Like so many of us right now, I can’t even begin to give voice to the fear and despair I feel regarding the future at the present juncture. All explanations thus far offered sound uncertain and incomplete, whilst ‘solutions’, when they are proposed at all, seem ludicrously inadequate.

All I can think to say that sounds even vaguely hopeful is that, there are a lot of us sharing this despair. Broadly speaking, decent, right-thinking people are still polling something like 40 – 50% around the world, and that’s a lot of naysayers for the fascists to try to pull down into the mire with them.

Like everyone else, I don’t know what will happen next, or what kind of opposition to it might eventually emerge, but I do know that the percentage of the population that comprises ourselves, our friends, our families, our extended social demographic is not going to disappear overnight. We just need to stay strong and do whatever we can to ensure that the assorted swine now taking the reins across the globe won’t be able to enforce their idiocy upon us, at least until we’ve made them bleed for it. In the simple but apt words of the late Hunter S. Thompson: fuck them.

Meanwhile, some records came out this year. Here are some of the ones I liked the best, in ascending order.




Since I saw them play last year, I’ve oft been want to exclaim that D/i/s/c/o/s are the “best live band in Japan”, which is a fairly fatuous pronouncement given the extremely small number of live bands I’ve seen in Japan, but what can you say – I’m on a PR tip when it comes to trying to spread knowledge of these guys, and it’s a nice attention grabber.

Being admirably adverse to attention however, they don't do themselves many favours, especially vis-à-vis recordings, but whilst this tape of bedroom demos from their basic two piece line-up sees both volume and energy levels necessarily toned down to fit the circumstances, it’s still a lovely listen, with Kato-san’s rhythmic John Lee Hooker via John Dwyer guitar moves & Red Moon’s splendidly exuberant, hi-hat-free drums both readily identifiable.

Happily, the slightly more laidback vibe also gives us the chance to appreciate the surprisingly poppy and well thought out song structures that underpin the band’s sound – an aspect of their work that can easily be overlooked in the blown-out riff-out of their live sets. One of the untitled cuts has ‘ooh-ooh-ohhs’ straight off The Ramone’s ‘Oh Oh I Love Her So’, so that gives you some indication of the bubblegum traces littered round here, but unlike so many of the U.S. bands currently treading those congealing waters, it’s never cutesy, never cloying, never just finger-pointing pantomime; D/i/s/c/o/s understand the street corner spirit that made rock n’ roll and doo-wop so compelling despite its formulaic sentimentality, and, schooled via the gods of Memphis, they’ve got the off-hand chops to make it happen.

There are a couple of absolutely tremendous groovers here (particularly like the one about having “the lawyers on our tail”) that wouldn’t be out of place in these gentlemen’s work in Mule Team (of whom more later), and, whilst it’s clearly not the HERE-WE-ARE world-conquering D/i/s/c/o/s disc I’ve been praying for, it’s nonetheless simple, homemade classic rock n’ roll business with one ear open for the neighbours banging on the wall, and that, as ever, is hard not to love.

Listen and buy via bandcamp (but please, don’t click ‘buy’ on their download version – Y100,000 is about £686 at the current exchange rate – why, those jokers etc…)




This is the first of four releases on this list (that’s, what, 20%?) to feature the magic axe-work of Mr Mike Vest, who will surely need no introduction to those who have followed my fawning appreciations of his work over the past few years.

Amid his voluminous output in 2016, this solo guitar & effects number under the Lush Worker name struck me as a particularly keen venture, taking Vest’s by-now-familiar brand of outer limits psyche/noise guitar rock to the far galactic fringes, where amp hum, neck-scrapes and pedal clicks multiply queasily through massed layers of delay until they sound like echoing emergency sirens and overheating equipment in some derelict, off-world field hospital; lights blinking, gloop spilling, bulkheads crashing, vision blurring and multiplying as consciousness fades and unknown incorporeal entities run amok, all as our man sweetly shreds on oblivious through the medicated haze.

Further edifying proof in other words that there are still no limits to the atmospheric idylls that can be conjured from the ol’ electric guitar with a bit of imagination and technical suss, this is a very nice time indeed.

No less than four other Lush Worker releases have subsequently popped up this year, but I haven’t had time to buy/listen to them. Jesus Christ, slow down man.

Listen and buy via bandcamp.



Just about creeping onto the 2016 list before the door of December slams (good job I’ve been so slack in writing this bloody thing), this debut vinyl offering from under-the-radar North London tape provocateurs “Baron Saturday” and “Private Sorrow” seems to capture the demoralised spirit of the age with almost uncanny precision.
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Though still loosely ‘structured’, this is work-weary, disconsolate, weekend hobby fare, carelessly ditching the blown-out garage-punk headaches of its perpetrators’ better known projects as if they can just no longer be BOTHERED with such a rock n’ roll smoke screen, instead ploughing their remaining resources into the esoteric shed-craft of iffy four-track experimentalism and fragmented instant song creation, daring a would-be audience of their most tolerant friends to care as they veer uneasily between relatively chirpy Messthetics readymades and terrible valleys of caustic, dubbed out despair.

