clean nice quiet #30

Happened across the latest mix tape from the previously unknown to us Clean Nice Quiet folk who describe it, dare we say rightly, ‘an hour of new rock’n’roll, vinyl obscurities from yesteryear, and more’ – damn fine it is to mixing well heeled familiar classics from the likes of Bolan, Haley, Little Joe and the Thrillers, Elton John and er – Oscar the Griouch – yep the one from Sesame Street with a healthy snot nosed crew of youthful agitants the likes of the Fat Boys, the amazingly caustic and brutal Supersonic Piss, single mothers, pale kids and more. Picks of the set though must surely go to Mayflower Madame whose enigmatically cinematic ‘drown’ is purred with such atmospheric grandeur as to have you swoonfully rummaging through your platter pickings searching frantically for your Chameleons classics of yore. Whilst also finding themselves earning themselves an affectionate glance or three, Jesus Chris and the Beetles cook up a frantic power pop storm with the speed freaked ‘boy without a bedframe’ –


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the Delaware Road

Coming soon to a nuclear bunker in Essex soon, the Delaware Road Collective are set gather to take you on a very special evening journey into mystery, prose, poetry, film, theatre and electronic sound – in the meantime expect happenings from Buried Treasure courtesy of archive recordings from Alan Sutcliffe and Yuri Morozov to grace these pages in the coming days – appetizers here and there

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archiv – singled out – missive #262….

another archive missive – originally posted 2010 via losing today…….


sweet apple, jim jones revue, psychic ills, shindig, am, haz, calibro 35, teenage rehab, Capitalist Casualties, Lack of Interest, short fast and loud, gigi, diascorium….. 


missive 262


Singled Out

Missive 262


For Kelly and Mark


‘surrounded in sound’


Blah blah blah – new address and stuff – ask me and I’ll tell you – hey does anyone know where I can get a copy of the latest Ptolemaic terrascope – issue 37 I think…..hey ho – record type things then…..


Sweet apple ‘do you remember’ (valley king). Almost forgot we had this what with the recent move we here are coming across all sorts of groove grizzled gubbins in the new gaff. Anyhow unless you’ve been living under a rock navigating the outer reaches of our galactic belt then there’s every chance you’ve heard, bought, loved and ultimately had affections bestowed upon sweet apples’ ‘do you remember’ shifted to say – ooh – that spanking new jim jones revue release. However for the benefit of those stranded on the aforementioned rock or indeed listening to the wrong radio stations then hunting down a copy of this cutie is going to be harder than securing a handful of hens teeth. limited to 500 numbered copies all housed in a signed silkscreened sleeve and coming replete with a mini art print and a sticker to boot sweet apple are a super group of sorts featuring j mascis, tim parnin (cobra verde), dave sweet apple and john petkovi. ’do you remember’ the first single to be lifted from their tee pee ’love and desperation’ set is a killer spot of tuneage that wears its glam / grunge / slacker heart on its sleeve, scuzzily strut laden and sounding pretty much like a bunch of dudes with oodles of rock mileage on the clock just kicking back and having fun for the hell of it and into the bargain showing up the new kids on the block in their casual ability to sound so uber cool – as to the sound – well ‘wagon’ era dinosaur fans won’t be disappointed throw in some TFC and Gumball c.‘90, a smidgeon of Foo Fighters, some 70’s hairiness and bob’s your uncle – solid gold groove (mind you not as good as ’I’ve got a feeling’ or ’somebody else’s problem’ but hey you’ll need the album for those) – any questions then. Nope – flip side is another album cut – admittedly not as immediate as its accompanying a side partner though that said there’s a subtle smoked road blues charm to ’crawling over bodies’ that indicates someone in the camp spending hours dreamily thinking of a Young / Richman face off. Go buy.

Jim Jones Revue ‘high horse’ (punk rock blues). Now we don’t mind admitting that we have something of a reviewers hang up about the mighty Jim Jones Revue – its not that we don’t like or get them – we do – and that’s part of the problem, because regular readers of these missives may well have noted our lack of comment on these hell fried rollers – in truth I think we’ve actually managed to get into print at least one review of an early single and then diddly squat. So what’s been the issue – hell we’ve got nearly everything they’ve put out – and each subsequent release has been afforded unerring courtesy of trouncing our turntable with repeated plays to the point where the grooves on the wax have thinned and made them nigh on unplayable. Truth is we’ve had so much bloody fun listening to their stuff that we’ve scant had a thought for reviewing the blighters. And so with a second (or is it third – at least one was a compilation) album having just hit the stores in the guise of ’burning your house down’ – a copy of which we’ll nail for turntable terrorising in the coming days there is the small matter of a limited seven single to herald its arrival. Possessed of a quality high grade devil boogie ‘high horse’ literally leaves scorch marks in the wake of its play, toxically wired to the teeth this blistered and unkempt riotous beauty is a throwback to the raw and primal primitive days of rock n’ roll blues, a scalding homage to berry, lewis and presley relayed and re-sprayed with knowing nods to jon spencer, reverend Horton heat and the frankly untouchable gallon drunk, laced up in riff struts to die for that are armed to a frenzied flame throwing key boogie woogie atop of which a preacher like vocal serves his blues barked sermon. Need I say more. Flip over for the dark and rumble some lip curling mooching cutie ’bag o’ demons’ which unless my ears do deceive sounds like a horny, lust lounging and dirty take on the faces – dare say there’ll be messages of complaints about that one. Ho hum.


Shindig #18 – without doubt our favourite read these days – if of course you don’t count classic rock’s ‘prog’ spin off (more about that later somewhere). Catering for all things psych, garage, soul, folk, power pop and beyond, Shindig has since its back from the dead return to the magazine shelves some three years ago found its groove and struck a timely chord amongst an underground readership / listener-ship tired of Saturday night TV tamed pop trite. Fitting neatly between the likes of Ugly Things, Galactic Zoo Dossier and Ptolemaic Terrascope and feeding from a release diet of gems exhumed by the likes of sundazed, ace, rev-ola, big beat, Norton and more besides, Shindig has become a watchword in all things cool and floppy fringed. This issue sees the inclusion of a nifty mini magazine insert entitled ’happening’ primarily accounting for the ’current / new bands’ operating in Shindig’s sphere of obsession as an added bonus there’s a download code that gets you access to a frankly must have 21 track compilation featuring a positively flowered paisley parade of well heeled aural alchemists from across the globe, here you’ll find the slim trimmed Beatle suited strut of Race Horses’ ‘cake’ rewired with its Rutles head on, then there’s the razor sharpened power pop throbbed confection of Len Price 3’s Velvet Crush -esque effervescence via ’after you’re gone’. pugwash turn in a frighteningly faithful take of the idle race’s ’on with the show’ while the Dials shimmy in with some 60’s Hammond drenched silkiness for the beat grooved beauty ’watch her walk away’. those of you preferring your sounds a little more matured in oak casks and tenderly aglow with steel pedalled porch trained dinkiness should seek out old californio’s ’just like joseph Campbell’ then there’s the twin pronged garage strut of thee attacks freakish ‘are you’ and the wildebeests cover of the small faces ’that man’ (check out their double disc greatest hits set being currently touted by the esteemed dirty water dudes) – add in some choice cuts from only joe kane, bevis frond, the moles, the parties, teaspoon, Ulysses, the fallen leaves, the united space league, trembling bells, dewolff, the magical folk of the faraway tree, the brutes and dc fontana – all said though our favourite of the mix is the wood crafted spell charm that is the Saffron Sect’s ‘seas of green glass’ a kind of timeless tapestry that joins the dots between Circulus, the wicker man, Stanshall’s sir henry at Rawlinson’s end and camber wick green. As to Shindig itself the Birds stir from the cover and are treated to a 6 page overview in the company of singer Ali McKenzie. elsewhere the uber cool Remains are spotlighted we must admit that we’ve been caning Sundazed’s excellently packaged double disc set by the Boston combo since it arrived in our gaff a couple of months ago. BFI’s ongoing release schedule of cult movies sees DVD outings for both ‘bronco bullfrog’ and ‘here we go round the mulberry bush’ the latter is given the thumbs up in a detailed feature while news reaches us that at long last next month will see the official DVD debut of ’psychomania’. squeezed between all these there are spots for the Tages, the purple hearts, sainte Anthony’s fyre and jamme. Add to this your recommended grab bag of all the hippest releases available for your discerning listening pleasure via record land while regular featurette vinyl art shines the spotlight on the outsiders ’68 gem ’gq’.


Psychic Ills ‘catoptric’ (social registry). Fancy something a tad meditative for your listening pleasure, lets face it you can’t go far wrong with new york based psych drone alchemists psychic ills. For a fair while now they’ve been high on our list of listening loves their sounds conveying all at once a strange sense of the mysterious, the hypnotic and on occasion the brutal. Recorded during the same sessions that culminated in the release of 2009’s ’mirror eye’ full length – these four cuts failed to make the final mastering cut instead left to lie on the studio desk gathering dust. Now rediscovered, polished up and culled together, ‘catoptric’ comes pressed up on strictly limited slabs of both green and blue marbled vinyl – our copy being of the blue variety and quite fetching it looks to housed in a silk-screened cut slip jacket with lyrical insert. Those previously familiar with the Psychic Ills work will not be found wanting while on offer for those who‘ve not yet had the pleasure is a gathering of bliss kissed and chilled cosmic psychotropic tapestry. Smoking stuff indeed – harmonically sedate and tangibly touched by a mournfully detached aura, the arabesque indents applied to ’transmute’ instils a parched dust drilled sultry and sensually intoxicating spell charm led from the fore by an artillery of opining sitars lost in cloudless sky decorating swirling mantras that garner a timeless terrain. The mood changes rapidly to one of ominous intent for ’secret flower’, darkly drizzled and wrapped in soft ebbs of synth waves beneath which there lies the persistent unflinching bed rock of locked groove motorik rhythmic beats, the atmosphere austere and frosted with the drip dried morosely mooching chimes imagining a youthful and dark Cure being reframed by Artery or And Also the Trees. The cosmically tranced ‘Indus echo’ sees out side one, a mind morphing kaleidoscopic mirage replete with dissipating guitar / synth swathes that create the kind of out there head music once ventured by the pairing of Sonic Boom and Sunray for that essential ‘dream machine’ release. Flip the disc for the sets crowning moment – the 11 minute odyssey that is ‘out vocation’ – truly fried and very much something that should appeal to admirers of recent offerings coming from out the telescopes camp not to mention those fixated by early bronnt industries kapital and pimmon outings – sounds like the undercarriage of a huge console board belonging to a hulking inter-galactic cruiser if you ask me, the textures minimal built layer upon layer over a flickering pulse rhythm gathering in depth and dimension until they reach a controlled critical meltdown yet by then your already to fried to care as your mind trails off into the unknown repeating yabba yabba. Guess that’s another one for your wants list then.


