I'm not gonna sing it: let's make luuuv

 

Aight so this one goes out to all the lovers and those that know how to treat each other right in bed. Between The Sheets is a landmark in soundtracks to babymaking. Come 1983 The Isleys had all but lost that loving feeling and the legendary looks that got them all the action '60s Motown had to offer. That said, this record is evidence that the booty calls to the Isley household had, in fact, slowed somewhat. If the desperation in lines such as "if you're free tonight, I'd love to take you home" or "don't you think it's time I got into you?" isn't clear enough just check out the back cover photo shoot of all six brothers curled up with roses and bass guitars in those well-loved silky sheets. However, from their uncontrollable urges came some of the most convicted songs about doing it of all time, not to mention the greatest rap beat of the '90s via the title track. Speaking of which, check out the astounding closing-section to that song which not only boasts the Halloween theme music type synth arpeggios and excessive 808 but also Sunn0)) worthy deep mini-moog bass drones and the oh so provocative lyric "I love the way you receive me/Oh I love the way you relieve me". Owning this on vinyl I have noticed that the B-side to get notably less rotation if not saved by the totally confusing album single that opens it, Ballad of A Fallen Soldier. How or why this made charts in '83 is one of the many mysteries of pop, but I suppose an only child remembering his father lost in battle through use of cheesy monologues and wailing fuzzed out guitar solos, as well as lines like "wrote to my congressman/he sends his regrets/that he's missing in action/but don't give up yet" and "he tried to get it all/ in DC, his name is on the wall!", was a sentiment that reached the disillusioned masses of the '80s. Or maybe it was the 'tastefully' done music vid that struck a chord with the MTV generation. Whatever the case, Between The Sheets makes getting into bed with a special someone that much smoother, as long as their not too choosey about the music.

Baby, baby

Get jazzed on this... BIG JESUS' TRASH CAN GOES TO AIR!

That's right ladies and gentlepersons, the moment you've been waiting half the summer for; the airwaves are to be decimated by the cosmically devastating cylindrical motions exhibited right here on this most unholy and insalubrious of webpages. The one and only Roky Roze will be leading a two-hour late-night sonic debauchery via ciut.fm (hit the LISTEN LIVE link or tune in to 89.5 FM) in Toronto every WEDNESDAY from the WITCHING HOUR (12am Est) to 2am indefinitely, beginning next week. The format will be imitative of that used here which is to first upset listeners with more awkward, uncomfortable and disturbing sounds and then to soothe them with celestial lullabies of all ages. For each thorough aural trauma endured listeners will be rewarded and tested by the following stereo-shivasana which will guide them to deep, meditative slumber.

joke's on you

 

In opposition to every other blogger without an opinion I refuse to dismiss this minor masterpiece of psych dream pop as simply an homage to The United States of America. While the influence the latter had on this album is audible, the discrepancy between the two is very significant: one is the ultimate example of where the term "psychedelic" is obligatorily but fairly inaccurately applied and the second is the total realization of the values the term has come to imply. In my understanding of it, psychedelia is, to an extent, the merging of aesthetic and experience. The connection the genre has with drugs is obviously integral and it is easy to go the route of saying "if it's not trippy, it's not psych". However, this approach presents several problems; not everyone finds the same things trippy when on certain drugs and not everyone does drugs (nor needs to, necessarily) to enjoy psychedelic or 'trippy' music. In fact, I argue that the litmus test works better with those not so fried as to just find any shitty jamming trippy. And Broadcast's Haha Sound passes with flying, swirling droplets of colour. What we find here is the perfect marriage of sonic texture and tonal content. At no one moment are you asked to sacrifice form to focus on content or vice-verse. As good friend and extraordinary artist/bouzouki-ist Peter Nevins put it, in so many words: Trish Keenan has a way of leading you with her haunting vocals and melodies, through even the most twisted, acid-drenched, fuzzed-out passages. She takes you on the long cut and sometimes leaves you lost in their depths. Knowledge of her untimely and cachet-free death adds a dimension of the disillusioning to these warm yet cold embraces. Free of the invasive orchestrations and other 60s pop-kitsch that mar artists like The U.S.A. pour moi, Haha showcases a band with a great grasp on what elements worked in the early days of psych updating them with ease and a blotter full of musical talent.

  

Colour Me