Tales from the Attic
Volume XXV – part ii
Revolutions of a 45 and 33 kind….
This edition features sterling stereophonic sounds from…..
Voluntary butler scheme, temple songs, fluid, owt kri, macajey, primordial undermind, father Murphy, james, Camilla sparksss, hanne kolsto, angele david guillou, puss warmers, scary cherry and the bang bangs, brothers and sisters, grafham water sailing club, curtis / moore, tail feather, del venicci, Dalmatian rex and the eigentones, tense men, daniel avery, franklin, nebelung, aru and bear, black Saturn, chester hawkins, dmc and anton mobin, leigh wright, hezement and hellocentricism, marina stewart, mrc riddims, horsten soltau, owt kri, komodo haunts, obsidian pond, rejections, roadside picnic, the end of the world championship, the mouth of ghosts, tara, wreaths, scammers, mogard – wiggan – Fricke, wiggan – guilherne, john 3:16, wizards tell lies, aderall canyonly, bird people, daniel bachman, daniel Lévesque, Derek rogers, invisible path
Long time no hear, in these pages at least, the Voluntary Butler Scheme, in essence one man multi everything Rob Jones, were if I recall rightly championed many, many years ago by those lads and ladies over at the much missed Sheffield Phonographic Corporation and indeed as a result had featured to much admiring praise here. New album – his third – looming imminently by the name ’a million ways to make gold’ finds itself pre-serviced by a second cut lifted from the set ’honey in the gravel mixture’. a wonderfully cute cookie butter combed in the sprightly spray of Stax styled brass fanfares that purr and parp with a summery spring in their step to sassily trace an acutely bubble grooved arrest that sighs with a fondness and an affectionate lilt whose shoe shuffling feel good love note traces its pop lineage back to what sounds like Jackie Wilson being fused by the Brigadier all overseen by the lightning seeds. http://www.soundcloud.com/thevoluntarybutlerscheme/honey-in-the-gravel-mixture
Alas you might have to hang on a bit while we try and get some additional information on this as the link we’ve managed to stumble across appears to have jettisoned all the relevant information. All we know is that its arriving via RIP records pressed up on limited quantities of vinyl and is by a band called Temple Songs who I think I’m safe in saying haven’t as yet troubled our hi-fi. Anyhow ‘point of origin’ the aforementioned current single ought by rights be something of interest to those much admiring of the Woods given its sweetly surrendered in kaleidoscopic hazes and sumptuously lush in lysergic pop crushes that shyly veer ever so delicately to a golden 50’s era song craft woozily pouted in the merest of glam traces all dappled in a soft psych 60’s coolness that radiates silken west coast after burns. Essential in a word.
Must say I’m beginning to lose track of all these Alrealon Musique related happenings, surely we’ve heard and reviewed this in a past missive dispatch but on hearing it now I don’t immediately recognise it, anyway its by Fluid and its called ‘resurrecting the ghost’ and a ghostly slab of dark dystopian technoid industrialism it is to that’s weirdly funky in a futuro glazed way though I’m suspecting admirers of wagon christ, christ. and muslim gauze are all over this like a rash and why not…..
Likewise from Alrealon Musique courtesy of [owt kri] a new video emerges for the track ‘darker sensation’ – this being taken from his recent set ‘the new seed’ – part haunting, this macabre freefall into dark psychosis precariously journeys the fractured paths of the mind. Haloed in primitive psych folk motifs a maddening mantra emerges out of the thick woozy fog stressed in a creeping primality casting both an unhinged and disorientating disquiet which if our ears don‘t deceive much recalls the darker entries to the Clock DVA canon..<p><a href=”http://vimeo.com/85497516″>”Darker Sensation” by [ówt krì]</a> from <a href=”http://vimeo.com/alrealon”>Alrealon Musique</a> on <a href=”https://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a>.</p>
You may well remember a little while back us falling headlong in adoration for an outing on the quite dandy everything is chemical digital imprint by Macajey. Well we’ve spied this little nugget currently doing the rounds in cyberspace. Entitled ‘water’ it features a guest appearance by Elle Leatham on smoking soulful vocal duties, gorgeous it is to, snaking sultry riff opines needling serenely in a Marr spruced Stex styled haze cast adrift in the mellowing sea breeze of shaded lazy eyed lilts smouldering seductively beneath idyllic endless summer hued blood red skies, tequila anyone?
I’m really going to have to stop looking, reading and checking out face book postings, its beginning to bedevil me, continually sending me off road and adding to an already bulging by the minute to do list of sounds to hear. That said when Primordial Undermind come a-calling how can you resist. Now if memory serves me right we picked up on these dudes way back years ago accidentally tripping across a my space posting, can‘t recall whether CD‘s resulted with reviews therein. Anyhow I suspect I’m waffling. Well news reaches us that the collective have swelled ranks with the arrival of a new cellist Rosi Rehformen and that thus far studio jams are getting as spacey as ever so much so that they’ve just previewed the first 10 minutes of a new, as yet, unnamed head burner which sees them heading ever deeper through the mind losing circles of deep psych which in turn passes through the woozy advent of kaleidoscopic powder puffs dissipating in your headspace stretching forth to Barrett territories wherein those same kaleidoscopic powder puffs begin talking in strange tongues which lead to the Doors factor where you find your having deep meaningful spiritual and moral discourses with the kaleidoscopic powder puffs only to pass ever further where matters assume a kind of what the fuck was that reasoning which I’m happy to say is where Primordial Undermind find themselves currently located. This is Table of the Elements territories, I’m suspecting admirers of Loren Mazzacane Connors are at play here, this is dark brooding stuff momentarily freckled by frantic no wave seizure fits and squirreling riff contortions, the mood floaty and out there and pierced with the kind of distractive tension that used to come attaching itself to platters with the name Virgin Passages scorched on their hide – yet let it play through and the familiar delta blues haze of Fahey / Rose ghosts through the grooves backwaters. http://www.soundcloud.com/primordial-undermind/starring-rosi