am ‘belong to galaxy’ (rocket girl). I might be sticking my neck out here and talking complete tosh (won’t be the first time mind) but I’m certain I’ve read in recent despatches that this lot had to change their name to aem due to various legal threats. Ah well its only a small detail – the records still the same, as is its title and so is the label on which arrives. And so continuing apace with rocket girls impeccable release roster of recent times (robin Guthrie, Ulrich schnauss, the brothers movement et al) pray silence we give you am. A duo no less based in Japan featuring the combined talents of ex Supercar-er Kodai and producer Miyuki. We don’t mind admitting that we’ve been a tad bit smitten by this release since their kindly PR sent over the download links, for amid its dimpling of a vintage 70‘s electro aura ‘belong to galaxy’ still manages to maintain a freshness and modernist vitality sounding for all the world like a recently unearthed time capsule or a returning space mission homeward bound after venturing the very edges of the cosmos. All at once consuming and mesmeric, am explore for the best part of the set orbital trajectories more readily associated with the likes of Zombi / goblin / fly (whose one and only full length you can hook up to via elefant records). comprised of seven gloriously detailed lunar voyages, ‘belong to galaxy’ is a richly rewarding aural adventure that manages to touch base along its oscillating orbit with elements of shoe gaze (as on the majestic ‘the universe is alive‘), drone, space age psychotropia and more besides. Here you’ll find the echoes of La Dusseldorf sparring with early Tangerine Dream, elements of kraut rock reshaped, reframed and recalibrated into mind morphing hyper driven starry eyed glides. Filtered and filleted by rushes of buzz sawing feedback and looping electro pulse waves, applying wide screen atmospherics these sonic satellites shimmer and seduce amid a gaseous backdrop of sugar glazed halos, from the allure of the crystalline textures of the tenderly turned and trippy ’addiction to you’ with its spectral wisps and sunbursts of jubilant garlands to the brief but beguiled frosted oceanic snow globed shimmies of the porcelain ’keep imagining oven images’ – ‘belong to galaxy’ is an intricately layered cosmic tour de force of bliss kissed heavenly bounded harmonics. The euphoric fuzz fanfares found on ‘I’ve got them’ are breathless while the sets crowning centrepiece the epic 17 minute ‘the universe is alive (one huge sine wave)’ is an emotion sapping bitter sweet beauty whose initial nocturnal overtures play tag with a dream ticket imagining of yellow 6 / charles atlas and vini reilly rooted in the same studio space, the reverberating chord caresses marshalled to the ebb and flow of tidal slip streamed feedback waves gather delicately in intensity until finally unfurling and imploding amid a sea swirl of tear stained fuzzy skree vapour trails before fading solemnly into the ether. In the final analysis its admitted that ‘belong to galaxy’ doesn’t push the envelope in terms of advancing the space rock / shoe gaze / electro cause but it does provide for a consuming and curvaceous cosmic carnival whose ancestry owes as much to Jarre and Vangelis as it does to My Bloody Valentine.


Haz ‘above the tree line’ (herb). Not all its cracked up to be this taking your eye off the ball lark because as well as the mountain of CD’s and vinyl we’ve managed to gather over the course of a month or three in readiness to listen, love and wax lyrical about in these very pages – we’ve also got a considerable amount of my space and digital downloads to follow up, not least from the likes of the Herb imprint who since last featuring in these pages courtesy of that – dare we say – immense Kingbastard three track affair (a release that we annoyingly can’t put our hands to at present and now we come to think of it are not entirely certain actually on herb – gets confusing) – have managed to sneak under the counter and behind our backs releases by shoosh, the aforementioned kingbastard and haz. it’s the latter we’ll concentrate on for now – not strictly speaking officially out for a few weeks


Calibro 35 ‘ritornano quelli di’ (ghost).Should be high on the needs list of those vintage 70’s film soundtrack purists among you, this five piece Milan based collective have only released perhaps one of the coolest things in record world right now for ‘ritornano quelli di’ is a smoked surf soaked lounge lizard who trains its admiring and authentic ear and applies its tutored craft upon the world of early 70’s thriller / espionage / blaxploitation cinema scores. In an era where exists a dedicated target audience tired of the current days pop pap and heavily subscribing into labels whose specialism and detail is unearthing forgotten sounds whether that be 60’s garage beat punk, blues, folk, psyche, lounge et al the marketable stock interest value of film soundtracks from the 60’s and early 70’s (especially those of an Italian origin) has risen hugely with dedicated compilations such as the Easy Tempo series and the ‘Beat at Cinecitta’ anthologies trading briskly. And so enter the fray Calibro 35, led from the fore by Tommaso Colliva and with one well received full length under their belts in the shape of 2008’s self titled debut (which alas we missed), this well heeled collective have established themselves as something of keepers of the flame of a cultural cult aural art form – the ‘Euro crime’ soundtrack (an Italian sub genre of underground gangster / chase / cop flicks) – and have meticulously weaved a sleek and funky sound-scape whose lineage can be traced back to legendary Italian musicians / composers such as Francesco de Masi, Piero Piccioni, Bruno Nicolai and the De Angelis brothers. ’ritornano quelli di’ is an imaginary soundtrack of sorts, a homage to the past, within its grooves lurk thirteen sizzled and sassy suites that recall past masters such as Mancini (especially on ‘sospesi nel traffico‘), Budd, Komeda, Gray, Morricone and Goblin. Book ended between the rapid fire opening of the buzz sawed tension of the brass breezed grizzled funk chic of ‘Euro crime!’ and the parting lazily eyed and uber cooled laid back sophistication of the Lalo Schifrin like ‘si dicono tante cose….’ you’ll find the mooching rain drizzled sleazy underside of Raymond Chandler dragged out of the shadows on ‘gentilsesso e brutali delitti’ while the tempo touting pulse racing ‘l’esecutore’ taps seductively into that whole kooky stateside street grind that made early 70’s US imported cop dramas such a pull. Elsewhere there’s time for a spot of skinny jeaned loose limbed playfulness on the wonky ’convergere in giambellino’ though all said its ’il ritorno della banda – parte 1’ that secures our vote as best moment of the set – a sparse and minimalist mellowed and mournfully coaxed gem which with solemn vengeful seduction courts similar sentimental spheres as John Barry’s immortal score for lost 60’s tv series ’vendetta’ albeit minus the lushly layered string arpeggios. Magnifico as I believe they say in Milan.



You can also check out their recent live set for KCRW via


Teenage Rehab ‘abuse your solution’ (I hate punk rock). Buggering hell – where have this lot been all my life, apparently forming some thirteen years this Kentucky based trio have so far managed to escape our listening gaze. Currently sporting a by all accounts bollock dropping full length via jailhouse (a copy of which we’ll see to it gets into our lives by way of either begging, stealing or borrowing). For now though there’s the small detail of a four track EP for I hate punk rock to recommend for your listening delight. Pressed up on red vinyl and housed in a gatefold sleeve. not sure how many copies are kicking about but if I were you I‘d be getting my arse into gear to secure a copy especially if like me your tired of rich kids donning their high street ‘punk‘ threads and opting for a spot of MTV friendly comedy pogo pop ever hoping and longing for the days of classic era Secret to rumble petulantly out of your speakers. Well your in luck here, four boot tapping barn stormers are up for your listening pleasure, not quite as scalding as we were hoping for though the three chord flame retardant ‘Southside peasant’ has plenty of Chron Gen tricks and trapping about it to have the most ardent old punk bouncing off the walls while ‘son of a son’ kicks with enough lacerating riffage to have you yearning to re-familiarise yourself with your early leatherhead platters. Flip the disc for the head nutting and snotty ‘put on hold’ with its blaze core of buzzing struts recalling a youthful UK Subs while its left to the scowling fuck you ‘goodbye mr Watson’ to provide the sets best moment. Damn we really do need to hear that album.


Okay staying with things spiked topped the latest issue of Short Fast and Loud #23 comes accompanied with a seething 7 inch split that pairs together a vicious head to head between Capitalist Casualties and Lack of Interest – but more about that in a second. it’s the first time I’ve seen this stateside based fanzine and pretty damn smart it is to, printed up as a 7 inch sized its literally busting at the seems with – well as the fanzine title gives hint to – grooved gear of the short fast and loud variety – which means hardcore, thrash, grind core et al. 80 pages in all featuring interviews with damage digital, pretty little flower and humming bird of death, plus pages upon pages of reviews of bands that sadly we haven’t heard of (hang on tell a lie we’ve just spotted a melt banana and fucked up write up) though rest assured we will endeavour over the course of the next few missives to seek out and mention as many as we can source while checking out San Fran imprint prank to see if their records sound as good as their sleeves look. Anyway back to that split single featuring two leading lights on the west coast hardcore scene – capitalist casualties weigh in first with three speed drilled grizzled goliaths very much positioning themselves in that whole old skool minor threat / black flag realm for both ‘tontine’ and ‘indelible marks’ – you know the deal 100mph mayhem that trepans the crap out of you while the pace slowed ‘copper green’ occupies an altogether darker and menacingly futile place. Four cuts from lack of interest again possessed of the discernible black flag appeal given that they whip through them with such force they almost lurch out and throttle the crap out of you – best of the rapid fire set the insanely incendiary ’useless’ which almost had me reaching for my discharge discs.


