Holiday

Dear readers,

I will be leaving tomorrow to spend a week in Barcelona, some of which will be spent watching some rock bands and stuff. So, y'know, best cut me even more slack than usual when awaiting the next update, comical as that may seem given my recent weblogging performance.

Rest assured, I have as ever got tons of stuff I would like to write about, but it's just a case of finding the time. Finishing that review of the Howlin Rain album, writing an emotive overview of the Silver Jews career, plugging some singles and DIY labels, some kind of ramble about the best music to listen to on London nightbuses, thoughts on the utter greatness of Tinariwen, maybe even some 'what I did on my holidays' type stuff.... all, some, or indeed none of that to look forward to upon my return.

Labels: announcements

Charalambides / Pocahaunted – Bored Fortress split 7” (Not Not Fun)

(DISCLAIMER: I don’t actually own a hard copy of this - I came across it on thee interweb. I won’t post the tracks, as giving away the entirety of a recently released record seems like poor form. But, as is inevitably the way with this sort of nonsense, it was issued as part of a monthly singles club scheme to which entry is now closed, thus already rendering it unavailable for us mere mortals to legitimately purchase, so if you’re interested in hearing it, drop me a line.)

As you may have gathered, I’ve been pretty down on the whole noise/psyche/drone/“kneel-core” (gotta love that phrase) world over the past year or two. As the initial euphoria surrounding the discovery of such goings-on wore off and my priorities in life and music began to change, I have gradually come to the conclusion that a lot of this stuff is lazy, self-regarding, emotionally deadening or actively negative, often relying on phony mystique and audience projection to disguise a dire lack of content, and, well, basically it does nothing for me, a few key artists aside. On paper, the bits of info I’ve picked up on Pocahaunted would seem to suggest that they are a textbook example of a shitty, arrogant psyche-noise band. Witness a reliance on ‘primitive’, pedal-based electronics jams, a goofy name and thoughtless adoption of Native American imagery, a bewildering array of limited-to-nothing self-released tapes and ‘artyfacts’ cut with guest appearances by everyone under the sun of this particular scene, obligatory schmoozing with Thurston, subsequent hype from all the usual subterranean suspects, and so forth.

But the proof is in the pudding as they say, and thus I’m delighted to report that the Pocahaunted side of this single is actually really, really good, and a great reminder of the essential qualities that this kind of music can embody when it puts in the effort. Entitled ‘Time Fist’, it’s built around some genuinely eerie Double Leopards-esque cosmic horror atmospherics, looped vocal echo and and slooooow, carefully orchestrated knob-twisting, backed by a thick mist of warm fuzz hovering across the horizon. Then, a couple of minutes in, crisp bass and drums enter, playing a straight up space-rock groove that could have been sampled off a Loop record. It’s a daring decision for a band like this to add such a linear rhythm to their strictly chaotic proceedings, but it turns out to be an inspired one, as the two elements fuse perfectly into a mighty fine exercise in enveloping hypnosis. So congrats to Pocahaunted for taking a chance and hitting the psychedelic bullseye, this time at least. In fact I wish it went on for longer, and how many recent free-form pedal-murk excursions can you honestly say that about? Top stuff indeed, and it was nice of them to give my shitty preconceptions a good kicking too.

Charalambides were of course the act that suckered me into listening to this thing though, and whilst their tune here is very much the slighter contribution, we always enjoy a nice bit of understatement around here, so that’s no criticism. Maybe this is though, in part: ‘Memory’ is another brittle, anxious folk mutation much in the spirit of last year’s ‘Likeness’ album, hanging more toward the chilly, formal end of currently hip British folk than the multi-faceted expression allowed by American traditions. So you know what to expect by now, I’m sure: a web of minimal post-Garcia/Connors guitar figures from both Carters, and a brittle, lonesome, perfectly pitched vocal from Christina – this one is heavily echoed and near wordless. Lovely on a musical level, but in the emotional stakes, it’s cold, so cold…. I guess the power of Charalambides at their best (eg, live) has always leaned heavily on the tension between repression/release, but at the moment they seem to be making music that’s keeping it all inside, y’know…? It’s music a bit like being given the brush-off by someone you used to tell your troubles to, a connection severed, and I don’t know if that’s really a feeling I enjoy having piped out of my speakers all that often, to be honest.

