 10/01/2011
- 10/01/2011 - 11/01/2011
- 11/01/2011 - 12/01/2011
- 12/01/2011 - 01/01/2012
- 01/01/2012 - 02/01/2012
- 02/01/2012 - 03/01/2012
- 03/01/2012 - 04/01/2012
- 04/01/2012 - 05/01/2012
- 05/01/2012 - 06/01/2012
- 06/01/2012 - 07/01/2012
- 07/01/2012 - 08/01/2012
- 08/01/2012 - 09/01/2012
- 09/01/2012 - 10/01/2012
- 10/01/2012 - 11/01/2012
- 11/01/2012 - 12/01/2012
- 12/01/2012 - 01/01/2013
- 01/01/2013 - 02/01/2013
- 02/01/2013 - 03/01/2013
- 03/01/2013 - 04/01/2013
- 04/01/2013 - 05/01/2013
- 05/01/2013 - 06/01/2013
- 06/01/2013 - 07/01/2013
- 09/01/2013 - 10/01/2013
- 10/01/2013 - 11/01/2013
- 11/01/2013 - 12/01/2013
- 12/01/2013 - 01/01/2014
- 01/01/2014 - 02/01/2014
- 02/01/2014 - 03/01/2014
- 03/01/2014 - 04/01/2014
- 04/01/2014 - 05/01/2014
- 05/01/2014 - 06/01/2014
- 06/01/2014 - 07/01/2014
- 07/01/2014 - 08/01/2014
- 08/01/2014 - 09/01/2014
- 09/01/2014 - 10/01/2014
- 10/01/2014 - 11/01/2014
- 11/01/2014 - 12/01/2014
- 12/01/2014 - 01/01/2015
- 01/01/2015 - 02/01/2015
- 02/01/2015 - 03/01/2015
- 04/01/2015 - 05/01/2015
- 05/01/2015 - 06/01/2015
- 06/01/2015 - 07/01/2015
- 07/01/2015 - 08/01/2015
- 08/01/2015 - 09/01/2015
- 09/01/2015 - 10/01/2015
- 10/01/2015 - 11/01/2015
- 11/01/2015 - 12/01/2015
- 12/01/2015 - 01/01/2016
- 01/01/2016 - 02/01/2016
- 04/01/2016 - 05/01/2016
- 06/01/2016 - 07/01/2016
- 07/01/2016 - 08/01/2016
- 10/01/2016 - 11/01/2016
- 11/01/2016 - 12/01/2016
- 12/01/2016 - 01/01/2017