Gigi ‘the hundredth time’ (k recs). Jeez would you credit it. Most of these k releases usually arrive with the trademark jukebox centre which us being not the most organised of souls at the best of times means that a brief moment of manic always ensues followed by plenty of cussing and cursing as we try to lay our hands on a plastic middle – what do you call those things. Well you get the drift. So here we are for once we have the middle plastic type thing prized in the palm of our hand in readiness as we’ve just eyed a k release in the bundle and what do you know. The buggers have only gone and pressed this up with a fully fashioned moulded centre. Obviously the plastic shortage that seems only to hamper Olympia is over. And so we huff and puff and place said release on the spindle type thing on the hi-fi, only the bugger won’t fit. And so for the next 15 minutes there we are with a make shift pen trying to whittle the hole wide enough to play. I’m almost tempted not the play the blighter out of protest. And one minute later – roughly – I’ve forgotten and forgiven all because what’s emanating out of my speakers is the sweetest thing we’ve heard since the low anthem shuffled up to the hi-fi with ’charlie darwin’ and literally blew us away. Oh we could and we will mention how much it had us recalling the first Summer Hymns album, maybe added in with a little of the Earlies and lets not forget Buffalo Springfield and Dennis Wilson for good measure. Indeed ‘the hundredth time’ is that good, arriving unassuming upon a softened mellow breeze shuffling and stumbling with a shy eyed aura trailing in its wake a gorgeously smoked southern / west coast lilt rooted in the early 70’s and pressed upon with a delicately demurring homely warmth filled pop purr. A gem. Flip over for the more upbeat and sun-shiney sweetheart that is the dinky and dippy ’some second best’ whose chirping popsicle opines and silken sepia trimmed arrangements may well strike a deserving chord among lovers of free design. There’s an album via tom lab that I’m suspecting needs investigating sharpishly. – a quartet hailing from Leeds who we stumbled across via the mighty torn flesh net imprint (who we’ll be mentioning in greater detail later in this missive) from whom you can download for free their latest four track EP ’Abstractions of the Absolute’. a release that’s admittedly been making serious wormhole patterns in our skull since coming into earshot and another release that we suggest is best viewed from the safety afforded by being behind the sofa. a brutal set comprised of four slabs of skin peeling death metal ferocity is what you get for time and effort, the opening chapter to this curdled cauldron being the subterranean like ‘requirement for our dream’ which we must admit leads you somewhat misguiding and gently albeit grimly into the fray taking the kind of sonic route more becoming of 70 gwen party – all mutant insectoid sounds and what sounds like some hellish factory setting whilst suffocating you in a dread locked sense of approaching apocalyptic portent which manifests itself within the frenzied mayhem of the choking ’the blood shall spoil’ which gets close and personal and sounds for all the world as though your being laid to siege by the speed freaked incendiaric assault being vented. ’self modifying game’ offers little in the way of salvation – instead a bludgeoning battering ram of skin bleaching punishment leaving ‘cnideria’ to wrap up matters which it does with unabated unforgiving and merciless glee fading out at 4.39 for a spot of well heeled funereal orchestrations. Certainly ones to watch by our humble reckoning.


And that’s your lot – there’ll be another of these things before the end of the week so no straying – as ever updates via – oh and thanks to all for tuning in – and yea we have a new submissions address so please check the previous missive for details…..


Cheerio and take care




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archiv – singled out – missive #263…..

another archiv missive originally posted in 2010 via losing today…….


films of colour, zombie zombie, harper simon, sleepy sun, emporium, goodnight lenin, twisted nerve, carol batton, billy childish, malcolm mooney, pierre ralph, the blanche hudson weekend, celer….

missive 263


Singled Out

Missive 263


For Kelly and Mark


Revolutions of a 45 kind.


Hello. Hope you are all keeping well.


Did anyone see that brief spot on breakfast TV yesterday morning about misheard lyrics, apparently one of the newspapers had ran a feature nominating Hendrix’s ‘purple haze‘ line ‘excuse me while I kiss the sky’ or rather more ‘excuse me while I kiss this guy’ as heard by a fair few of you as the most humorous lyrical re-take. For my own part I remember tiffs and tantrums arising over the lyrics to dandy darlings Adam and the Ants ‘stand and deliver’ over the songs last delivery of the ’your conscience will be mine, all mine’ line which I swore was ’your conscience will be mine, boy’. For those among you wanting to check further to see if your own personal misheard gaff is not something purely peculiar to you then I suggest you redirect your mouse in the general direction of – an exhaustive resource that gathers together a wealth of misheard nuggets such as ‘I left my brain in Africa’ from Toto’s 80‘s hit ‘Africa’ or try ‘my anus is the centre hole’ from J Geils Band’s ‘centrefold’ and let‘s face it what exactly is the ’banned tango’ as heard by some wax muffled listener on hearing Queen’s ’bohemian rhapsody’ (’will you do the fandango’) – even the Beatles don’t escape the failure to sing it clearly maxim – how about ‘jo jo was a man before he was a woman’ from ‘get back’ or ‘something in the way she moos attracts me like no other mother’ (‘something’). our personal faves though are the Monkees ’and then I saw her face, now I’m gonna leave her’ – disappointingly only one entry for the Fall and none for Captain Beefheart while be honest there must have been a few drags of the wacky baccy when some wit boogied along to ‘steroid wisdom you cool operator’ during the Clash’s ‘white man in Hammersmith Palais’ – alas nothing from Nepalm Death or Extreme Noise Terror which is a shame because I always wanted to know exactly what ‘rwoooooooaaaaar waaaaaauuuugggh’ was on ‘religion is fear’. hey ho – records then…..



Films of Colour ‘actions’ (club fandango). Debut release time, the story behind this goes – singer Andy Clutterbuck nearly at the point of turning his back on music for good as a last gasp effort decides to drop a demo cd through famous neighbours letter box – famous neighbour who happened to be Chris Martin of Coldplay – actually plays said CD and is suitably impressed enough to put pen to paper and scribble words of encouragement thus reigniting the Clutterbuck dream. Label Fandango pick up demo and so impressed with it that the bunting is despatched around the office with much gusto and with little regard for the petty cash box ,the promotional wheels are oiled and moved into rapid action resulting in this two track offering which further down the yarn ends up on our hi-fi resulting in much swooning and smitten fits. ’actions’ is a little heartbreaker, a bitter sweet beauty cradled and caressed in intensely bright swirls of sugar glazed halos all smothered in stream lined showers of stratospheric struts that find themselves moored to an aching and sighing forlornly heavy hearted head bowed vocal. Likewise the same trick is repeated with ’circles’ over the flip albeit this is the far edgier offering – okay admittedly there is a credence Clearwater thing going on at the start but it soon settles down for a spot of star phased groove building to a crushing and epic finale from 3.50 on and something which unless my ears are deceiving should i suspect find admirers of early Stained Glass Heroes nodding with much approval.


Zombie Zombie ‘plays john carpenter’ (versatile). Essential purchasing for those much loving and immersed in all things soundtrack / kraut inflected minimalism, Zombie Zombie (not to be confused with US Goblin obsessives Zombi – albeit they share a lover for – shall we say – pissing in the same sonic pool ) are a French duo Cosmic Neman and Etiene Jaumet who on this release have set about re-calibrating a handful of familiar nuggets from the workbench of John Carpenter. Of course John Carpenter ought to be no stranger to the greater populist / film score audience, his sparsely crafted compositions notably ‘Halloween’, ’assault on precinct 13’ and ’the thing’ complimented perfectly the screens subject matter – stark, solemn and still they evoked austere atmospherics and a dread foreboding and a sense of chilled detachment and isolation. And so to ’plays John Carpenter’ features five such classics from the Carpenter canon – still wrapped in that identifiable ice cold grip, Zombie Zombie manage with much aplomb to draw the original template in from the cold while simultaneously retaining the spirit of the original’s – perhaps their re-shaping of ’the thing’ is the most contrasting of the set a spot of terra-forming Teutonic tastiness which taps into the whole kraut – tronic sphere as rewired by a youthful Echoboy c. ’scene 30’ – long admirers of Tubeway Army’s second side of ’replica’ will not go found wanting. Mind you ’assault on precinct 13’ is no slouch given the enhanced detailing of a rather nifty and slinky off centred early 70’s funky fashioning braided by some deliciously spectral bitter sweet arrangements while ’halloween’ armed with a makeover of motorik back beats and cosmic swirls (much like that you’d expect from the aforementioned Zombi) strangely sounds more stricken with futility that the original leaving both the kraut infused and euro disko underpinned ’escape from LA’ / ’the bank robbery’ sounding like they’ve been re-scored by a mind meeting alliance between front 242 and a young Yello with a certain Mr Faltermayer.


Harper Simon ‘Berkeley girl’ (pias). in a word – exquisite, mellow, demurring and lilting – not a lot more we can say. ‘Berkeley girl’ is culled from Mr Simon’s self titled debut full length. if like me your thinking that its gracefully touched by the same honeyed hush that appeared to be the sole remit of a late 60’s Simon and Garfunkel nugget then your instinctive ear may well be on the mark because Mr Simon happens to be the son of another Mr Simon as in Paul nee the Simon half of S&G (who happens to appear somewhere in the backing crowd). Tailored amid an alluring and affectionate cascading pastoral tug this spectral beauty comes blessed with a radiantly soft country folk aura that’s carried along by a gently turned driftwood breeze the type of which that should see the most ardent of defences breached. Beguiling stuff.

Sleepy Sun ‘marina’ (atp). Bugger me this is damn fine. Pressed up on 10 inch slabs of marbled coloured wax the lead track culled from their much touted ‘fever’ full length which alas a copy of which where slightly short and wanting of, Sleepy Sun drift in from the Sierra Gold Country dragging in their wake a strangely intoxicating spell crafted potion entitled ’marina’ – frankly the kind of thing you could get high from for just listening to – a 60’s psyche folk blues drop out smoked and stained in all manner of fuzz fanned scowls and bliss kissed druggy overtures in truth sounding like a woozy lysergic dream weave with Hendrix shimmying to Jefferson Airplane before unexpectedly terra-forms without so much as a by your leave mid way through for a spot of wigged out freeform tribal tinted out there groove. Flip side features the less erratic and psyche soured ’horses’ – a bit of an early 70’s stoned southern rock nugget rooted by halos of sun soaked warmth and rupturing riff blisters all decoded by a bitter sweetly head bowed dust dipped wide screen aura and something which we strongly recommend admirers of among others CSNY and the Band ought to investigate.