Labels: Charalambides, drone, Pocahaunted, Psychedelia, singles reviews

Michael Yonkers Band – Microminiature Love
(Recorded 1968 / Released by Sub-Pop, 2003)

Recorded by the exceptional Mr. Yonkers in 1968, and now available to the masses for the first time via the auspices of Sub-Pop, this is an album which pretty much exemplifies the narrative of the “lost underground freak-rock classic” archetype. I’m sure you can turn to google etc. if you want the full story.

The first thing that enters my head when I put this one on is the bit in the sleevenotes about how Sire records were planning to release the album and to try and market Yonkers as a ‘new Hendrix’ figure, but the deal fell through at the last minute. So I ponder that, and I listen to the sound emerging from my speakers, and I think, c’mon man, I don’t know who told what to whom when, but *no fucking way* would a major record label in the 1960s come within a thousand miles of releasing… THIS… even in the glory days of the cash-in psychedelia boom.

I’m still undecided as to whether ‘Microminiature Love’ is actually a good or bad record, or whether such terms even have any meaning with regard to an artefact this far off the accepted cultural map, but I am certain that it is genuinely deranged – as damaged a document of musical fucked-ness any connoisseur of such things could ever hope to find.

Yonkers is perhaps best known (amongst the kind of people likely to know of him at all) as the guy who combined his love for DIY electronics with rock n’ roll, sawing up his guitars and reassembling them as a weirdly tuned, doublenecked Frankenstein creation incorporating a theremin, at the same time as building his own fuzzboxes and echo units from scratch. Which all sounds pretty intriguing I’m sure you’ll agree, but it must be said that this sonic invention is certainly not as much in evidence on the LP as might be wished.

Yonkers and his band play a kind of nightmarish, claustrophobic garage-blues of a distinctly primitive caste, the guitar slowly navigating it’s way through wobbly, repetitive riffs that tend to sound like perverse variations on the Batman theme (so much for the new Hendrix!). Listening closer, it often sounds as if two or more guitars have been layered on top of each other, sometimes clean, echoed and jangly, sometimes deep, rumbling and fuzzed out, but always ever so slightly wonky and out of tempo/key, creating weird droning / overtone effects that hover in the background, occasionally emerging in the mix like rotor blades or croaking frogs. Interesting! Meanwhile, a rhythm section flounder around somewhere, stoned in the far background. Rendered in the kind of low fidelity you’d expect from a ‘60s basement tape, the whole thing has a weird Joe Meek kind of vibe about it, baked in wanton echo and reverb, and a certain, indefinable sense that nothing is quite the way it should be. The simplistic wrong-ness of the compositions, combined with the murk and slipshod violence of their execution, actually begins to sound quite post-punky after a while, perhaps recalling early stuff by The Fall or Butthole Surfers…. which I guess renders it ‘ahead of its time’ by default, by way of gloriously lolling in the same primordial waters of incompetence somewhere BEHIND everybody else’s musicianly time.

Yonkers’ nasal croon of a voice, utterly earnest and uncomfortably bellow-y at all times, is pushed to the forefront of the mix, where he proceeds to let rip on what some will consider a treasure trove of cracked outsider poetics, holding forth via cack-handed, childish rhyme schemes and lunatic repeated fragments on subjects such as depression, despair, escape from reality into odd personal dream worlds, and above all the horrors of war and governmental indoctrination. Songs such as ‘Smile Awhile’ seem almost obsessive in their bleakness, prefiguring the brute cosmic nihilism of Black Sabbath, whilst ‘Kill The Enemy’ sounds like a monotonous forced march straight to the cemetery, ending a blood-curdling shriek and disorientating tape echo.

Yonkers manages to sound deadly serious and deeply unhappy at all times, even then singing stuff like “Navigate your boat / keeping it afloat / round and round and round and round / round and round the moat”. You get the feeling that he has taken up the ‘60s counter-culture baton of free expression for all and naively run with it, although I suspect the San Fran tastemakers and hirsute folkies weren’t really counting on getting hit full in the face with the soul-baring of a paranoid, suburban shut-in like Yonkers when they told the world to let it all hang out.

Track 3, ‘Boy In The Sandbox’ is perhaps the album’s most astonishing moment, as Yonkers sings the story of a boy being indoctrinated from childhood into life as a soldier (fairly corny protest song stuff were it not for his insane delivery), slowly building up the tension and anger and culminating with the image of his young wife crying over the letter announcing his grisly death by bayonet in Vietnam as his baby son sits in the sandbox playing with toy soldiers. And only then does Yonkers let loose and deploy his homemade distortion pedal for the first time. You can actually hear the click of his foot hitting the switch, and then…. whoa! Holy hell! You can have a listen to the results below.