If like me you’ve ever lain awake at night trying to compose in your head an imaginary soundtrack for some nightmarish journey descending deep into the belly of the beast. Then stop. It seems Father Murphy may well have beaten you to the punch, either that or the resulting chamber doom score that is the cheerfully titled ’pain is on our side now’ is some demonic attempt to exorcise visitations of bad acid flashbacks. Pressed up on two single sided slabs of 10 inch wax via the combined might of celebrated eclectic record houses Boring Machines and Aagoo, this four track ceremonial gathering features by select invitation guest appearances by Ezra Buchla of the Gowns, Italo psych occultist Gianni Giublena Rosacroce and Deerhoof’s Greg Saunier – the latter mentioned agai providing mixing and mastering duties. Proving no easy listening experience, ’pain is steeped on our side’ is a bleakly beautiful opus of morgue recitals, not as forbidding as the press release would have you believe, while agreed daubed in macabre ceremonial fugues that one might incline to retire behind the nearest couch when listening, yet perched behind the doom dipped atmospheres and the rested panoramic disquiet of the broadly stroked industrial chamber grind there’s a dot connecting exercise underway drawing close upon the darker spheres of label mate Philippe Petit with the Wizards Tell Lies collective and the Alrealon Musique family. Here be mutant beats, subtronic groans and shock treated sonic head drills, immersed in a thickening ice shrilled claustrophobia impacted with hulking and abrupt symphonic slashes, the funeral ’let the wrong rise with you’ shape shifts ominously from moments of bleached out industrial snarls to hollowed ceremonial howls that you’d be forgiven for thinking had fallen away onto the cutting room floor of some abandoned Hammer cinematic as were rephrased by an ’Add insult to injury’ era Add N to X. Menacing by far are the deathly pangs that suck dry the life and light from the no waved dark ambience of ’bones got dry’ as it veers ever so subtle into the howling paranoia of PIL ’flowers of romance’. what makes Father Murphy such an intriguing proposition is the way the duo turn about tail pulling back just at the pint of carnage and collapse, retaining its uneasy strange hold the blood letting ’they will all fail you’ is awash in hysteria, hate and brutality, a festering screeching witch hunt soon mutes with the oncoming affirmation of Gregorian chants leaving the dread calm ’despite all the grief’ to run out to the groove ends though not before leaving you chilled to the core and unhappily given a brief vision of what lurks beyond.
Ordinarily I’d be running at some considerable speed in the opposite direction of this, I don’t generally hold with ghosts from your stereo’s past and I’ll admit that the last stuff I listened to by them was way over 15 years ago, but then everyone appears at the moment to be obsessing about all things 90’s and while this lot where stirring the wheels of another fashion crisis that pre-dated the flag waving Brit pop explosion, they were like Pulp the most deserving acolytes of success after years of being every other over achievers favourite band. I refer of course to James, a band whose industrious success at selling t-shirts (i still mourn the loss of my nifty looking ‘how was it for you’ top even to this day) in the early days outshone their ability to actually push records sales. The cool kids U2. Discuss. And anyway throughout the 80’s they were arguably and musically more interesting than the Smiths (stand back for the backlash). Back after an age – apologies I’ve temporarily mislaid the press release – do I recall rightly first new album in 6 years, entitled ’la petite mort’ – the set was written during a traumatic period in Mr Booth’s life – losing his mother and a close friend in quick succession and while the albums title might hint darker elements and some mood lowering self healing by all accounts its bouncing with radiance and effervescence as clearly evidenced by the teaser track ’frozen Britain’. Now depending on your perspective the mere mention that this is James rediscovering their ’Gold Mother’ mojo could be viewed both a good thing and a bad thing, but petty disagreements aside this three minute blast into the past is acutely coiled in the kind of old school hooks that ought to ensure lighter sales excel at this years festivals, the burning question though what sizes and colours do the t-shirts come in.
A brief mention for this while we try to nab copies of their press people. Imminent on the much loved Africantape imprint a debuting long playing platter from Camilla Sparksss whose last single ’europe’ / ’this is huge’ had us literally bouncing off the walls in undying affection. ’for you the wild’ due April time features said tracks, again jointly released by on the camper / African tape it’s a cold wave celebration of electro minimalism and austere chic, so far we’ve been smitten by ’precious people’ which sumptuously navigates a coolly smoked 80’s motif buttoned down by a steely eyed early Knife gouging and a fuck you Salon Boris pout.
Damn this is so uplifting, its like being carried aloft on some demurring euphoric wave twinkled and sprinkled in the shimmering stuff that holds the stars in the night sky and sprays feel good cheer at yuletide. More Norwegian niceness, I’m suspecting it’s a Scandinavian political pact to take over the world, seriously is there anyone living there who isn’t in a band, been in a band or live next door to someone in a band, not that we are complaining here, but there does seem to be a faultless and studious appreciation of the pop chops that charm the hardiest of souls emanating from that region. Add to that exhaustive club Hanne Kolsto whose third album ‘stillness and panic’ is due to break cover and allure all who venture within sometime early May. Alas we can’t include at this very moment sound links for the ‘one plus one makes one out of two’ cut sent out as a herald because some tin pot inkie called the Guardian is premiering it tomorrow (28/02) – so links will go up as soon as to save blushes. What we can say though is that it’s a bit of a cutie, all softly swooned in a withdrawn and bruised minimalist electronic purr that opines and sighs neglected, shyly cradling its wounds until that is at the 0.58 mark wherein a glorious haze of snow bursts and sugar rushing ruptures this honey blossoms and flowers in the most arresting way showering all in a feel good rapture.