A handful of releases we fully recommend you keep an eye out for – I know we’ll be maintaining an eagle eyed styled vigilance atop record racks each and every time we have cause to frequent our local record

Emporium. First up the psychic ills whose recent ’catoptric’ set we fell favourably head over heels for have an ultra limited remix set out via frkwys which sees them rewired and flung through the fuzzy felt hands held by a veritable cast of person’s including Juan Atkins, Faust’s Hans Joachim Irmler and zonked out psych scuzz schizo Gibby Haynes of Buttholes infamy. Next up Seefeel re-awake from hyper sleep – 14 years are you sure – with a four track 12 inch (it could be a 10 inch can’t recall) via Warp along the journey Mark Clifford seemingly enlisting the services of a Boredoms drummer and an electro whiz-kid – its all typically detached and trippy stuff from what we’ve heard via sound clips with parting ’clouded’ clipped as it is with a frost sculptured Oriental aura proving to be the pick of the bunch on initial listens. And last up for now a remarkable triple seven inch package via the impeccable Jazzman imprint that gathers together a collection of landmark and long out of print nuggets from former Sun Ra Arkestra man Philip Cohran. Originally released in 1970 via his own private press imprint Zulu, the cuts within blending a richly vibrant swirl of mind melting progressive jazz with gospel tracings serve more than mere recordings capturing a unique period and moment in time but serve as proof of a collective of musical minds stepping beyond the boundaries of the standardised norm and the confines of jazz.


A hearty thanks to Geoff for the sending over of a batch of well heeled and frankly must have Static Caravan releases which failing this missive we’ll cover in more depth in the next singled out. Mind you all said and stopping us in our tracks jaw agape was this little cutie……


Goodnight Lenin ‘crook in the creek’ (static caravan). Absolutely no information about this lot I’m afraid but what I can tell you is that on the flip side offering ‘ragged schools’ its almost as though these lads have managed to capture, bottle and somehow infuse the grooves with all manner of sunshine glows to which on playing are unlocked and left to bathe your listening space in a desirable dusting that radiates with demurring joyful warmth, from the maturing and homely sway of southern state harmonies to the roving prairie plain spiritual aura of the doting and dinky rustic rambles there’s a deliriously drifting and welcoming lilt abound that snuggles perfectly into your record collection I guess somewhere between the Low Anthem and the leisure society. Mind you not that the lead out track is any slouch by comparison – a jubilant folly of feel good smoked and swooned countrified raptures is what’s on offer with ‘crook in the creek’ all embraced by a courting west coast tail breeze and gilded with a dash of affirming and exuberant gospel like tugs all clipped and framed in the same kind of ear catching immediacy as we’ve come to love and adore from those latest sub pop dandies Avi Buffalo. Comes housed in a limited hand numbered recycled card sleeve with dinky artwork by Clare Rojas and will fly from racks quicker than Liverpool Football Club conceding a goal (okay maybe not that fast then). Go find.


Various ‘twisted words’ (twisted nerve). You know how it is you wait around ages for something and then two come along at once, of course ordinarily I’d be talking about buses but these days its becoming a rarer occurrence to see twisted nerve / finders keepers releases lurking in record racks and so when you see two at once you’d been forgiven for ignoring the advances of the gift horse next to you as you trample off at pace towards the record emporium counter in order to lay claim to your finds. And that folks is just what we did when we eyed this spoken word selection from twisted nerve and a prime cut offering of library lounge treats from their vault reclaiming sister imprint Finders Keepers (more about them later). ’twisted words’ is a strictly limited offering – 500 I believe – which as with most of the TN back catalogue will soon be a thing of online auction listings. Given the unfortunate or perhaps impish catalogue number TWAT01 ’Twisted Words’ is intended to serve as an on going series of spoken word selections. By all accounts the idea for such a series has been filtering around the heads of Mr Votel and friends for over a decade now, false starts set backs and other tedious distractions have seen to it that its been kept on a very distant back burner. Until that is – now. According to the press release influenced by propaganda, field recordings, story book records and exploito-trash – the series promises to gather on groove a host of respected orators, poets and variously feted wordsmiths from around the globe. This first offering draws together 8 pieces narrated by three speakers – Carol Batton, Billy Childish and Malcolm Mooney. Now I’m sure that there’s a fair few folk like me who when hearing the word poetry find themselves switching off and lapsing into a somewhat daydream – frankly I never had time for the cryptic preferring instead Hegley to Armitage when said folk would aid and abet the graveyard shift radio transmissions of Messrs Radcliffe and Riley in the 90’s – it was something that had been hardened throughout school wherein the given maxim was that no matter what, backed up by a qualified argument of the text being studied that any meaning could be prescribed as being plausible. Alas why then where mine always wrong and so fancifully off the mark. Its I guess why I preferred law – herein was a scope for argument and the twisting of detail with the added bonus of occasionally not even having to relate to the facts. And so to Twisted Words. We hummed and hawed at how best we would tackle this inaugural outing – to whit it isn’t the day dream eliciting prospect that we first feared, is there nothing that garage punk troubadour Billy Childish hasn’t turned his hand to – musician, writer, painter and part time mobile sandwich maker on the last Sunday of every month weather permitting, here with an outpouring of remorse in ’at midnight….’ a kind of John Cooper Clarke meets Peter Cook affair while ’Jerusalem’ offers a readily more grim and darker account of hate personified – see Cook’s devil in ‘Bedazzled’ but without the impish retorts. There’s a charming dizziness to Carol Batton’s servings, their kookiness – for reasons best known only to my distant rose tinted memory – reminding me at times of the disconnected social commentary throughout Jarman‘s ‘jubilee’ (though you’ll have to bear with me on that because its been years since I saw the blighter) recited by some strange dead pan fusing of Alan Bennett and Victoria Wood which leaves ex Can man Malcolm Mooney to bring a modicum of normality with accounts originally entrusted to paper in the mid 70’s following his departure from the aforementioned krautrock collective.


Pierre Ralph ‘jeunes filles impudiques’ (finders keepers). Apparently its only been out for a week or so and is already proving to be harder to track down than an honest politician having sold out at source before the ink on its retro sleeve had barely time to dry. Forming part of a Jean Rollin retrospective by the label (which will see a deluxe vinyl issue of the entire ‘requiem for a vampire’ soundtrack for the first time ever), more associated with classic 70’s horror Rollin did occasionally adopt a pseudonym to stray into the world of sexploitation (Michael Gentil) – one such excursion being 1973’s ‘jeunes filles impudiques’ or ‘school girl hitchhikers’ for those non too familiar with the French tongue. Scored by Pierre Ralph (‘curse of the living dead’, ‘the iron rose’ et al) this five track seven inch is a must for purists of the library / exotica genre in fact so stunning are the sounds within that you wonder why and how these rarefied gems have remained near lost for nigh on four decades. Opening with a spot of salacious saucy erotica on the racy and raunchy rumble of ‘gilda and gunshots’ which comes replete with femme yelping, gunshots and from the sounds of it whipping aplenty and then onwards with the heat building beneath the collar to the dreamlike flute folly of the pastoral genteelness of the rambling folk title track ‘jeunes filles imperious’ all irresistibly punctuated by the subtle swell of oh er missus styled sensual sequences and that’s your side 1 sorted. Flip the disc for some killer bearded smokiness for the reclining lights lowered jazz moocher that is ‘jewel thieves’ which should appeal to admirers of both Budd and Mancini while star billing goes to the frisky and flighty closer ‘school hitchhikers’ which viewed as a double take sounds seriously like some sassily chilled and loose limbed variant of the theme to the surreal 60’s series ‘the prisoner’. essential.


The Blanche Hudson Weekend ‘hate is a loaded gun’ (squirrel). Sadly we’re a little late with this having rescued it from the carefully packed ‘must listen to’ boxes following our recent relocation. Think I’m right in saying that this is the third outing for these fuzz fuelled femme fronted fops and certainly something that’s edged its way into affections to such an extent that by our humbled opinion we reckon its their best set yet. ‘let me go’ is an inspired and intoxicating slice of shimmer tingled pop perfection lushly laced in all manner of 60’s girl groop shimmies albeit edging more towards Meek than Spector and sugar dipped in coalescing echoes of a butter kissed buzz sawing and sultry Primitives while ‘so sick’ reveals a darker seduction at work, bled with a reduced sparse countenance that sees the omission of guitars in favour of the haunting fog bound chill of a weaving harmonium braided by a flotilla of scraping and clanging atmospherics, the effect is both one of detachment and ghostly desire though unmistakably tutored and turned by the spectre of Nico. Last but by no means least flip over for the dream weaving lilt and lull of the Velveteen spell craft of the shade adorned soft psyche smoulder of ’song for Kristen’ – a bliss kissed beauty if ever I heard one. All in all a gem.


Celer ‘dwell in possibility’ (blackest rainbow). Hours of fun trying to decide what speed to play this little treat at, well I say hours to tell the truth mere minutes though once we’d satisfied ourselves on the optimum spin cycle – 78rpm – my word what a frantic and furious squealing skree soiree lay in store for one and all. Of course we are pulling your leg – in fact we here must admit to being somewhat adoring of this limited issue full length for Blackest Rainbow from American husband and wife duo Celer. As per usual no information is forthcoming though a spot of quick research which in our case usually means hounding the invaluable site reveals they’ve to date released some 40 plus releases since 2004 noting with much sadness that technically the Celer operation is now defunct following the untimely death of Danielle in July 2009 as a result of heart failure. Word has it that there are some 25 completed Celer works recorded before Danielle’s passing which in the fullness of time will be released. ’dwell in possibility’ – apparently their first vinyl offering – is a beautifully seamless soundtrack made up of 15 interlocking suites. Chamber ambience I think you’d find yourself filing it under if indeed there was such a generic box in which to pack it away under, all at once mysterious and magnetic, slow to burn, intricate, delicately applied and hitherto providing a richly rewarding meditative experience. don’t be too dismissive to base your judgement on its initial opening passages, agreed their sombre brooding pangs eke out a sense of desolation, spectral whispers translated on a low end frequency scale hover through the ether much like the end credit soundtrack to Barry Gray’s score for Gerry Anderson’s ’UFO’ TV series. And then an impasse. Silence. the momentary sound of a distant passing rumble of a storm. In its place an orbital oceanic like calm softly radiates through the once empty and colourless void. Like watching one of those speed framed nature documentaries where you witness the growth cycle of a plant or a small insect, so to does Celer’s hermetically sealed micro-verse begin to populate and unfurl, the ghostly opines and the lingering lull of the harmonic spectres craft a bitter sweetly humbling recital of sorts with the silvery drone atmospherics casting a reverential and church like in appeal to proceedings. Side two re-affirms the mood, the readily more sedate selection of the set it perhaps gives all the evidence – if any where needed – as to why Celer have proved such a draw among the ambient / drone admiring community in that its their ability to conjure and choreograph a sonic tapestry both dark and light, hopeless yet hopeful, expansive and panoramic yet close and intimate, the detailing of these shimmering halos or rather more solemnly frosted ice sculptures is slender and minute, unmistakably scarred by an overwhelming feeling of sadness and departure yet coaxed and cajoled by something that gracefully extends beyond the bounds of finality. In a word – exquisite.


