Unspeakable

Tribal paranoid jams of political claustrophobia. War dances for the troops of counter-cultural insurrection. Flee the Thatcheran apocalypse to the sound of nuclear dissolution and social revolution. Only Iceland is safe.

 Unspeakable

Don't Burn The Fires

... On a more wholesome note, I give you the crowning couple of the husband-and-wife band trend, which has spread like wildfire throughout indie scenes since. Toody and Fred and their various drummers still wear the belt for hardest working, most solid and sonically consistent performing, producing independent artists. With a recorded output that didn't quit for eighteen years, Dead Moon have left in their tombstone shaped shadow a legacy of life changing and heart breaking anthems. The legacy began with this record, packed with ballads of rock 'n' roll's seedy past and foreboding future. From the opening twang and drum hit of In the Graveyard to the chillingly somber singing and dreamy guitar of Dead in the Saddle, from the meddling drones of Don't Burn the Fires to the bitter sorrow of I Hate the Blues, In The Graveyard is the prototypical Dead Moon trip, and a fantastic introduction to one of Portland's longest running music/culture institutions.

I'm never comin' home

Don't shoot the messenger

Disclaimer: I in no way take lightly, am unsympathetic to experiences of nor, least of all, condone rape. I have known both women and men who have been sexual assault and rape victims. My contact with these issues on a personal level has fixed my stance to be staunchly intolerant of the moronic "cultural" insensitivity that arises around these issues. However, I am an enemy of any kind of censorship or inhibition of freedom of speech, including PC-motivated forms of this. If the issue exists in our society, it must be talked about. Making people afraid to use the word 'rape' or address the fact - in any light - that such inhumanities exist is several steps backwards in regards to ever resolving or dealing with such an issue. Music has been the only platform for much discussion of omnipresent social taboos over at least the course of the last half a century and more. I refuse to accept that there is any subject that cannot be addressed through music and lyricism as we have very thoroughly closed so many other doors to avenues of discussion of these topics culturally. With that, I give you both one of the most controversial and influential bands of the 1980s:

Whether you love or hate him (I go back and forth), Steve Albini's impact on electric guitar-based music, record engineering and independent music making is indelible. While his assumed "politics" (remember that term audio-politics I coined?) and overall anti-populist approach to every aspect of the music business has polarized general opinion of him, the sonic signature he left is far from being forgotten. This short-lived, highly provocative follow-up band to his Big Black, named after a disturbing Japanese manga series, are an example of Albini's musical memorability, in spite of negative public reaction. The fact that the comic book which the band cited as the source of the name garnered nowhere near as much criticism (if any at all) from protesters of the band evidences a late 80s PC mentality that was not in search of addressing larger issues but prefered they be skirted and not brought up at all. In case you were wondering, the music here is not overly offensive nor explicit, in fact I'd say less so than most of Big Black's output. Sonically, this is confrontational music, like the rest of Albini's catalog. Being the first band of his with drums, there are amazingly audible similarities to the sounds of bands he would later engineer, such as Nirvana. Vocally, Steve really comes into his own here, defining the soft/loud approach that would mark the grunge era. The recorded sounds themselves are impressively defined, marking the beginning of his thorough 'precise presentation of performance' style of strategic mic placement and minimal effects/overdubbing. Nods to the Cockrock canon of bands like Golden Earring and ZZ Top, with numbers like Radar Love Lizard and a cover of the latter's hit, Just Got Paid, continue what I see as Albini's career-long satire of rock patriarchy. This is where I feel the lyrical subject matter of Big Black, Rapeman and Shellac are most widely misconstrued. It is one thing to be a man making rock music with other men obliviously, another to self-criticize and try to eschew that cliche and another entirely to try and embody all the negative implications of the cliche. I, for one, commend Mr. Albini for his attempt at the latter. After all, isn't that what punk was all about?

This file is really big for some reason...

ABOLISH ALL YOUR IGNORANT THOUGHTS NOW !

Stick this in your pipe and smoke it. There is so much shit going on in the world, especially my world, right now; people fighting for what we assumed too long to be our given rights and getting tear gassed. Students on strike because they've learned something from school and those that haven't opposing to keep blindly feeding into the business model that will make our Universities into men-in-suits-with-briefcases factories and leave the concept of class mobility and personal betterment through public education in the dust. We need this kind of apocalyptic idealism right now, or I do anyways. Take a bite out of that Crunchy Bar guitar tone and the bludgeoning drum machine gun precision of Mick Harris, who bashed buckets on Scum the very same year this came out. Be confused by the 20sec-1min tributes to the band's favourite cartoon cat and friends. Be astonished by the nihilistic brutality that accompanies them. Look into your nuclear crystal ball and see the end times. Abolish all your ignorant thoughts now!