Been way too long since we had any Volcano the Bear related ear gear with which to concern you about but it seems that there’s been a momentary break in the silence with the appearance of a new collaborative release pairing together Aaron Moore and Alan Courtis who will together shortly be trekking across Europe touring. A follow up to 2010’s ’curtis / moore’ head off and again released though Moore’s own earbook recordings imprint, the freeform ju-ju ’KPPB’ arrives to coincide with the dates. Available as a limited 200 physical CD or digital download, the set features two lengthy workouts. We’ve gotten an earful of ’King Pancreas’ for now while we try to beg, steal or borrow copies, a near twenty minute shot of terraforming trippiness that takes the listener on an expansive sonic journey that dips in and out of consciousness wherein at given points your attracted to moments of mellowing dreamy signatures, floaty wooziness, obtuse no wave noodling all interspersed by glassy ambient sequences that serve to converge at a dividing point somewhere at the 10 minute mark whereby to the trace of a trembling genteel key tread a la Yorke on one of his Autechre sojourns unfurls ghosted by the fracturing improvisation of scratched atmospherics. http://www.earbookrecordings.bandcamp.com/releases
Literally just dropped on us this and I won’t deny we’re somewhat smitten by the blighter not least because had I not read the attaching press release I’d have sworn these dudes hailed from some beaten off the track Stateside prairie point in the middle of nowhere with an unpronounceable name and a bustling market in moonshine operations. Instead the hotly tipped Tail Feather hail from Reading a place where last time I checked wasn’t prairie populated or the bastion of a thriving trade in moonshine. We do however suspect a localised Neil Young fan base especially within the band for this smokes coolly of the great man in the 70’s for ’knocked down’ is one for lazy eyed lulls beneath summer hazed skies, old country blues groove bliss kissed in the kind of murmured soft psych subtleties that sits somewhere between the Band and Gram Parsons. Over on the flip ’all of a sudden’ is similarly daubed in slinky 70’s motifs and cut through with funky inclines the type of which again sound not unlike Young’s backing band Crazy Horse mooching out with the E Street band and allowed to cut loose and rip it up. http://www.soundcloud.com/tailfeatheruk/sets/knocked-down-all-of-a-sudden/s-rOvZy
Maybe it’s the ungodly twilight hour to which we find ourselves wrestling through another night of broken sleep that our ears are registering sounds not quite kowtowing to the brief from which their press people have scribbled up in the hope it catches our attention. RIYL of Broadcast, Cocteau Twins and My Bloody Valentine, well that’s what we were promised. What we got however was something altogether different. This frankly absolute honey comes plucked from Del Venicci’s debuting ‘haunted hall’ EP for prima satisfaction. With an Italo American pairing of Grace and Ross driving at the core ’teenage swingers’ ripped from the six track set is a deliriously frantic breath catching panic attack whirlwind ghosting through your listening space shimmered in the kind of swagger trimmed effervescent euphoria that hi-fi’s were designed to pipe out at full gusto. Laced through with an abundance of ingredients requisite for the turning in of pristine pop groove – dark operatics – check, wayward fried pop motifs – check – and not forgetting tripping up at your doorstep sounding quite unlike anything in pop world right now – check. As to ‘teenage swingers’ itself, a classically drilled 50’s styled sci-fi b-movie ram-a-lama stirred in a kooky macabre aura which for those among you so desiring of reference markers sits somewhere between the Munsters and a youthful B-52’s albeit on chemical assistors with a side serving of brand violet for good measure. Hopelessly addictive.
It’s a fair while since we had the excited feels like Christmas day vibe that usually to comes to pass when new grooves from Dalmatian Rex and Eigentones drop through our mail box. For nearly twenty years the Dalmatian ones have been worrying, amusing and confounding the turntables of those fortunate enough to have fallen under their surreally zany gaze. Happily the intervening years have done little to curb their goofiness, their obtuse oddness and wilful refusal to play the pop game. Still as non conformist as ever it’s a mark of pop’s forgiving nature that the Dalmatians exist, they are a welcome escapism from Saturday night pop blandness and follow the leader bandwagon jumping fashionistas, neither are they backed by money hugging power houses or called upon by the amassing little village pop presses with each passing release to sell their one dimensional souls for a clock ticking slither of action you call fame before being despatched in the forgotten box until next time – should they of course survive the ignominy. Instead the Dalmatian ones enjoy splendid isolation content one suspects to playfully busy themselves in their own little universe shut away from the harmful elements of a society by and large setting upon themselves. Getting a bit bleak this isn’t, time for a switch what say you. ’the order of the Dolphins’ the latest opus from Dalmatian Rex and the Eigentones is comprised of 14 tracks, old school admirers will be all too familiar with what to expect albeit with added surprises while those newly visiting for a first time in short can expect an odd odyssey of peculiar delights teetering from lunacy to English eccentricity (as on the name checking delights of these isles here super glued onto a hoodwinked throbbing groove ripped straight from a post Rotten Pistols back catalogue by way of ‘singing rule Britannia in my union jack pyjamas’) to three chord wipeouts to weird school wonkiness and Vivian Stanshall flights of folly (as on the quaintly disturbing bandstand bonkerisms of ‘wobbly wobbly girl‘) – and that’s just the first track. Of course I tease. One glance of the titles is enough to give the casual subscriber a hearty hint of what lies in store – stuff like ’the punk rock national aeronautics and space administration’ is straight out of the Half Man Half Biscuit sketchbook albeit sound wise gouged with a three chord kick that nods directly to the Ramones while old school Peter and the Test Tube Babies devotees will pogo till cardiac arrest with the goofed up groove of ’sourpuss’ . those fancying their sonics snarling and glue sniffed in agitant fury a la Stranglers might be advised to take issue with the bleached and bitched out shock treated ’where the fuck are the dolphins?’and while your there add in some wonderfully grass skirt shimmy toned skanking love notisms (’fancy the socks off you’). At this stage those still not convinced of the Dalmatian credentials and slightly suspect that their tomfoolery masks heavily their lack of knack to address their serious muso shortcomings might want to get you’re your ear gear around ‘it is time to blow your mind’ – a gloriously amorphous dream drift hypno grooving ambient beauty replete with prowling bass lines and Grace Jones-esque side servings that flirts around the outer edges of Ozric Tentacles universe and hones in on the mind tripped aural galaxies once upon a time harbouring the sorely missing in action of late they came from the stars (I saw them) – class in short. One of the sets highlights and a marked move away from the preset formula is the tenderly mellowing distress applied to ‘drowning in the sea of trees’ which aside impishly channelling the coda of Radio head’s ‘all I need’ by its fall fractures superbly into a heads down sonic maelstrom. From therein things take on an unusually darkly subdued turn with the appearance of the seductively fracturing stream of consciousness poured forth within the austere cold wave chilling ‘dead fish’ as it swims into the eclectic territories of Human League’s ’circus of death’ and the ice cold chamber drone of the silently macabre and funereal ’the burning man’ both perhaps hinting at a new emerging chapter in the Dalmatian evolutionary curve. Recommended in case you hadn’t guessed thus far.