Back by the tail end of the weekend with more of this gubbins – for updates and general boredom check for colourised loveliness and tips on good taste record listening – as ever email requests, death threats and general chit chat to – oh yea we’ve moved address so you might want to check an earlier singled out – we suggest missive 261 (I think).


Till then – take care of yourselves –




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archiv – singled out – missive #264..

archive singled out – originally posted on losing today in 2010…….this one features…….

the resource center, fred schneider, sunray, radical sons, piry, fabio, Loyce E Os Gnomes, Tont E Som Colorado, ely, john foxx, the nuns of telekenesis, d66, may68, blacktzar, tobacco, frankie rose and the outs…..

missive 264


Singled Out

Missive 264


For Kelly and Mark


‘A irregular cornucopia of collective melodic musings’


Cheers for dropping by, opening this missive with the usual apologies to which we owe to all you bands, labels, press people – we’re still need deep in sounds so bear with me, all will be heard, loved and written about in due course – as ever any questions, queries or general wants then please refer to the updated address / contact points below. Talking of wants anyone know how and where we can grab a copy of the latest Ptolemaic terrascope – issue 37 I think – also home made cassettes gladly received with affection….


The Resource Centre ‘the resource centre series EP1’ (first fold). Many thanks to Stuart from First Fold for sending over the latest two releases (those being this one you are hopefully about to read about and an album by Papa November which all things being well will feature if not later in this missive then certainly in time for the next), a brace of outings which on initial listening evidence alone I suspect will propel this tiny hand crafted and dedicated imprint aloft into our and hopefully your affections. The label’s aim is simple – to provide a specialist outlet for electronic and experimental works whether that that be by the creation of music or visual media. Each release comes in a strictly limited pressing of just 100 copies all housed in a bespoke CD slipcase featuring in house designer artwork. Any questions so far? The Resource Centre is the brainchild of Magnetaphone-r John Hanson, the name derived from an invaluable service that connects and provides children who have learning disabilities with access to specialised equipment and resources. According to the accompanying press release Mr Hanson ‘chromatically archived educational instruments recording them in a venue designed for music classes’ – the results of these recordings of mallet based instruments (xylophone, marimba, glockenspiel et al) where then electronically processed. As to the sounds, four serene suites sit within all possessed of a wide eyed innocence, these sweet serenades arrest with a becoming lullaby like charm, delightfully dinked these genteel garlands twinkle and tingle with a familiar harmonic honing as that found on Raymond Scott’s ’soothing sounds for baby’ especially on the playful pastoral drift of ‘all automatic parts 1 and 2’ with its subtle progressive tonalities and seemingly seamless craftsmanship equally eyeing a frosted nod to the early analogue impressions left by the likes of ISAN and Plone. Perhaps the best moment the smokily reclining ’clap dance pat and snap part 1 and 2’ with its liberal dusting of enchanting stillness and sleepy headed reverence like charm all clipped with a wintry snow topped blanket manages to sound like a sumptuously chilled and starry eyed orbiting Earlies found busy rethreading the three melodic personas of John Brenton (Metrotone, Landshipping and Ojn) into one. As much as I hate to admit being defeated ’circle time’ has had me sleepless since appearing within earshot not least because it courts a very familiar melodic rhyme which I know for certain will lead me to kick myself silly and more besides once the dulled grey matter kicks into action while the bowed meter and sparse application found within the utterly charmed ‘the school system part 1 and 2’ should see it endearing itself to admirers of Sylvain Cheuveau. Disarming stuff.


okay so the blighter is barking, bonkers and liable to drive you doolally with repeat listens – and as you do listen so your thinking bloody hell sounds like the B-52’s with a side serving of Devo and They Might be Giants – well there’s a good reason for that because the superions feature in their ranks a certain fred schneider – ‘fruitcake’ lifted from their forthcoming ‘destination….christmas’ full length is shortly due for release via fanatic….every home deserves one eh – (oh yea will appeal to lovers of those loons dalmation rex and the eigentones whose current album we’ve just unearthed in the moving home box) – here’s a video…


Sunray ‘baby honey’ (strawberry). Been a fair old while since we had cause to decorate the gaff in flowery bunting in celebration of anything new from Sunray (nee Jon Chambers), in fact the last time he featured in any way shape or form in these despatches it was as part of the Data 70 resource with Bob Bharma (think Radiophonic Workshop, Trunk Records and Mount Vernon Arts Lab in a collective séance with Barry Gray) collective who according to the accompanying press release have a third instalment of their ongoing series of 70’s cosmically cross bred kraut library curios shortly due for release via the esteemed enraptured imprint (Jack – don’t fret Junkboy and nods to Eat Lights Become Lights docking shortly). Enough of that as we swiftly turn our affections towards Sunray – his wig flipping psyche drone alter ego. Confusingly for us our promo CD when inserted into the PC appeared on I-tunes out of sequence labouring under the mistaken belief that it was the ‘die wiebe rose’ set by Loy – glitches aside a persuasive chat with a hammer and chisel in hand soon sorted out the gremlins. Due out next month where it’ll come emblazoned on 10 inches of heavy wax this set features four trademark slabs of the kind of bliss kissed groove we here have long admired from Mr Chambers none more so is that on evidence than on the opening salvo – a killer and dare we say faithful retread of the Pastels long lost mind altering paisley tutored psyche drone nugget ’baby honey’ – here all delicately dappled in all manner of trip wiring shimmering sheens of shade wearing psychotronic swoons (of the type that a classic era JMC would take as their own) that prove that somewhere along the way Chambers has attended the Jon Moore school of cool. Echoes of a subdued and pastorally inclined Velvets haunt the heart breaking and deeply solemnly hollowed ache of the distressed and down at the heel porch lit smoulder that is the touching and tortured ‘leaves that were green’ while parting shot ‘tears at sunrise’ proffers a spot of woozily wandering lazily spun meditative arabesque tinged out there smoked 12 string seduction (phew). All said while lead cut ‘baby honey’ may deservedly get the nodding kudos and the hat tipping radio play its ‘super casino’ that for us steals the show, a heads down hyper driven fuzz shrilled kraut haze havened cruising colossus that to borrow the title from one of our favourite garage punk pod casts is simply way past cool.


Radical Sons ‘throwing knives’ (st ives). Regular observers of these occasional outpourings should by now be familiar with the ever trustworthy St Ives imprint since we‘ve had the pleasure of covering a handful of their releases a little while ago (old lights and the horns of happiness if memory serves me), anyway these are the dudes who I believe are in reality a bespoke vinyl only boutique imprint of Secretly Canadian, each offering a limited numbered wax artefacts all housed in hand crafted sleeves which inside play home to some of the finest sounds on the underground that you probably haven’t had the pleasure or chance to hear (past outings having included sets by Animal Collective, the Microphones and the fruit bats). We’ve got three such releases to mention – Man Forever and Hudson Bell both of whom will appear here in a very near future missive. For now though the Radical Sons who hail from Brooklyn via St Louis initially appeared on the scene in 2008 securing well heeled support slots for the likes be your own pet and little joy which drew quiet acclaim and enough of a prod for them to record a 5 track EP entitled ‘throwing knives’ which you’ll find tucked amid the grooves of Side 1 of this silver / black sprayed 300 only full length. The cuts themselves reveal a collective mindset much adoring of Television and Pavement (especially on the upbeat and slyly catchy ’river city’) with trace elements of a seriously bored Lou Reed, possessed of deadpan vocals framed by a see-sawing needle like jangled lo-fi brittleness there’s much to admire about the Radical Sons in the way that their understated rather more deceptive almost casual and unfazed – almost un-arsed in fact – melodic phrasing appears to trip you up on your blind side none more so is this the case than on the opening salvo ‘I’m so sick of the 21st Century’ which (think of a dispirited Soft Boys facing down a dimmed Cockney Rebel) with its pointed riffage and dulled Dylan-isms could easily be an anthem for the apathetic masses. Mind you there’s always the shrilled effervescent of the punch you out prickly pop of title cut ’throwing knives’ which its quick step struts and frantically turned gear shift thrusts or ’all signs show’ with its shuffling razor coiled spiked power pop-age. Over on side 2 there’s a healthy smattering of home recorded demos of said tracks in their near naked re-threads with ‘I’m so sick of the 21st century’ restyled as ‘midnight reducers’ and ’river city’ proving to be the preferred picking given its readily more looser and intimately rambling re-drill. recommended of course as though you were in need of telling.