Modern day noise-freaks will relish this bit for sure, and patiently wait through the rest of the album for him to do it again, but in 1968 it must have knocked people out of their seats – a completely unprecedented flying leap into the jaws of oblivion.

So if all this sounds like your chosen pint of wine – well, it’s out there, go get it. Yonkers certainly lends a completely unique and genuine feeling to everything he does here, and I know I’ll be playing this at least a few more times trying to make sense of it all. But at the same time I wouldn’t blame you for reacting to this stuff the same way I suspect some bigwig at Sire probably did when faced with an eager young A&R brandishing a tape recorder: “Get the hell out of my office”.

Mp3> Boy In The Sandbox

Buy link> Amazon

Labels: 1960s, album reviews, Michael Yonkers Band, Proto-Punk, Psychedelia, weirdness

Death of the Mixtape?

So, like seemingly every other weblogger on the planet, I've swallowed my pride and signed up to Muxtape.

I have mixed feelings about the whole thing. On the one hand, it is clearly an absurd bastardisation of the mixtaper's art. You're only allowed to upload 12 tracks, none of which may exceed 10MB (eg, about 6/7 minutes in length), meaning that a 'Muxtape' more realistically represents one SIDE of a mixtape, even once you accept the fact that there's no artwork, no artistry and no way for you to put in any effort to personalise things even if you wanted to.

Also, those subtle "buy" links to Amazon are kind of unsettling.... I guess they mark the point at which a pleasantly DIY-looking, ad-free web utility starts to become a nice little earner for it's creators.

But on the other hand: it's easy, and fun, and a good way to share some tunes currently infesting your head with other people, and will possibly become extremely addictive.

So here's my effort for you all to enjoy.

Some of my current selections are possibly influenced by the grim aftermath of the UK and London's recent electoral proceedings. I'll try to throw some new playlists up there on a regular basis, so keep an eye on it if you're at all interested.

(By the way, the illustration above is scanned from the sleeve of Comet Gain's superb "City Fallen Leaves". Click for the full-size image to enjoy some fine words, and should they strike a chord with you, do yourself a favour and buy the damn record.)

Labels: Comet Gain, mixtapes, Muxtape, political shit

Classic Rock Renegades # 1

Ok, forget the promised second half of that previous post – it was going to be a bunch of self-pitying nonsense anyway, and I’m not really feeling it enough to bother writing it, and have forgotten what it was going to consist of anyway really. A good demonstration of why I should never trail forthcoming posts.

Instead, some record reviews! Of the 2008 releases I’ve lent an ear to thus far and enjoyed, one of the running themes seems to be that of bands/people reclaiming the legacy of mainstream ‘70s American rock in all its glorious excess. Nothing new there of course – has there been a time in the past 30 years when at least SOME cool kids weren’t busy digging on Creedence and The ‘Dead for the basic fact that they’re *really good*? - but some of this year’s crop is notable insofar as they seem to be doing something bold and interesting re: turning their post-historic influences into awesome 21st century records, rather than just serving up some more fun retro guitar chuggin’. It would of course take a right fool to try and tie this vague observation into any kind of nonsense zeitgeisty theory about the current musical climate, so unless the Guardian Guide want to pay me to knock out some ill-informed bullshit about beards and floral shirts and the top 5 LPs to get wasted to (highly unlikely), I won’t bother if that’s alright with you.

Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks – Real Emotional Trash (Matador/Domino)

Were this not the work of a man with so much history and expectation still hanging over him, we might even be able to appreciate it for what it is. And what it is is an extraordinary, bold and deeply STRANGE concoction of sweet, stoned fuzz and vertiginous audiophile thunder, cross-pollinating full band progressive rock blowouts with more hallucinatory, laugh-out-loud wordplay than ever before, all assembled like some grand architectural folly, with Malkmus’ perfectionist production aesthetic searching the studio console as usual for some manner of rock perfection that is never quite ‘old’, never quite ‘new’, but is certainly pretty oblivious to the social/cultural context of making a record in 2008. The results are meandering and monstrous in equal measure, an hour or so of genuinely multi-faceted, imaginative music that makes perfect, goofy rock n’ roll sense but is at same time completely off the map, answerable to nothing except the inscrutably odd logical-musical pathways of the hallowed Malkmus brain.