Things we do for you, we’ve spent the last 15 minutes rummaging around in boxes trying to nail the PR email that came attached to this cutely acute thing and I’m telling you now that we were never going to get beaten by a half arsed filing system that frankly makes chaos look a dreamy option. And so to tense men, a trio of agit poppers whose day jobs as members, variously, of sauna youth, omi palone and cold pumas by night has them shadow playing the menacing landscapes of urban decay, lost dreams and broken promises. Via Faux Discs seeps forth the blistered open wound that is their mini album ‘where dull care is forgotten’ due for record counter eye balling early March wherein it‘ll arrive on heavy duty slabs of 12 inch wax strictly limited in number to just 300. Despatched by way of an information gathering reconnaissance is ‘RNRFON’ – an eye poking bastard grizzled in the austere fall out left by post punk, wearing proudly its scars in coming through the great no wave campaign and deep set in an up close and personal claustrophobic tightness that literally sucks you dry in its tensely coiled monochromatic art pop gouged grip, reference wise think of a caustic variant of Wire taking up arms with a wilfully negative This Heat.
You might have to bear with me on this as the press release is a little – shall we say – all over the shop, that said we are speed reading it while fending off Dylan the house cat who wants to play, cooking a fry up and trying to roll up an industrial pipe sized cigarette – multi tasking – tis but a piece of piss. You won’t be too surprised – but then again perhaps you will – to hear that we’ve momentarily lost the press release attached to this – still we plenty of time to let this play out have you all suitably smoked out and becalmed while we rummage through the amassed chaos that is our inbox. Anyhow this is a killer DJ set from Daniel Avery done for Resident Advisor (me neither – but I will be clued up before this is out you wait and see). We suggest you don cans and clear the desk of all distractions for the next 70 minutes. Something that ought to appeal first port of call to lovers of Mary Ann Hobbs head grooving breezeblock sound clashes of the late 90’s on the nations – erm – favourite – BBC Radio 1 – so be prepared to immerse yourself in a total hypno grooved experience for a journey towards the hidden depths of your minds eye along the voyage taking in all manner of techno, house, manc groove and ambi – cosmicalia sights highlights of which come early on when matters go very Paris Angels – around the 5 minute mark in case you needed specifics, add in copious Future sound of London workouts, some exquisitely dreamy Art of Noise at the 16 minute intersection and some neat terraformic motifs featuring subtle shades of Herbie Hancock styled mecho-funk. Oh and as to that press release info new platter out via phantasy sound features a wealth of mixes by factory floor, audion and matt walsh all led from the fore by Avery’s original ‘drone logic’ pulled from the acclaimed album of the same name. http://www.soundcloud.com/danielavery/ra-385-daniel-avery-for
We’d love to give you oodles upon oodles of information about these next two artists however being hopeless and hapless as we are prone to being we’ve actually lost the email with all the relevant info. To make matters worse, the second mentioned party – the pussywarmers – a copy of said album we have about our person and that to has so far remained hidden from eye line since some over enthusiastic bright thing decided to introduce a very loosely based, on the Dewey Decimal Classification, means of filing our beloved records and CD’s. first up and recently released by the village green imprint, this is Angele-David Guillou with the title track from her ‘kourouma’ set, a divine and angelic thing so frail and fragile you suspect your mere presence to listen in might cause it to shuffle shyly into hiding, trimmed to a noir neo classicist braid and ever so delicately traced upon a genteel key motif, this darkly beautiful lullaby both disturbs and demurs to an equally eerie and enchanting effect.
Out via Wild Honey smoking cool cats Pussywarmers snuggle up with missy Reka for some slickly strut grooved twangy swagger. Pulled from their soon to be released ’I saw them leaving’ full length, these dudes go the full gamut in peppering the grooves with sepia dinked choral carousels and bubble grooved 50’s rama-a-lama that we here suspect has been hoodwinked on a evenings worth of thumbing through rolled gold nuggets from pop’s golden age. Pulled out as a teaser ’something you call love’ is your lip curled cool croon cutie bouncing off and getting high on sugar starched beehives and brylcreem quiffs sporting musical threads that echo to a playful three pack gathering of Flaming Stars, Turbines and the Orson Family digging deep at the grooves emanating from a Thunders / Palladin ’copycats’ playing dansette.
Like an at rest Grails huddled together on a dust ravaged mountain peak facing down an electrical stilled calm before the coming onset of a civilisation wasting revelations styled storm, Nebelung’s consuming ‘mittwinter’ is parched and stirred in a resigned brooding that’s both bleak and beautiful, a tightly woven spiritual ripped from age old testaments snake winding hypnotically storm chasing natures distant rage all the time aridly gouged with the spectre of godspeed upon its shoulder. This cutie comes pulled from their ’palingenesis’ for temple of torturous, a copy of which we have though alas ours has somewhat suffered damage in transit. Still – this 6 track goliath is being primed for double vinyl pressing early March time……
Video looks like this…..<p><a href=”http://vimeo.com/85713543″>NEBELUNG ‘Mittwinter’ (official music video)</a> from <a href=”http://vimeo.com/totrecords”>ToT Records</a> on <a href=”https://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a>.</p>
Apologies due on this one, I’ll admit we’ve been having so much fun with it that we actually forgot to scribble up a review thus far. Scary Cherry and the Bang Bangs – name familiar – ought to be because we mentioned this lot to much admiration pouring affection and love on a quite kooky cut we featured way back in our Halloween special by the name of ‘cut off your head’ – in short a wildly goofy cute slab of evil Shirley Temple-isms impishly cooking up disturbing deeds to a sepia cooled backdrop of a 30’s styled monochrome vintage replete with kazoo’s and devilishly crackled to sound like it was pressed on old school slabs of 78rpm shellac. Those thinking one trick ponies, think again. For now arrives your full on belching and bawling twisted tantrum howling horror phonic rock-a-rama in the guise of the speaker kicking 12 track assault that is ‘girl’. a concept album of sorts impishly peeled from the as were playfully evil point of view of a little girl all studded and tattooed into a frantic and frenetic punked out party pack. Between these grooves oozes sleaze, seduction and savagery – often on the same track (as on the ferociously feral pout of ‘don’t wanna’) all prime packed a bleached in an ear candy shredding paint bombing action painting of glam, metal, punk, power pop (the surging prodding purr of the rupturing harmony honeyed ‘face’) and 50’s bubblegum pop shadings. Reference wise elements of L7, Babes in Toyland and even Hole lurk with ill intent running wild in pack formations alongside the Runaways (notably the sexually purring ’Girl’ acutely cooed in a smoking cool swagger that bites), Scarling and Zombina and the Skeletones. Mixing seduction with scare theatre, it’d be trite to dismiss them as Rocky Horrors outcasts for these glammed out horror punks swim and snarl in the kind of dark sleaze fest that was once the sole lair of the black halos. Between the floor thumping Quatro licks of ‘glitter’ and the shadowy psychosis of the subtly glittered psych of ‘crazy Jane’ these dandies belch scar leaving riffs that bite whilst boasting more hooks than a butchers deep freeze. Of course the aforementioned infectiously crooked ‘cut off your head’ leers patiently waiting to play sitting alongside the teen-generate scowl of ‘STFU’ – which in case you were wondering is txt retort for ‘shut the fuck up’ while the rabidly excitable ‘Anita 69’ is just an all out arse kicking shakedown that’s only put in the shade by the candy kissed cranium caning panic attacking‘tracked down’ which arrives all acutely psychotically adorned to sound as though its been cooked up on a back burner left to simmer in the recesses of Tim Burton’s fractured macabre mind. http://www.scarycherry.com
Rescued from the vaults of time by light in the attic and due for a spruced up re-release, something of an interesting curio originally out as the 60’s faded away for somewhere in LA Lou Adler sat in his studio hatching plans to bring together an altogether different kind of spin by way of a celebration of Dylan. And so the Brothers and Sisters, a choir of the finest LA based session singers around most of whom had cut their formative teeth singing in Baptist churches set about laying down the words of Dylan in a truly inspired spiritual celebration that shut the door on a troubled and fracturing world outside. And so sessions commenced with Gene Page of Motown fame drafted in to sort out the arrangements. The result – a one off set released by Ode records in ’69 entitled ’Dylan’s Gospel’. 45 years later Lights in the Attic have secured the rights to re-issue this unique document this May time.