Various ‘Brazilian guitar fuzz bananas’ (tropicalia in furs). Unearthed and brought into the light of day by the same folk who issued the acclaimed ‘psyche funk 101’ collection (which to much embarrassment we here haven’t seen let alone heard – though we’ll try and change that during our next trip to Cargo), ‘Brazilian Guitar Fuzz Bananas’ (crazy title crazier sounds) is a stunning double vinyl package. Collated and curated by phonographic archaeologist Joel Stones this set culls together 16 bona fide lost nuggets that are so rare and scarce that the dudes over at Tropicalia in Furs have had to set aside a slush fund for royalties to cover the eventuality should it happen that the handful of MIA bands and artists responsible for laying down these wax artefacts should emerge from decades of silence to claim ownership. ’Brazilian guitar fuzz bananas’ is a true labour of love. This previously un-mined secret underground was by all accounts stumbled across by sheer accident, further research revealed that many of these Brazillian labels – often subsidiaries of the majors – Polydor and Phillips or else independent or privately funded imprints – regularly tested the potential success of a band by pressing up 7 inch promos in small quantities and sending them out to local DJ’s to play in order to check the reaction or ‘heat’ of the artist in question, in many ways it was the easiest and cheapest way for a musician to grab his / her 5 minutes of fame. If the DJ did play it on air then the artist would be guaranteed being picked up for a second bite at the ’hit’ apple. And so this proved to be route 1 for what we’ve come to recognise as Brazilian psychedelia. Okay so that’s the back ground, as to the sounds – well as you can imagine a pretty mixed bag that carefully trawled through turns up a few wickedly lysergic treats such as the sharp suited scuzzed out psyche of the untamed Loyce E Os Gnomes who by far appear to be the most wig flipped brain bleached beatniks on the compilation (especially on ‘era uma nota de’ – and are blessed with a guitarist who appears to be having his own mid session trip) and are afforded the honour of two cuts being peeled from their sole 45. Those who like their kaleidoscopic flavouring a little more exotically turned ought to fast track to the frankly kooky and contagious ‘heroi moderno’ by Piry while emerging as though bitten by the funky bug the hip wiggling soul stew that is Fabio’s ‘lindo sonho delirante’ (LSD in short ensuring a degree of controversy in ‘68) while the smoking Hammond drenched slinkiness of Tont E Som Colorado’s ‘O Carona’ taps seductively into that whole early hall and oates / doobie brothers / average white band 70’s sound. Elsewhere Ely’s age of Aquarius styled ’as turbinas estao ligadas’ is liberally dusted with the same kind of dippy and dainty feel good flightiness as the Free Design albeit a Free Design hurtling through the cosmos onboard a jet fuelled magic bus. Fancy some big bearded heavy psych fuzz then Deep Purple purist may well freak to the sonic head clamp served up by 14 bis on their ’god save the queen’ (no relation to the Pistols). Throw in the odd Stones cover (okay one was written by Lennon and Macca) from Mac Rybell and the Youngsters while not forgetting the freakish ‘tema de Batman’ by Celio Balona which alone qualifies the bananas part of the compilations title and sounds like some seriously wired and impish helping of sabotage by a shit faced Joker whilst possessed of several parts each of Chocolate Watchband, Traffic and Zappa there’s a fringe flicking wonkiness about the hugely distractive heavy psych musical hall blues of Serguei’s ’ourico’ which has to be heard to be believed. though in all truth forced with hands tied up the back to choose the sets best moment then frankly Ton and Sergio’s ’von sair do cativeiro’ wins hands down – as Stones rightly points out in the liner notes how can a duo record such a superior sounding track and then disappear of the face off the earth, blending an hymnal dream weave courted by an off kilter funk feel flanked by fuzzy flashbacks the track weighted with political conscience is up there with other keynote spokespersons of the oppressed and here I’m thinking Rodriguez and Marley for starters. Onward in search of that ’psych funk 101’ set.


Additional notes – apparently there’s a sister CD package that includes a 48 page booklet with oodles and oodles of photos and information along with an enhanced section that includes a documentary entitled ’what are fuzz bananas’ – alas our vinyl copy came minus the 3-d glasses – bummer man. – okay hands up those of you suspecting that we stumbled across the nuns of telekinesis purely for their name – ah well you’d be right, great name eh. They’ve an album just out at the moment entitled ’la maison ancestrale’ a copy of which we’ll have to nail before getting any older and in typical time honoured fashion we know nothing about them. That said if anything deserves the title heavenly then it would have a fight on its hands when facing down this lot for the enchanting Omni-odyssey ’madre luminosa’ and its flanking heralds ’air’ and ’the discovering of the physical’ are shrouded in the kind of celestial aura that you’d imagine greeting you in the afterlife, the heavenly hymnal harmonics, the sepia toned angelic arcs and the stilled reverential panoramic calm craft out an intoxicating church clipped sereneness with the latter cut in particular courting a most effecting and entrancing ice sculptured dream weaving haze that seems to choreograph and shape the very moods and essence of nature itself. It really a experience to behold. Mind you its not all peace love and meditation, the 11 minute opus ’telekinesis’ harnesses a more darkening electronic subterranean sub strata raked by industrial grimness, the mood doomed, claustrophobic and threatening shifts to the maddening clang of slavering Goblin / Carpenter –esque motorik beats to tap out some hitherto ageless ritual while ’la maison ancestrale’ with its growled hell hounded vocals meters out a curiously lazy eyed psych prog mirage to which admirers of both Komeda and white noise may find somewhat hazily enchanting. Which leaves ’undercurrent’ to bring closure to the set with some nifty arabesque raga styled spell craft to get your head expanding. Stunning.


John Foxx ‘the quiet man’ (metamatic). One of two releases that since moving from London back to my hometown in Liverpool after over a decade away have struck a deep personal chord within and somehow brought a modicum of comfort (the other being Swimmer One’s magnificent ‘dead orchestras’). its been a bitter sweet return to a city that holds so many memories, memories that extend back to my first as a child. While the faces and the buildings may be different, the landscape vaguely familiar the cities essence remains untouched, though most of the places I remembered as a child have long since gone a sense of déjà vu perhaps a smell, the unconscious walking of a certain route or a brief glimpse of something from the corner of my eye have had the effect of momentarily relocating me to a given time and space in my memory, its been an overwhelming experience revisiting the ghosts and spectres of ones past, the rush of moments of happiness and sadness replayed as though upon a white projector screen via a flickering cine camera, the years fading by a memory so vivid and seemingly recently may well once reflected upon be something decades old and while we all age and through age shuffle closer to the point were we are no more, the city continues, through facelifts and modernisation it steals into the future – younger rather than older – shedding its past behind. I mention all this because ‘the quiet man’ finds Foxx similarly affected, observing a city shifting apace in real time. Mr Foxx of course should need no introduction to any discerning music fan, erstwhile godfather of electronic music though on this occasion the medium alters as he steps from the shadows afforded by his melodic skin to release a long promised spoken word set. stretching just shy of the 60 minute mark, ‘the quiet man’ has been a constant feature in the career of Mr Foxx manifesting in song in his early Ultravox days, a faceless grey man in a faceless grey city this work in progress (to form a larger book at some point) is as much about the shifting seasons of London as it about the would be protagonist (whose merely an observer / the watcher), the psycho geographical lay-lines reverberate with the subtle shades of Orwell and Wyndham swirling about the imagery cast, narrated by Justin Barton atop a mournfully comforting and elegiac backdrop of a discreetly sepia tipped frost chimed treated piano score, ‘the quiet man‘ is touching, intimate and tearfully beautiful. Solemnly still its the mourning of a London that was and of a detachment of a London that now is, both haunting, hollowing and tragic, the landscape part personal part fiction are framed within a genteel pastoral post apocalyptic calm, the spectres of memories, what if’s, fleeting rushes of familiarisation and the leaving of personal prints all become the obsession of the Quiet Man, this could be any city, town or place. – we stumbled across d66 via a club hell flyer, sounding very much like a battle scarred preacher from the wrong side of the tracks his brand of dust bowled blistered primitive blues is possessed by the same fabled demons found exchanging souls for the craft at the crossroads. these howling whiskey fuelled blues bones are tattooed with the same raw and potent hanged dog down at the heel grit that’s graced the grooved wares of past masters Cash, Perkins, Waters, Johnson et al especially on the special reserve styled mountain gospel of ’chaindog blues’, but then check out the scuzz fuzzed electro throb of the uber cool ’hell bound’ recalling to these particular ears the sleazy and seductive futuro rock-a-billy of Suicide while elsewhere the heaving and heavily inebriated shoe shuffle of the fraying ‘44’ (as well as ‘dirt road’ for that matter) is blessed some trademark youthful Tom Waits. Admirers of classic era Gallon Drunk will do well to tune their listening dial to ’Caroline’ while there’s some rather nifty Dale-esque surf scorched groove to be had on torched ’surf the eggman’. two albums under his collective belt to boot (’chaindog blues’ and ’trouble here I come’) both of which we’ll not sleep until we’ve safely snaffled them guaranteeing that this won’t be the last time you’ll find d66 vying for our affections in these pages.


May68 ‘the prisoner’ (kitsune). Seems that this lots debut release ’my ways’ passed us by somewhat which I must admit has been the cause of a fair few grumbles and utterances of dark deeds here, the Manchester club floor collective by all accounts had the hearts a swooning and the feet a tapping of the most steely and vehement of the twin left feet brigade. Apparently written after nights spent visually overdosing on back to back episodes of a 60’s cult show ‘the prisoner’ is a sumptuous glitter garlanded floor show folly oozing chill tipped slinky lasers to stun buzzing mirror ball glinting synth loops, motorik underpins and 80’s disco flashbacks a la Animotion that when gathered together trace can be found tracing their cosmic conscious through the aural astral belts back to the slick seductive pouted purr of late 70’s star gazers Hot Gossip. Flip side comes bolstered by a brace of re-drills with Cecile choosing to strip the original mix and re-wire it with an after hours silken and sophisticated smooching spectral soul retread while Vicarious Bliss go down the cybertonic Italo techno route to craft out something that’ll have all the electrical appliances in your gaff on heat leaving the set to be wrapped up by a full on floor thumping extended mix.


BlackTzar ‘how does it feel’ (scooter). Long overdue apologies for being a tad late with this, seems our email client took to dumping all traces of BlackTzar from the system which is rather worrying. Ah well – modern technology – untrustworthy blighter. For the most casual observer to these badly written musings the name BlackTzar should be no stranger, having risen from the ashes of the much missed Salon Boris, BlackTzar have taken it upon themselves to craft out a sophisticated and understated trade in chill tipped nocturnal electro pop, previous encounters have harboured the kind of technical wherewithal, coolly contoured purred pop prowess and precision honed song craft that has called to mind the likes of mid career New Order and a Vince Clarke in situ Depeche Mode. Still busy applying the final top coat to a long promised debut full length this gem provides a further taster of what’s to come whilst simultaneously revealing added evidence of their becoming sense of creative confidence for moored in the deep echelons of space orbiting a lone star transmitting coded echoes into the black empty voids the hyper gliding ’how does it feel’ is crushed to the forlorn bite of remorse, regret and what might have been. Claiming a head bowed counsel this bruised and beguiled jewel packs the kind of delayed effect punch that draws from the same melodic template which has seen both Swimmer One and Birdpen rise in affectionate stock as it freewheels amid the bitter sweetly spectral tide of starry eyed swirls all finitely cut and housed in a stilled solar soul chassis. Classy.