Previous solo Malk escapades may have paid reference in passing to such comfortingly dusty fetishes as Turkish psych, obscure folk rock and European prog – which you’d think all the cool kids would have lapped up but apparently not – but it’s only on ‘Real Emotional Trash’ that he’s really dared to step fully out of his own ‘indie’ shadow, putting together the kind of powerhouse band you kinda suspect he’s always wanted to have backing him up (that’s veteran Jicks Joanna Bolme and Mike Clark, with Janet “she-is-so-awesome-we-don’t-even-need-to-bother-pointing-it-out” Weiss taking over on drums of course), and playing a brand of big-in-every-sense, capital letters Rock Music whose central axis veers between CLASSIC on one hand and WEIRD on the other, and proceeds to take no prisoners.

Perhaps this a reaction to some extent to the negative reaction unfairly afforded to 2005’s ‘Face The Truth’, a slightly patchy but ultimately really, really great album on which Steve seemed to be attempting to channel some of his energies back into the more concise DIY pop-craft of earlier days, knocking out at least five or six absolute gems of songs that I’d contest stand up to anything he wrote during the ‘90s. Aside from anything else, it must be very frustrating to him to realise that for this to be readily and loudly acknowledged, all he’d have to do is call up a few of the boys and stick ‘Pavement’ on the front of the CD case, but the party line on solo Malk is cemented, so reaction from indie-world to his fine efforts remains a collective ‘meh’.

I mean, seriously guys, I can understand why all the prog stuff on ‘Pig Lib’ might have been an eye-opener to some, but it seems like the guy can do no right in the eyes of a lot of former fans, which I just don’t get. Spend some quality time with any of these records (just like you probably had to do with ‘Wowee Zowee’ or ‘Brighten The Corners’ back in the day), and you’ll soon remember why there was a time when he could do no wrong.

Anyway, in all likelihood reaction to the last album had nothing whatsoever to do with the direction the new Jicks stuff has taken, but it’s a point I wanted to bring up anyway, cos I really love ‘Face The Truth’ and ‘Pig Lib’ and I’ve still got a chip on my shoulder about how so many people seemed to dismiss them. But nonetheless, there’s a definite feeling on ‘Real Emotional Trash’ that this time Steve’s got his Orange amp and his boutique fuzz pedals and fingers itching to get busy. His scrabble board keeps on delivering the goods, he’s got a band behind him who could chase Robert Fripp round a labyrinth all day, and he’s gonna fuckin’ JAM, regardless of what anybody wants or expects. And I for one say: bring it on Steve, I can dig it!

And boy, does he ever. The opener here, "Dragonfly Pie", sounds almost as if Leslie West reformed Mountain, and asked Steve to stand in on vocals. And that’s majestic, twiddley "Nantucket Sleighride" Mountain too, rather than proto-metal "Mississippi Queen" Mountain. And if you have any idea what I’m talking about, you can consider this review closed and go buy the album – you’ll dig it. A frankly astonishing number entitled "Hopscotch Willie" follows, towing a similarly convoluted musical line as Steve unfolds some sort of grotesque crime caper over the course of seven minutes, ending with a body at the bottom of the cliffs and the titular villain “prancing like a pitbull, minus the meat” as the cops close in amid a head-spinning whirl of repetitive chanting and a cacophony of high-end guitar licks and wonky analogue synth tones. The jury’s still out in my head as to whether all this is good or bad, but truly, I don’t think I’ve heard anything quite like it in my life, and that’s gotta be worth something.

Shorter tunes such as "Out Of Reaches" and "Gardenia" stick to a slightly more palatable off-kilter indie-rock framework, allowing a bit of a breather from the mutant-prog blowouts. The former is the closest thing the album has to offer to a straight, emotional song, although its point is somewhat lost amid the typically OTT arrangements, whilst the latter is incongruously jaunty and concise, sounding rather uncannily like a song The Shins never got around to recording for 'Chutes Too Narrow'. Although I’ve always thought that The Shins sound very much like a conscious attempt at Pavement-lite, so probably best not get started on that whole ‘snake swallowing its own tail’ reverse-influence malarkey.

Brief diversions aside though, it’s time to hold on tight as the relentless cavalcade of bizarro formal left-turns continues, serving to foreground steaming heaps of the kind of bitchin’ lead guitar work that in a slightly different world could well invite the approval of the dad-rock / guitar wank press (ooh - impeccable tone!). Marimba and/or xylophone also seems to feature prominently, record collectors of a certain stripe might like to note, and, as previously mentioned, synths and electric organ are all over the shop too, exploring some squelching, burbling Krautrock-ish terrain that would probably be manna from heaven to many out there who’d never be caught dead looking at a Stephen Malkmus record.