Many thanks to Geoff over at Static Caravan HQ for rushing over the hotly tipped debuting 7 inch platter from post punk psychotropic dandies the Grafham Water Sailing Club. As ever packaged up in oodles of inserts one of which is a Fred Perry garment tag which leaves me thinking that the usual horde of strange pulled pages from the antiquarian library (which have on occasion been taken from tomes as disparate as high brow treaties on quantum physics to basket weaving in the Balkans) have somewhat ceased to be, no doubt brought to bear by scrooge styled cut backs despatched forth by cigar smoking back hand taking servants of greed known as the town hall dwellers. Soap box standing preaching aside. As said the main event here is a killer twin pronged edgily paranoiac atmos delight from the Grafham’s. ‘Ankara’ has indeed – for those of keen eyed dispositions among you – been mentioned to much unbridled fanfare in previous despatches as was their appearance on Static Caravan’s essential ’this is tmrw’ tape compilation released to celebrate cassette store day last year. I don’t mind admitting that this has been getting a hammering since setting up residence on the hi-fi, plugging directly in the late 80’s NZ noise scene – a la Dead C et al and shimmered with the widescreen anthem gouged sassiness of the Chameleons in full unbound flight not to mention threaded through a white out haze that sounds not unlike a psychedelic coven whose members number Loop, Telescopes and thee Hypnotics type. A total blast. As to ’feelin blue’ a war like storm summoning nugget tightly bound in an unwavering brooding detachment, an oncoming dark tide fuelled by monochromatic mantras silvered in a suffocating Clock DVA like edginess and finitely wracked in the kind of hollowing tension so ably summoned as their own by Clockwork Era, a squalling cyclone all the time sucking dry and extinguishing every last vestige of light from its surroundings as it prowls and pulsates and pulsating away wearily to survey its ravaged domain. Summoning up matters then, the best thing we’ve heard around here since those Flies + Flies and the new fabian society debuts and with that the recipient of the rarely awarded single of the missive.
And so back to Alrealon – second part of that extended 5th anniversary celebratory compilation ‘frequencies of existence’. pressed in decidedly darker and hitherto more experimental sonic tones, this second chapter like its sibling Part 1 features 9 headphonic grooves of strange left field delights many by artists so far previously unknown to us, the set opening with a breeze blocking sound clash by the much admired Black Saturn who stumps up the aptly titled ’VooDoo’. This ventures into the kind of dark side of dub that even the Orb for all their adventurism dare not enter, hallucinogenic weaves fused by locked grooved calypso motifs, blue room apparitions and scratched by psyched out fuzz burns craft out a head expanding woozily hypnotic mantra as though the magic mushroom band where entering the domain of Astralasia. Blessed with floor rupturing booming bass growls MRC Riddims’ ’every second’ is a tightly coiled slab of futurist funk superbly cross pollinating elements of deep house and heavy techno into a wall bouncing aural arcana that once safely burrowed into your psych will set up camp and drive you to distraction by proceeding to party hard. I wonder if Leigh Wright is a fully paid up admirer of the Snape records fan club, I only ask because there’s a shared sonic kinship with that sadly missed labels roster (alas mostly limited to 70 Gwen Party – which before you question – is no bad thing), add to that a smidgeon of the mysterious Ansuz Lunasa – one of whose releases on the celebrated victory garden imprint – home of surreal starry eyed psychedelicists Southall Riot came pressed on limited 8 track cartridges which were all said nice to look at but a bastard to squeeze into the cassette player (I kid of course – we in fact try it in the video recorder) and some straying elements of Muslim Gauze and you have ‘Doom‘. a strange beauty bled through by a disorientating dark / light gauzing whereupon trippy chill out grind psyched dubtronic hybrids freewheel into states of subliminal unconsciousness. Alas no information on ARU and boar but safe to say that ’awl tikkr bora bora’ is the kind of cauldron hot noise glitch terrorism that you’d rightly expect to be oozing with ill intent from out of the front door of the love torture imprint all etched in apocalyptic minimalism and cowed by a shrill and stark detached abandon emitting controlled scowling skree snow bursts. Those preferring their sounds gouged in chill and coiled in odd abstraction might be well advised to descend deep into the aural chamber of Thorsten Soltau whose ‘Gr;m cvltvre’ features the guest accompaniment of Marina Stewart – a collaborative musically mind melding that began on their ‘phlexing furry’ release for mm in 2012. Dark ambience and horrorphonic motifs interspersed by back looping mind warping dream sequences and insectoid chattering make this a most disturbing listening experience. Again no information with which to fill your lives of DMC and Anton Mobin or for that matter their ’spiroide trap’ offering though safe to those of you well versed in the darker and sparser detours piloted by the tigerbeat6 stable one time or another might well enjoy it skewed atmospherics and decidedly off radar electronic twiddling. The aptly named ‘still’ by hezment and heliocentric, this slice of glacial sereneness once done putting up a starry sky light show that sees the slow dronal tides of amassed silvery orbs aligning into Aidan Baker in Blade Runner wastelands formations, soon take hold of navigational systems to draw the monolith into more recognisable Krautrock climes a la Tangerine Dream, Amon Duul II. Previously mentioned here [owt kri] offers a moment of neo classicist beauty with the mournfully stilled and elegance ’improbable odds’ here trimmed in the genteel swell of sighing symphonics, cantering keys and pressed into urgency by an artillery of impatiently thunderous beats which grow ever darker and dramatic to touchstone the worlds of Wizards Tell Lies. More to come in a wee while from [owt kri] as I swear we’ve just seen sound clips for a collaboration with John 3:16. Last up, for this volume at least. Somewhere at the far most outer points of the sonic spectrum lies Chester Hawkins whose weird ear exploration of sounds inner space manifests on the decidedly disturbing yet oddly trance toned ’from away’. located in pastures more commonly associated with EAR, Roadside Picnic and the more outer elements of the Gnod Network sphere of influence, this eerie set closer comes curdled in modulated frequencies submerged or so it sounds in subterranean climes, though hang in there and beyond the binary squiggles and kooky noodling a strange sonic zoo populated by thought threatened Radiophonic species coo and chirp contentedly. http://www.alrealonmusique.bandcamp.com/album/frequencies-of-existence-5-years-of-alrealon-musique-alrn038-part-2