Tobacco ’fresh hex feat. Beck’ (anticon). So damn catchy this, from the creative desk of Black Moth Super Rainbow-er Tobacco ‘fresh hex’ finds itself ripped from his ‘maniac meat’ set and has guest Beck caught in his trademark crossfire of wonky and wired melodic contortions. With both slick and schizoid sharing the same time and space ‘fresh hex’ is a mutant hip hop meltdown, a multi layered mosaic of cross wiring analogue synths swirling woozily to a head mashing and infectious influx of hiccupping cut ups which to these ears sounds like a mighty dandy recipe to us.


Frankie Rose and the Outs ’candy’ (Memphis industries). Lifted from their forthcoming self titled debut full length which we must admit has been get a fair amount of caning on the old hi-fi (just wait till you hear the book-ending cuts the statue-esque shade gazed femme strut of ‘save me’ and the cosmic caress of ‘hollow life’ – smitten doesn’t come near it), ‘candy’ sees the unveiling of the new Frankie Rose beat pop combo …(with) and the Outs, the emphasis here being on pop – of the pristine variety – framed in a minimalist melodic shell the fragile Shangri Las shimmer that attaches to ‘candy’ is all at once crystalline, cute and crafted with a most alluring sassy and slinky 50’s bubblegum buzz all wrapped and braided by a tangy mooching twang that’s detailed and dimpled by a head in the clouds dreamy dusting of hollowed honeyed harmonies. Any questions?


And that’s your lot for a day or two, as ever heartfelt thanks for tuning in I’m most humbled…..


As ever take care of yourselves…..





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archiv – singled out – missive 265…

an archive singled out posting from 2010, originally posted on losing today………


Ama No Iwa, laboratory noise, celeste, microbit, zx tapes, diskette etikette, narsh, bill shatnerrr, XharoldshitmanX, poppy mallow, powernegirecords, Suckinim Baenaim, betty pariso, whales, bad egg records, young conservatives, fuck your haircut, sam amant, taub, bearsuit records…..

missive 265


Singled Out

Missive 265


For Kelly and Mark


‘What your ears don’t hear your record collection can’t grieve’


Good evening, how are you, seems like only yesterday that we where here – hang on it was yesterday – damn I need a lie down – a mixed bag this time we’ve death metal, metal punk, punk techno, techno glitch, glitch electronics, electronic pop, psyche pop, bubblegum pop, fuzzy pop, perfect pop, kooky pop, a shoe and a bazooka joe wrapper…….onwards…… . – caught our attention via a friend request – (yes we do listen to all submissions) Ama No Iwa hail from France and beyond that the information trail runs cold. That said three pretty nifty cuts lurk awaiting your listening affection on their my space player best of the bunch being the steely cold austere lull of the Husker Du meets Snares and Kites (Chris Brockaw) ‘non-sens’ arrested as it is with a cooling spidery post punk edginess that indicates perhaps a shared fondness for fellow Francophiles the (of late MIA) Clerks / Maudite Dance. Mind you despite what we’ve just said both ’pandore’ and ’paranormal’ are no slouches the former dreamily dinked with a becoming spectral tinged pastoral eeriness that sounds like a youthful Porcupine Tree presiding over a face off between a lazy eyed Soundgarden, Left Hand and the Red House Painters while the ice dipped reverberating chime riffs of the latter taps seductively into the pre Sarah / twee indie jangle of the mid 80’s – disbelievingly unsigned at present though that should soon be remedied. – you know how it is, time on your hands, sat surrounded by more CD’s than you know what to do with literally torn and spoilt as to what to listen to next, in the meantime amassing a heap of paper sheets with half written reviews as you hop from one release to another your head turned by a handsome sleeve or a tasty tune. And so undecided you think a break is about apt, what should I do, I know I’ll have a little rummage around my space and see what’s doing. Half an hour later you’ve amassed a considerable bookmark of sites that have turned your head again leaving you literally torn and spoilt for choice as to what to listen to in greater detail. And now the time on your hands you thought you had is now a thing of fancy as you realise that what you need now is time (hands optional) so that you can address the mounting CD’s and the considerable list of my space bookmarks you’ve just promised yourself you’ll investigate further. Such is life. Now in typical time honoured fashion I’ve gone around the houses several times to labour a point, a point I should say we could have easily dropped the above and cut to the chase. But then I want you to understand that by mentioning all the above will hopefully ram home the reason as to why this lot – for want of a better expression – knocked us bandy. Hailing from Bradford / Leeds and Manchester and having just released their debut full length ’when sound generates light’ this lot are the best thing we’ve had the pleasure of hearing on the dream pop / soft psych / shoe gaze scene since the Insect Guide and Daniel Land. From the bliss kissed hazily glazed shimmer of the Ultra Vivid Scene meets Chapterhouse ‘here she is evergreen’ with its heavenly crested harmonic halos to the seismic floppy fringe sub psych wig out that is ‘you created a storm’ passing for a dream ticket face off between the World of Twist, Wonky Alice and the Paris Angels it appears that Laboratory Noise have more than a passing acquaintance in the crafting of chemically subdued florescent pop yet its when the tingling radiance of the mellowed and aching boy / girl intertwined spectral ballad ‘tesla’ shyly orbits into view amid a rapturous swathe of celestial tail smoke that you begin to quickly realise that this lot aren’t your usual one trick pony. And well quite frankly when the mercurial MBV like ‘i can only give you everything’ whirrs into earshot you can only feel like you’ve been kissed and touched by something truly enigmatic and magical. Now about that album………


Celeste ‘morte(s) nee(s)’ (denovali). Bugger me this is brutal stuff, mind you we were warned by the chaps at Cargo when they helpfully enquired ‘are you sure you want this, not really your scene, death doom grind core black metal type stuff – heavy going’. bring it on I said and anyway the clincher was the fact that it was on the Denovali imprint who as you may or may not know do an impressive line in dandy looking eye catching packaging (see Her Name is Calla for further guidance – and talking of HNiC there‘s an album kicking about that we need to trap as our own). Anyhow this comes pressed up on limited quantities of heavy duty wax (x2) – ours on white vinyl with black haze all housed in gold print disco bags within a hulking gatefold sleeve. Mightily impressive and so gorgeous looking that’s it’s a shame they don’t come replete with a download code because you fear damaging them through playing. Anyhow we’re listening to this Sunday lunchtime, the room is filled brightly with the warmth of an Autumnal sun, outside there are children playing and through the air wafts the aroma of roast luncheon. Somehow it doesn’t feel right. Its perversely unnatural. I feel I ought to be listening to this in the stilled sombre setting of the midnight hour huddled over the PC typing up the review in the dimmed light afforded by a lone candle. ‘morte(s) nee(s)’ is the third full length from French black metal alchemists Celeste, a brutal colossus of a record set across seven unholy slabs of cauldron hot menace. this is not for the feint of heart for Celeste exact a punishing aural atrocity from the word go no quarter is shown as opener ‘ces belles de reve aux verres embues’ rallies into battle with such vicious unforgiving savagery it literally peels the skin from your face thereby setting a marker in the dirt as to the torrential torment to come. Therein it’s a case of hoping that your skull will survive the trepanning onslaught as Celeste reign down with retribution a caustic cacophony of gouging grindcore splintered and scarred by a damned and doom gloomed inferno of chaos. Particularly threatening is the barbaric ’en troupeau des louves en trompe l’oeil des agneaux’ with its searing throttle like head drilling wreaking of havoc. And while ‘(s)’ may well momentarily ease up on the sheer scathing quotient in its place is substituted a sickening dread dipped air of grim foreboding. But then as far as set stealers go there’s no equal to the parting 13 minute oppression that is ’de sorte que plus jamais un instant ne soit magique’ which unless thy ears do deceive sounds like the very bowels of hell erupting from beneath to exact an end of days apocalypse that delicately – yes you read right – delicately tapers off with a sombre sense of melancholy and futility ringing in the air which in truth could easily pass for a heavyweight variant of godspeed. Uncomfortably gruelling stuff.


Additional footing – after a little accidental research I’ve just discovered that you can download the bugger via the labels website – of course goes without saying you still need and want that real physical form in order to be the envy of friends, beaus and occasional passing Satanic high priest. – okay by now the most casual observers of these musings will be the first to tell you that we here have a particular fondness for labels who issue their product on (seemingly) obsolete mediums – cassettes especially are a draw for us, but hey how about floppy discs because that’s what the London based imprint Diskette Etikette (great name eh) trade their wares on. Of course its not the first time we’ve come across this rarely (in fact never) seen format I do recall those dudes over at Static Caravan issuing such (was it perchance by Dreams of Tall Buildings). As with ZX tapes this home spun imprint caters for a cross generic spectrum of styles, to date having released a dozen such offerings excerpts from four of which you can sample to your hearts delight via their my space player. If its all the same I’m going to bypass Portugal’s Fm-Ra cut ‘love eternal’ for now because via a link on the site this long sold out outing can be downloaded in its entirety – which we’ve done – and impressed so much that we’ll mention it separately in a day or so. Hailing from Moscow and having delivered the label its second release in the shape of ‘electro flopper’, microbit project serve up some wilfully crooked and kooky sound-scapes yet in ’yoker’ there’s something in the jitterbugging minimalist electronics that aside tapping into the glitch tripped worlds of Frank Wobbly and Sons and Tigerbeat6 draws strangely deep parallels with Raymond Scott’s (pre experimental electronic) big band powerhouse sound of the ‘30’s and as such I suspect deserves further investigation. Those of you up for a spot of tranquilly tutored and mellowed ice sculptured ambience may do well to seek out French ambi-alchemists Pollux whose frail and tearfully melancholic ’black flag of the sun’ offers a moment of detached refuge from a maddening world while our personal favourite of the showcase arrives courtesy of subterrestrial’s dinky ‘’ whose playful lullaby chimed electronics should find admiring nods from fans of early ISAN, maps and diagrams and fortdax. Tasty indeed. – just what we love around these parts – a label we never heard of providing refuge for bands we’ve never heard of – a label whose philosophy appears to be anything goes – and a label who presses all their ear gear no matter how wonky and / or weird and wired for that matter on limited issue cassettes. Pardon the phraseology but I feel like a pig in shit. Zx tapes are based in Manchester run by a bloke called Jon to date there’s been 10 such tapes fleeing the nest and into the affections of a small but select audience, sadly most of these are long sold out which is a bit of a bummer (but don‘t worry you don‘t get off the hook that easy because there are links enabling you to download all the labels wares for free and bang them on your own cassette yourself – now if only I had a vinyl pressing plant – the damage I could do ). On the player a smattering of unhinged curios lay in wait to whet your inquisitive appetites – it’s a fair old wide spectrum of sonic sorts to be had from the frankly disturbed I killed Techno’s atari meltdown on the frequency freaky schizoid oddity that is ’listen to the mute’ to the searing and gouging speed freaked hardcore of XharoldshitmanX’s whose skull f****ng ‘barry D’ we suspect could easily remove enamel from teeth through prolonged exposure. Likewise with Somebody’s Kid who despite suffering from production issues still sound like young gentlemen with unresolved issues, Narsh provide a readily more quietened tone, okay minimalist then, oh alright droney though just between me and you I’m suspecting their concrete ambience is the result of a contact mic hooked to the back off a fridge to capture its barely negligible insectoid hum with the family arguing out in living room looking for the errant mic in order to play a spot of killed by karaoke. Must admit we do like you suck’s ’typical’ a kind of prog version of nepalm death while Bill Shatnerrr’s brand of spazzed out dislocated math rocked hardcore had us loosely in mind of truman’s water which I think leaves German combo Wormhole to worryingly lead you with some bonged out industrial drone via ’boing’. more please.