Another thing that helps set ‘Real Emotional Trash’ apart from pop/indie routine is the seemingly deliberate inconsistency of pace and density both across the album and within individual songs, reminiscent of the kind of sprawling post-San Fran Ballroom concert album rock with which I suspect Malkmus shares more than a passing affinity. Many of these songs are pushed across the five/six minute mark by painstakingly arranged passages which initially seem inexplicably dull, serving almost to lure the listener into a false sense of security before the next outbreak of inexplicable musical/lyrical madness hurtles around the bend. The eleven minute title track is a case in point, and probably the song on the album that I’ve returned to most. After a promising start, the band’s focus simply seems to wander off and, after half a dozen listens, I honestly couldn’t tell you a thing about what happens between about minutes two and six. Then, just when your attention’s starting to terminally drift, Weiss picks up the tempo and Malkmus’ litany of geographical/culinary ephemera starts to get a bit more strident – hello, something’s happening here! Then just when you’re getting comfortable with the thundering early-Can style groove the song has become during minutes six to eight, things go completely off-road, launching headfirst into a crazed downhill slalom, with howling pterodactyl guitar lines discordant synths cleaving in from nowhere as Steve yelps “down in Sausalito we had clams for dessert / you spilled chardonnay on your gypsy skirt!”, kicking off several minutes of utterly disorientating, over-stimulated heavy metal (‘70s definition) chaos.

The reviewer at Dusted seems certain that this song is an exploration of the development of Southern Californian culture through the 60s/70s. Or at least, I think he does; I’m not really sure where the guy’s coming from in that review to be honest, but it seems a fair observation. Conversely, Plan B’s review picked up on the prevalence of glossolia and baby-talk chanting on the album (cf: ‘Hopscotch Willie’, ‘Elmo Delmo’) by way of suggesting that these songs are coloured by Steve’s experience of fatherhood. Myself, there’s no way I’d dare to approach most Malkmus songs the way that Fluxblog often does, attempting to relate them back to some core element of the man’s personality/emotions/life, and ‘Real Emotional Trash’ finds the meaning behind his lyrics more barbed and opaque than ever, even whilst his quotient of verbal imagination and creeping black humour has gone through the roof.

Framed around the kind of overtly complex rock manoeuvring that, however enjoyable in its own right, often seems almost autistic in it’s avoidance of emotional engagement with the lyrics, this album could well be a nadir for those who value Malkmus primarily as an empathetic pop songwriter. Admirably accomplished though the album may be, I know from the start there’s nothing here that’s going to slowly rattle my heartstrings the way that "Freeze The Saints" or "Malediction" from ‘Face The Truth’ did, and it would certainly take a braver listener than I to try to decode the intentions of a man who routinely spits out verses like “It’s warm for a witch trial don’t you agree? / cold are the hands that will never touch me / you’ve got the energy of a classic creep / sex vibe for miles and shark eyes asleep”, as much as I may applaud him for sending such inexplicable pronouncements spiralling off into the ether as I stand there doing the housework or scratching my nose or whatever I happen to be up to at the time.

For, much in keeping with the lofty and blunted feeling of the ‘70s rock from which it takes so much inspiration, there’s no way this album is going be anybody’s early morning / late night “I gotta hear that ONE SONG RIGHT NOW” musical pacifier. This disc is strictly for the afternoons – the mundane, emotionally neutral stretches of weekend blank canvas where you can stick on a record from the start to finish, then put on another one (maybe this one) as you clean house or drink tea or think about maybe going to the shops and notice that, oh, actually, it’s gone a bit overcast outside, and hopefully all the rich, fuzzy musical shenanigans piping out the speakers on your portable hi-fi will help your troubles recede and render the mundane kinda cool as it slowly seeps into your head, colouring the atmosphere in pleasing shades of brown and red and purple. And, y’know, that’s a really great thing I think – I really wish I had more time for the kind of calm, groovy music listening that albums like this demand. I’m aware that I use melodramatic songs and howling mad rock n’ roll and jazz as a coping/survival mechanism way, way more than is strictly healthy, and sometimes it’s good to have some engaging & awesome new music like this that I can get down with on that simple, pleasurable music-for-it’s-own-sake middleground.

Or, as a review of the album in the New York Times that I googled up and promptly lost concluded rather more bluntly; "It's like being hit over the head with a deadpan". Yes, not a bedpan or a dustpan - a deadpan. And we wonder why some guys get paid to write about music and some don't... genius in action.

MP3 > >Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks – Baltimore

Labels: album reviews, classic rock, Stephen Malkmus, The Jicks