Now we are entering the realms of sonic rapture, everything about this is swathed in epic dimensions – its poise, its consideration to arrangement and its impacting effect, all at once channelled in the kind of apocalyptic shadow play as foretold in biblical scriptures and scored in a dramatic majesty to which such respected goliaths as godspeed, grails et al have in turn populated their grooves with. Gouged in tension and foreboding hoisted aloft upon ancient mistrals plane surfing over vast desert plains with the spectres of lost civilisations caught in their vapour trails, this is an early call for ‘the burnt tower’ prepped for an as yet still in its incubatory stages split collaboration between John 3:16 and [owt kri] expected later in the year. Consider yourself warned. http://www.soundcloud.com/john316john/the-burnt-tower-un-mastered
You know how it is with these missives, mention a bands name in passing and up they appear. We’d like to pass it off as a tightly oiled editorial thing planned out meticulously to the last crossed t and dotted I, but hey 15 years of doing these missives and we still haven’t mastered the paragraph let alone punctuation and don’t even get me going on those squiggly little things that look like a wink. Wizards Tell Lies have been such a key part of our listening experience in recent years that they’ve become a kind of missive house band which in an ideal world would be fine and dandy but back on planet reality, a notion that would stall before getting to starting line mainly for the fact we have no space to put them, more worryingly no house unless of course you count the hulking oversized box that our last book order from A****n came in which now doubles as a bijou tree house which be honest the sight of three fellers shinning up the branches in wyrd animal masks hulking around various parts of salvaged UFO wrecks would be more than the neighbours could take and would cause, I fear, much consternation in the local parish council chess, crossword and soup night (Wednesday’s in case you fancied strolling along for). And so after that long preamble, Wizards Tell Lies. First of the new tracks is ’the house of alignments’ (appearing on a new set put out by the Chapelyard imprint – more about which in a second), in truth quite possibly unlike anything you’ve previously heard by the Wizards, this panoramic treat comes metered to a hypnotically 60’s styled darkly woven Barry-esque slice of ice sculptured noir supernaturalia that purrs beautifully fracturing into elements of the macabre and the mysterious as well as kaleidoscopically clipped in romance that falls somewhere between Komeda, Korzynski and Vannier stranded as were in the lair of Goblin. ’throws magic’ traverses a more familiar Wizards route albeit here stumbling upon a pulsating extra terrestrial carousel of strange delights powered and purring out clock working motifs possessed by the sonic signatures of BBC Radiophonic head girl Daphne Oram. Available via the Jehu and Chinaman imprint and looming creepily is ’Clementine’ – a by all accounts re-reading of the old classic ’oh my darling Clementine’ though in truth you’d be hard pushed to hear if you hadn’t been told first. This deathly grim melodic mausoleum finds the Wizards consorting with Joshua Levesque for what it an eerily disquieting witching hour slab of deadheaded un-forgiveness from beyond the grave back dropped by the chilling recital like accompaniment of prowling bowed chamber chimes. http://www.wizards-tell-lies.co.uk
The aforementioned ‘Clementine’ track by Wizards Tell Lies and Joshua Levesque comes prized from a specially commissioned compilation put out by the Jehu and Chinaman imprint. At the request of label head honcho Steve Dewhurst, several artists all part of the extended Jehu and Chinaman family were asked to contribute tracks to mark and celebrate the birth and arrival of his daughter – Isabelle. Hence ’for Isabelle’ a collection of lullabies from the dark side. Derek Rogers heads up the festivities with what first appears the genteel lull of ’twinkle twinkle little little’ – yes the little star motifs as loved by Fisher Price lullaby lightshows here faithfully re-trimmed to the lilt of sustaining bowed xylophones chirps until that is the onset of something altogether eerie and unearthly wherein underneath the cot by night the toy box falls open and to the regale of cosmic overtures a clockwork army assembles to play. Previously unknown to us, the end of the world championship stump up ’bruce lee’ whose dreamily inclining slo mo sirens cut delicately wispy orbital shapes in the cosmic voids. Likewise Komodo Haunts serve up ’blindness in rodents’ which to these ears sounds like a woozy carousel dinked by a choc a bloc toy cupboard of children’s TV motifs – most notably ’magic roundabout’ adrift on Meek’s power failing telstar. Built upon a murmuring music box motif the hushed of Obsidian Pond’s ’yuuyake (for Isabelle)’ is snoozily arrested in a gorgeously graceful cosmic cortege of orbital opines whose hypno-chill serves as a dreamy magical opening to at rest enchantment. Must admit to being more than a little smitten with Daniel Bachman’s ’CSX coal line’ not least because its arrives from out of mountain lake haze seductively trimmed the kind of free spirited old schooling craft of John Fahey. Something else that had cause to endear us is the porcelain ’we share the moon’ by the invisible path which though bathed in mournfully desolate motifs sounds to us like a celestial Catherine wheel emitting tenderly star crushed love notes. Title alone, for one second we were expecting some bubble grooved Ramones styled three chord belch, instead on rejections ’rocket bye baby’ we’re treated to five minutes of controlled lo-fi skree scratched Flying Saucer Attack styled radio pulsars transmitting as were from beyond the great galactic barrier. Just like it says on the tin, Bird People’s ’drone lullaby’ is a serenely tweaked murmuring monolith softly shimmered in silvery reverb orbs and steeled in a stilled regal reverence. Been a while since Roadside Picnic came a calling to worry our hi-fi, so much so that the poor thing was spotted filing a missing persons report, fear not dear turntable for the