I’ve never been much into ugly-for-ugly’s-sake when it comes to rock or noise music, but thankfully Midnight Mines succeed in a similar process of sublimation to that regularly achieved by the closely associated Black Time, wherein frustration, exhaustion and wilful obscurantism are channelled via a set of sadistically tormented equipment into sheets of disarming, near spiritual beauty; it’s like seeing the crap kicked around in the dingiest corners of the most benighted commuter suburbs fleetingly landing at the feet of a silver-skinned prophet, who delivers the best f-ing free kick you’ve ever seen betwixt the rusted poles that form the goals of some dilapidated nocturnal pleasureground. Or something.

Returning to earth somewhat, just try joining the dots between an English analogue to the poker-faced death trips of Jim Shepard, the otherly emanations of NZ’s Alastair Galbraith, the haunted diatribes of The Shadow Ring and the bed-sit sci-fi of Solid Space, but keep just enough punk rock grease left in the engine to stir some shit up, and you’ll be somewhere in the realm of Midnight Mines.

A right treat for all fans of the kind of parched, outsider nowheresville mojo honed by those aforementioned artistes then basically, inexplicably lurking in the midst of one of the biggest blobs of population density on the map, because nowhere’s as lonely as a city and all that, y’know.

Kudos too for their appropriation of one of Leiber & Stoller’s more troubling exhortations for this LP’s title. I, for one, appreciate it.

Listen and buy via bandcamp.




The conceptual basis behind what is apparently set to become The Caretaker’s final statement is ambitious indeed, and, whilst I won’t bother rehashing the details here, his plan for the series of six releases of which this comprises the first part, and a whole lot more besides, can be gleaned via this interview that John Doran condusted earlier this year with the officially-no-longer-elusive James Kirby. (It’s also one of the best bits of music-write I’ve encountered this year incidentally, so give it a look regardless.)


Upon first listen to this initial instalment then, it is, as one would expect in view of the wider concept, probably the least treated/modified visit to the ‘haunted ballroom’ conjured from Kirby’s stash of mouldering 78s to date (or, presumably, ever), thus blurring the line between his categorisation as a musician or merely a curator of sound further than ever before.

Those (such as myself) who have found this distinction troublesome in the past however are encouraged to put such preconceptions aside, because, taken as a stand-alone listening experience disengaged from its wider purpose within The Caretaker’s catalogue, this disc remains enthralling.

Though Kirby is arguably doing little more here than selecting pieces of pre-existing music and ripping them through his digital recording set up, his keen ear for atmosphere and emotion, combined with his judicious application of cuts, repetitions and selective treatments, ensure that this presentation of keys being pushed, horns being blown and strings being scraped by distant men long dead remains characteristically compelling, enveloping and transforming the mood of any room in which it is played. Though perhaps not as overwhelming or unnerving as The Caretaker’s more processed/maximalist releases, it still *works*, it what I’m basically trying to say.

Even if we want to take it merely as a Duchampian readymade, it is difficult to deny that this is one assembled with the touch of a genius, and I wait with a mixture of anticipation and fear to see what damage Kirby plans to wreak upon these gentle sounds over the next three years.

Listen and buy via bandcamp.



More Vestage interest (sorry) here, as Mike instigates a wild n’ wooly four piece psyche-jam super-group with members of Terminal Cheesecake and Gum Takes Tooth.

The result, suffice to say, is a writhing, shrieking mass of inter-galactic heavy rock maximalism, guitar-lines spiralling out of control like severed tentacles or fizzing electrical cables, as the rhythms ebb and flow like electro-magnetic pulse, battering the poor ship of your brain senseless.

Track titles like ‘Drug Cop’ and ‘Slug Race’ are suggestive of Vest’s comrades bringing a grimmer, more earthbound noise-rock aesthetic to his more usual science fictional concerns, but you’d be hard-pressed to find any sign of this in the music itself, which goes straight to the far end of oblivion from the opening burst of skree onward and never lets up for a second, as the players shred themselves stupid to the point of what is presumably total bodily collapse, like some best-of-both-worlds High Rise / Acid Mothers Temple team-up of dreams.

The closing ‘Spectral Dispensary’ is probably my favourite cut, easing us out with ten minutes or so of mechanized, post-collapse amp turbulence cascading across a rolling drum beat that just won't quit, and.... what more is there to say really? If you like this sort of thing then get with this, because it’s fucking brilliant. And if you don’t – well I can say what I like as you’ve doubtless ceased reading by this point.

So to conclude: MELTING HAND! Yeah! I’d love to see this lot live if they can ever make it happen somewhere in the vicinity of London that’s neither at 3am nor on a £50 festival bill.

Listen and buy download via bandcamp. Looks like the LP is still available from Hominid Sounds.

Labels: best of 2016, D/i/s/c/o/s, Lush Worker, Melting Hand, Midnight Mines, The Caretaker

…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.

Labels: apologies, blather, lameness, plugs, self promotion