the fifteenth dream of dr sardonicus…

…..and so we’re back with Fruits de Mer who about now should be into the first nights festivities of the fifteenth dream of dr sardonicus gathering in Cardigan. As mentioned earlier, a goody bag stuff full of CD’s awaits all who attend, one of which features a selection of crucial cuts from each of the bands appearing live. Thirteen tracks in all serving up the full gamut of the FdM experience, the set opening to the mind floating arabesque wooziness of Chariots who clearly, judging by ‘Vimana’ imbibe frequently on Eastern essences of a head expanding kind with this snake charming kaleidoscopic tapestry clearly found peeling the lids from the third eye. Babal on the other hand present a clearly different mystical perspective, for ‘land of warriors’ is graced upon an empirical palette than swirls and shifts with a storm calling shadowy vibrancy raised on the finest of prog rock pedigrees all the time darkly beautifully and irrefutably magical. ‘magic dawn’ by, i think i’m right in saying, the previously unknown to us Red Sun features swathes of dream draped riff flotillas amid its milky widescreen driftscape, post rock gone wild west replete with oodles of soft psyche thrown in for good measure, reference wise think of a subdued Church canoodling with Balmorhea. Those of you preferring your sounds oozed in lysergic trippiness might do well to seek out Anton Barbea’s ‘heavy psychedelic toilet’ – in short a kaleidoscopic opera that sounds as though its just stepped out of the late 60’s holding the hand of Paul Roland. Next up a very special radio edit of ‘without a trace’ by Cary Grace all seductively trimmed in a dizzying array of softly tinged psyche folk mosaics and coolly arrested in the kind of vintage that much recalls a laid back Renaissance which neatly leads to Mark McDowell and friends’ quite quietly sublime ‘service of owls’ whose lushly rustic flutterby like airiness had us in mind of the strangely quiet of late the Katie Winter. High time for some mercurial musings from Fuchsia, herewith folk ghost light ‘the waves’ which itself gets a tad bit delightfully psychedelically wiggy at times all the time turbulently rambling amid crescendos of yesterday spectres all bled through with acid rustics. None of these FdM compilations are complete without a spot of stoned out beatnik fuzziness from chief beard the Bevis Frond,herewith a rare demo variant of ‘Nautilus’ all sounding suitably scuffed and high as though its stepped from the early 70’s. Somewhere else the Spookers cook up some nifty 90’s psych tweaked club land shape cutting, ‘Gabba haze for the nuke’ sounding not unlike an erroneously left on the cutting room floor classic era Delirium chill pill refried by a clearly stoned Paris Angels. Another name i’m suspecting in being right in saying new to us, are Deviant Amps who craft the kind of smoked out wasted way out psyche blues haziness much beloved of the Bad Afro imprint, see Baby Woodrose et al. No strangers around these here parts and with that in no need of introduction, the mighty Sendelica do things to heads that most chemicals only dream of, however on this occasion serving something a little more mellowed and less head evaporating than usual with an edited version of ‘ripples of the megalith’ – a delightfully dreamy pastoral mosaic that takes stock of their widening craft and artistry and something so intricately intimate and rich in beauty that certain of you folk may well feel obliged to re-acquiant yourselves with the classic era platters of a youthful Constellation imprint. All said vote for the most smoked out moment of the set is clearly won hands down by Earthling Society whose mammoth twelve and a half minute work out ‘outsideofintime’ is so heavy we wouldn’t bat an eyelid to find it appearing on the periodical tables, a hefty slice of beardy kaleidoscopia with Floydian flights of freakiness, in short a full on mind bending sonic odyssey. Wrapping up matters, the telephones serve up a demo version of the hurtfully hollowed ‘old man’s range’, into the bargain souring the grooves in a touchingly tearful casting of reflective melancholy.