ominous one approaches with the 23 minute goliath ’three blind mice’, certainly the most disturbing thing here and something which one suspects absolutely ignores the compilations remit unless there was of course a small print exclusion clause reading ’ the scarier the better’ for I do believe that repeat plays of this might well not only give Isabelle nightmares but might lead casual subscribers to go forth seeking counselling for this is one macabre slab of horror chill subsumed in a disquieting white noise haze ruptured by the ghostly apparitions of disembodied voices breaching the dimensions to reach through the ether. In sharp contrast arrives the alluring ’childlike’ by Wizards of all speckled in demurring lights lowered seduction and milky murmurs twinkled in fondness and despatched amid a pirouetting night light show of cooing chimes and chill toned chirps. Rounding the set up Addereall Canyonly dinked the digital grooves with the irresistible ’the sound of your face’ here seemingly hoisted along on seafaring tidal lilts and much like Bachman’s ’CSX coal line’ earlier woozily exploring the navigational pull of the delta blues leylines. http://www.jehuandchinaman.bandcamp.com/album/for-isabelle
We’ve been all over this like a rash, this bad baby has, I don’t mind admitting, been swooning our listening space for the best part of the last week smoking our headspace with its drift cooled soft psych wooziness, certainly the coolest thing we’ve had the pleasure of hearing in recent times. But first the back story to this in brief. These dudes came highly recommended by Jet Schizo Fun Addict, somewhere along the line we heard sound links sent to us, much taken were we that plans were prepped for type fondness and then we momentarily vacated pop world, in truth we just fell out of love with music for a week or three, the result of which this lot got foolishly forgotten. Until now that is. Out via the Killing Horse imprint, this 8 track self titled debut full length comes courtesy of Asbury Park quintet Wreaths and though we are a little unforgiving about spoiler alerts, lets just say this might, given the right exposure, find itself posing high in the end of year stakes. But that’s for another time, in terms of the here and now this babe comes shrink wrapped and pristinely cut with a innate melodic astuteness that sees it comfortably spiral, float and seduce, sumptuously freewheeling amid an aural cookbook stirred in lysergic hues, stripped bare deadheaded blues howls and mind expanding cosmic flotillas. Several listens down the line and I’m still not decided as to whether this lot are shaping up to be cosmic ghost riders or stoned out psyche evangelists – or both. The set opens to the slow burn smoulder of the drop dead lock grooved twang purr of ‘coke straw’ prowling around your headspace like an uber cooled at the height of their powers Jesus and Mary Chain blissing out on Cheval Sombre psych hazes as were re-calibrated by an out of it Flaming Stars (at this juncture its worth mentioning their head shrinking savvy via the cruise controlled oblivion venturing ’the designing women of Asbury Park’ as it voyages Hawkwind vs. Eat lights become lights territories albeit as though haloed and sharing kinship with the hallowed mantra murmured missions of a latter career Spacemen 3) . Somewhere else the heads down up close and personal wig flipped rock-a-hula ‘ruby’ is kissed with the kind of twang scowl that most would die for arcing Krautrock-ian territories favoured by an all out assaulting Mugstar though here flavoured ever so subtly by the preening pout of Bolan. Better don shades for the bliss kissed kaleidoscopic cool of the expansive mind flipped and dare we say floor rupturing sexy ’goin back to Haiti’. this hulking hallucinogenic honey initially swaggers and mooches to an acutely funk bit buzz sawing fuzzy corkscrewing riff though soon terraforms to shed its skin wherein everything dissipates, riffs dissolve and realities fade before taking flight to the out there reaches of a chemical cosmos dreamily voyaging an sonic axis that to these freaked earlobes sounds like a shit faced and stoned out Suicide aboard a hulking hyper galactic Fuxa galactic cruise liner. Those however preferring their sounds stoked and strut grooved in slithers of skinny and wiring dirty blues, the kind so favourably occasioned on vinyl platters by the likes of the Black Angels ought to check into ‘I love me, dark wizard’ while vying for the collections celebrated centre piecing moment, the spectrally charged dust ravaged ’leaves on the leaves on the ground’ really is something else, drawing you close into its intimate inner sanctum amid an array of softly opining and star shimmered hymnal beauty all breathless and hushed in lunar lullaby motifs and bathed dronal wisps, twinkling chimes and signalling a sense of being amid some astral out of body experience, in short a master class in Spiritualized vibes. Not a dry eye in the house I can tell you. That said just edging it as the best moment of the set is ‘Piedmont Aire’ which aside pretty much giving insight as to where House of Love mark 1 where heading before Bickers was jettisoned, is your demurring dream weaved space rocking love note gorgeously set in the kind of shimmering vapour trail trimming and aching majesty of those Mercury Rev types. Faultless. http://www.killinghorserecords.bandcamp.com/album/wreaths
Word of warning – this is immense. Is it just me or is this channelling deep, the spirit of Marc and the Mambas, one things for certain there’s a more than passing admiration for Scott Walker haunting the bleakly beautiful groove lines at work here. Alas we’ve only had time to sample the dark delights of the opening cut ‘27’ – a track culled from an ultra limited cassette release pressed up by Jehu and Chinaman from Scammers – who is better known to kith n’ kin as Phil Diamond, the set incidentally entitled ‘a song that can exist’ is in an edition of 30 with design artwork by Liz Pavlovic. Frankly I want one. http://www.jehuandchinaman.bandcamp.com/album/a-song-that-can-exist