Additional footing – scotch that bit about the download links – they don’t appear to work – damn. – I’m sure we’ve mentioned Poppy Mallow in previous despatches some years back, the Poppy in question being Mariana Poppy who surrounded by an strange assortment of curiosity shop like musical instruments and cuddly toys casts melodic spells that hush and creak blessed between the enchanted and eerie, a kind of macabre Victorian side show part freak part music hall, like magical toy boxes coming to life when all the house rests asleep these sepia framed aural penny dreadfuls are possessed of a surreal child like charm that recalls the sombrely strange sounds that adorned those curious eastern European animations that became a children’s TV fashion in the early 70’s. here you’ll find an unerring sense of hairs on the back off necks standing up creepiness of ’ice cream’ – the lull of the clock working chimes and the occasional scrape of something twisted and sinister in the dark while ’mouse song’ on the other hand with its pendulum like motions, squeaky toys and Mariana’s dizzy daydream dimpling at one stage momentarily escapes the regiment like confines of the toy box to blossom into something very much tutored an early Broadcast meets Stereolab meets Vernon Elliot then there’s the peek a boo marionette waltz ’invisible’ which should find nods of approval from long time admirers of Serafina Steer. Ms Poppy’s next engagement will be as part of a Club Hell gathering of the weird, wired and wonderful on 2nd October – go to for further details. – ‘losing money since 2008’ so says the welcoming descriptive blurb on their web site what you mean we can get paid for this – I should co-co – we’re so skint we’ve taken to eating the CD’s we get sent hence the reason why you never get reviews – ah bollocks the games up. Welcome to Stoke on Trent’s finest imprint, power negi it seems have something of a fondness for all things loud, trashy and hardcore of the skull butting kind, to date they’ve amassed a back catalogue of vein blistering vinyl assaults that numbers just shy of a dozen featuring the likes of the river card, betty pariso, manuscripts, the pookie syndrome and more besides samples from which you can hear on their showcasing player which I should warn you rattles off in such a rapid fire fashion that we’d scarcely had time to mix a brew and have a toot on a smoke before the five tracks were over, gone, finished, kaput. And what cuts they are Suckinim Baenaim (no me neither) head forth with the first, ‘cholesterol problems?’ – nah not me mate – is a frantic slab of untamed and blitzing math grind riot, stumping up the longest track here (2.36 – blimey that positively prog like) are the smartly named ding dong dead these dudes hail we believe from Germany and currently have a 10 inch EP kicking around the coolest record emporiums from which ’010110101001011’ is ripped, all gouging doom drilled screamo served up with the kind of friction and velocity to which stylus’ warp, apparently out of earshot for a few years Sweden’s Pookie Syndrome serve up our favourite moment with ’when apex culminates’ a quite frankly head haemorrhaging onslaught of unrelenting grizzled growl gore while dare we neglect to mention the manic mayhem of betty pariso’s 50 second speaker caning ’cody’ – unruly, uncouth and no doubt ridiculously undervalued. You can expect more in future dispatches. – much to the obvious non-enjoyment of our neighbours we were playing the cuts lurking on the bad egg records player at the ungodly hour of 6 this morning us taking their banging on the walls as a sign of appreciation. Ho hum. Anyhow the bad egg imprint is based in Birmingham and is run by 2 (unnamed) blokes whose mantra appears to be ’the turning of the tide of musical filth that has enveloped the UK for the past 50 years’ – clearly not Beatles or X Factor fans then. We here are assuming there’s been two releases so far (unless they’ve started their catalogue numbering in a typically impish Factory type way at 2) with another brewing on the back burner (from the Whales and a split featuring the Young Conservatives and Lonnie Bangford which name alone deserves them being heard – and hear them you can via the aforementioned player stumping up the impossibly addictive though disassembled and deranged 8bit boogie ’lonnie bangford theme’ – think upon it as a seriously miss-fitting Cuban Boys. Mind you we strongly suspect that under the right test conditions Whales could easily melt your hi-fi or ears whichever the less resilient, the sonic butchery that is the aptly titled ‘face off’ is a furiously frantic fuck you floorshow into which elements of Atari Teenage Riot and the Ministry are caustically curdled while Young Conservatives we’d venture may well prove better than brillo pads at removing rust and other such nasties given the corrosive might of their skull splitting power electronics as evidenced on the nagging ‘301’ which leaves the admirably named Fuck your Haircut to trash your listening space with their spazzed out in your face and personal hardcore ‘we are bernards watch’ thus assuring one and all that this won’t be the last time they’ll feature in these despatches. – rightly conferred upon with a blessing from a BBC related web resource as ‘a post Peel act that John Peel would have liked’ – indeed we here heartily agree for London based (whose impish tagline purports …’helps ugly people have sex since 1869’) Sam Amant is a cut above. and while the threadbare mutant minimalist cold funk dark-tronic of the impishly catchy ‘ding ding down’ may be deemed the more palatable portion of the showcasing players brace of cuts in a kind of Cabaret Voltaire and Suicide stalking Tom Tom Club way it’s the skewed ‘assassino’ which clearly had us gagging for more. Curdled with a seriously psychotic edginess this twisted and unravelling beauty is gauged with a frantic framing of fear and frustration bled upon a subtle greasing of warped locked groove synth seizures hammering out trace elements of B52’s ‘rock lobster’ and more curiously Duran Duran’s ‘planet earth’ (listen a little closer if you think I’ve lost the plot). Does it for us.


Taub ‘the wrong path’ (bear suit). Okay lets get the grumbles done with, maybe its just me but it appears that this CD has a mind of its own given its been a tad contrary on which Hi-Fi device it prefers to be played on at any given time. But you know – we forgive it for leading us a merry listening dance because its got tattooed on its hide the immortal Bearsuit records quality control seal of approval and you know what that means – indeed yes weird sounds waft this way – or are we doing this release something of a disservice. Taub is a collective enterprise featuring the pared talents of Harold Nono (fresh from his recent collaboration with Osaka based Hidekazu Wakabayashi via the same label) and Me Raabenstein, seven sonic delights await within on ’the wrong path’ – itself a title which given Bearsuit’s love and erstwhile patronage of the – shall we agree to settle for – more fried artisans of the electronic field could be misconstrued as something of a misnomer because for the best part these subtly detached suites usher in with a subdued elegance, their sly and slight cinematic charm peppered by a jazz informed looseness that’s clipped on occasion by a hitherto neo classical touch and a frost framed far Eastern sereneness which when gathered together provide a strangely alluring albeit disconnected listening experience. Here you’ll find ’gravel eyes’ its spatial setting serving home to a wealth of enigmatically chilled cavernous ambi-atmospherics all braided by the bleak but beautifully panoramic and yawning undercurrent of string arrangements moored to a statuesque tonality afforded by a minimalist use of space and the occasional trace of harmonic shimmers. Somewhere else what first appears a lackadaisical and inebriated promenade ramble terra-forms through a metamorphic cycle that reveals a hitherto cosmic pastoral charm sweetly maturing to embrace elements of Budd, Mancini and Barry albeit as revisited by Gnac via the bitter sweet off centred souring of ‘badlands’. Barry is again called to mind attaching a smoked lounge like sumptuousness to ‘lollipops‘ as it lends itself to the quieter more incidental aspects of his Bond work (notably the Connery era underwater scenes) while the neo psych sheen of ’the sawdust and the smile’ soon dissipates enveloped by a faintly cured eastern mirage which hints at a ’tin drum’ era Japan studio jam being rewired by a cosy toed and stoned pairing of Discordia and Yellow Magic Orchestra add to this some tender nocturnal lilts courtesy of ‘foot 5 on the flipside’ and you have yourself a relaxed and understated chill toned odyssey and a hitherto classic awaiting wider acclaim.


Its certainly not the last you’ll hear from the Bearsuit imprint this term given we’ve just received a 15 track compilation entitled ‘the fall will probably kill you’ and yes it features prime sliced cuts from moomlooo, whiz kid and kirameki and will no doubt be loved, play to death, raved about and who knows written about here (we are thinking the in the next but one missive) – consider yourselves well and truly warned.


That’s it for now – as ever thanks for dropping by – submissions via the addresses noted at the footing of the last – or maybe the one before – missive – we’ve moved address so email or else drop by at for a cuppa, a quick fag and good sounds. Till whenever (Thursday probably) take care of yourselves….




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kompakt kat

Another of those mysterious Bedroom Cassette Masters’ outings, this one heading out of Russia by компакт-катя and again i’m afraid to say, something quite extraordinary and demanding of your immediate listening time. ‘Aba Cercato’ is a surreally shapeshifting 14 minute dream suite, reference wise in terms of spirit, style and design, you might be best re-familiarising yourself with Jean Michel Jarre’s ‘magnetic fields I’ (yes the lengthy 17 minute side) as a starting point for this full on immersive head trip is a journey into inner worlds, secret space and strange cosmic continents peppered and populated by fading memories, recollections and blurring visions of both the past and futures to come, a dissipating palette both trance toned and traced in techno mosaics, its sepia framing wonderfully terraforming to create an amorphous astral ride whose surrounding landscape morphs and mutates seductively between moments of celestial choral recitals, snaking arabesque trippiness and noir glowing lunar pulsars. Immaculate.

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