No sooner are we mourning the absence of roadside picnic ear gear when a missive arrives from Mr Wiggan informing us of the imminent arrival of a package. we ask for further clarification and are told its huge. We enquire again pressing for more details. In response a mammoth list of links relating to a wealth of releases some out, some on the horizon, some at the birthing stage hits our in box. We are considering changing plans for the week, perhaps a work sicky might be phoned in the morning, its looking likely. For now though we donned cans and submerged ourselves – mind, body and soul into the shimmering seas of a three way collaboration between Messrs Mogard, Wiggan and Fricke entitled ’lulled glaciers’. limited to 100 cassettes and released by VCO this colossal set does and provides exactly what it hints from its title. Two sparsely minimalist extended suites – well three as ’magnetic masks’ and ’obstacles of happiness’ are subsumed as one – feature here, both pretty much taking up the entire 60 minute tape space and in return for your listening devotion rewarding you with some bordering on a Tangerine Dream experience. Perfect for night time appreciation especially in the deathly grip of the witching hour and goes without saying best experienced at maximum volume, through cans of course, in order to accentuate the full widescreen headphonic experience these monolithic oceanic odysseys provide. The ice glowed sound structures, cavernously detailed are pitched in poise and sculptured tenderly into a genteel post dronal symphonies, here genuflecting aural arcs softly shimmer and turn in eclipsing formations to engage the synapses in dream dinked moments of celestial oblivion especially on ’eternal guest’ which makes up side A of this consuming set. And while ’magnetic masks’ continues the themed flow immersing ever deeper into the subterranean hinterland its ‘obstacles of happiness’ that provides the most vibrant and seemingly busy portion of the triptych, for here metered in huge swathes of sweeping oceanic tidal drifts, ghostly chorals and meditative murmurs there’s an unshakeable sense of passing through to the beyond that makes this a most eerie and yet enchanting experience. http://www.vcorecordings.bandcamp.com/album/vco-018-lulled-glaciers
Must admit I’m having curiously strange flashbacks listening to this, reminding me exactly of how I feel after thankless 1-2-1 meetings with the manager in my trying daytime work hell, I even feel the pain being administered to the wall as I kick it in frustration. Something a little different from Roadside Picnic’s Justin Wiggan – well I say different yet on the face of it when you stop and think about there are no barriers, rules or generic stylings that it would pose or be considered a no go territory given that he appears more than happy to sample, freewheel and fuse melodic sound forms from any quarter, sphere or discipline. Perhaps then add performance art through a no wave Dadaist ethnic tribalism medium might be one to add to the roll call of musical notches thus far examined. This excerpt comes pulled from a recent limited cassette release put out by French tape label La Cohu and finds Mr Wiggan pairing up with choreographer Guilherme Miotto to provide the back dropping soundtrack to a brief recital entitled ’masken’ whose remit I’m assuming centres around that of fracturing relationships, whatever the case its abrupt, abstract, angular and deeply feral in tonality and not unlike something you’d have expected to have heard crookedly making its way out of a late 70’s art house and onto a Peel play list no doubt. http://www.soundcloud.com/la-cohu/justin-wiggan-guilherme-miotto
Ready for some late evening lights lowered down tempo electro sophistication. Agreed this might be a little to much in the way of pristinely purred pop magnificence for our, shall we say, delicate palette yet its something that in truth we’ve taken something of a shine to it not least because its acutely dinked in an audaciously blossoming array of can’t leave alone addictive hooks all of which converge, spiral and shift through the melodic gears from softly surrendering to euphoric rapture – the press release makes mention of Shakespeare‘s Sister – a good call but we here are thinking of a from the shadows emerging wounds heeled No Ceremony in full flowering effervescence. Whatever the case it’s a debut single from Tara whose really Australian but laid her roots down in Dublin, here aided and abetted by Messrs McMaho, Flood and Donald for ’Stars’ which is primed for release early April, did we say adorable. No. Adorable. http://www.soundcloud.com/tarahere/stars-1/s-Bzj7K
You might need to bear with me on this while I explain myself away into an ever deepening hole because we are going to mention ABBA. Now its not often that Sweden’s pop aristocracy get many mentions or references as comparisons in these missives. I mean even the most arrogantly aloof musical snob has surely at some point in their lives behind closed doors cooed at ‘knowing me knowing you’, the name of the game’, ’does your mother know’ and ‘the day before you came’ and admitted admiration in their pristinely honed pop chops, agreed stuff like ‘thank you for the music’, ‘super trouper’ and Chiquitita’ I’d happily help you set fire to. Why then mention, well only for the mere reason that vocalist Alla has tones that sound like they’ve been laboratory grown by way of cross pollinating the essences of both Agnetha and Anni-Frid (albeit going mid way through all Tasmin Archer). Solder that onto the fragile vulnerability of Alison Goldfrapp at her most bruised and lovelorn, frame into a chilling though seductively darkly amorphic noir setting and perch atop a sparsely coiled opining twang loop as much favoured by a Twin Peaks soundtrack and then sit back and witness your jaw line dropping in utter bewitchment. The track in question is ’winter song’ it heads up an EP about to surface by the mouth of ghosts which I’m sure that had we sound links with which to regale you with you’d agree to all the above, alas as we don’t you’ll just have to take my word for it
If we can find whose doing their PR and twist their arms to send out promo CD’s I strongly suspect we could muster up a lot of love for this album. New from Frank Rabeyrolles who on this occasion prefers to be known as Franklin – and who was incidentally in a former life Double U who if memory serves right got admiring glances here for an adored appearance via wool recordings – the label from which along with plug research this new set appears. Entitled ’cold dreamers’ we’ve had a sneak little peak and can recommend without question that it a perfect platter for all those tuned into sounds emanating once upon a time from the likes of swimmer one, dark captain light captain and Birdpen. Awkward as ever we here have found ourselves much taken with opening cut ’plansee’ which amid the delicate carousel like shimmer of glassy orbs a la Tex la Homa soon desirably takes flight to voyage the kind of sweetly lilting Brontean electronics pastorals as much encountered on fortdax’s timeless ‘at bracken’ – alas no sound links – but we are working on it.
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