Uninformed

HAVE A HIT

The first PSF Tokyo Flashback compilation was my teenage introduction to the long and devote tradition of Japanese musical pyschedelia. Not sure, but it seems like at the time this was released it must have been a pretty exciting little pu pu platter of unearthed recordings obscure enough to make at least the western enthusiasts salivate. It was here that I got a formal penetrating of my virgin ears to the disturbing utterances of one Keiji Haino, both alone in a large room and with his longstanding ensemble 不失者 (Fushitsusha). What this little sampler does particularly well is present both the rocking, wanking (High-Rise, White Heaven) and the dark, mystical (Ghost, 不失者, 光束夜, 灰野敬二) sides of the early Japanese scene, as well as those that are the summation of both (Marble Sheep , Verzerk). As far as personal faves go I needn't go on about the importance of Haino or his veteran act (whose 1990 live session here will fuck you up), however I cannot speak highly enough of Verzerk or 光束夜 (Kousokuya). The former, although somewhat trad, deliver a crusher of fuzzy lead heavy psych bordering on metal which the internet claims to be their only work. This is perhaps explained by two of the members evidently pictured literally behind bars in the liners. Kousokuya on the other hand yield what seems to be a characteristically suffering and broken performance that gets at a drunken and deeply depressed emotional interior to pysch rock's posturing facade. Though, really, I love every track, its hard not to also give High-Rise honourable mention for their contribution (notable namesake to the illustrious Japanese outfit from my last post) and clearly being way too cool, and loud, to hear anyone who accuses them of a dated aesthetic. Through live and studio representations, this comp communicates superbly the religiosity with which long-haired Tokyo-ites have practiced their duly inherited craft for decades. Although we weren't there, and we missed the acid, we can still have the Flashback.



Somebody gave the GOVERNMENT a FLAT TIRE

In honour of ANONYMOUS' mighty retaliation to Megaupload's shut down and time bought as well as minds changed for the SOPA/PIPA bill, I have decided to post a bite-sized Canadian new wave treat. The Government are a band with a small output and even smaller legacy, but who remain a sought after name in the world of obscure early art punk and new wave 7"s. This is, no doubt, a result of the unique sounds contained on this plastic cylinder from 1979. A perfect sonic polaroid of a highly anamolous moment in music and counter-culture. Quite unlike anything else to come out of Canada and it's punk scene at the time, these four numbers are some delightful little oddities set to a metric, chugging beat. My personal fave remains Flat Tire, which seems a fitting tribute to the impressive work of our fellow online-activist brethren and at least the temporary thwarting of the powers of evil and greed in recent days. Enjoy with beer and salted sarcasm.

Spongey

Canadian Metal Classics Pt. 4 - Winter Metal

It is that magical time of year when the thick, fluffy head of condensation spills from the heavens and covers my part of the world. It is a time of howling winds, hail that whips the earth like chains and engines stalling as their drivers accelerate into white death. It is the season where nature and technology alike go to die. What better mascot could it have than some spikey, spaghetti-mopped, webbed-mouthed, killing technology wielding stormtrooper???! And what better sound track than one of Canada's earliest contributions to international stereo grimness. Voivod are, to me, our Celtic Frost or Venom. From the get go, with this debut, they set about blurring the jagged lines of speed, thrash and heavy metal and punk. Owing about as much to Charged GBH or D.O.A. as Hellhammer or Slayer, Voivod were one of those fearless acts, like CF, who knew that one could crush just as easily at sludgey, slothful tempos as blazing fast ones. It is their similarly idiosyncratic style to the Frost's, which sacrifices no heaviness in maintaining a chilling atmosphere throughout, that set Voivod apart upon release of this criminally underacknowledged record and eventually gained them international appreciation. From the icey church bell hits that open the album to the ashen desolation of closer Nuclear War, War and Pain is a long, blackened trudge through Quebec winter replete with hulking snow drifts of doomy riffs and frigid frenzies of guitar violence at whirlwind tempos. Easily one of the most important records to the development of Thrash, Black and Death Metal as well as Crust Punk, this demands your worship. R.I.P. Piggy, forever.

Your Sky is Black Today

EMERGENCY AT 30: Rocktober appended!

Alright so I know what I wrote and I lied, this is the actual last post before my 2011 in review series (starting Dec. 15). It's just that I realized I had foolishly overlooked perhaps the two most monumental works of our nineteen-thousandth and eighty-first year. Perhaps this oversight could be compared to another I often have which-due to it's close proximity and sovereignty from predominating music trends of the rest of the States-is to intermittently grant Portland honourary Canadian residency in my mind. Having never been there, only through the famed records and tales of the legendary minstrels of the mythical, woodsy city, can I romanticize the darkly shadowed rock 'n' roll pasts which dwell within it and the hearts of its fabled tune-smiths. As is characteristic of  the nature of most great thriving punk scenes, there is a lineage to the creators of these two PDX punk masterpieces, found in the bucket bashing of Sam Henry. Henry had, in fact, exited Wipers by Youth of America but his memorably dynamic driving of the band's 3 minute masterpieces made him a sure fit for what tHe rAT$ went for with Intermittent Signals.

Defiance!

First we have the highly coveted second installment in the short-lived but brilliant punk brainchild of Fred and Toody Cole (later of Dead Moon fame). While their S/T debut established the band with bubblegum punk classics like Teenagers and an overall endearing ferocity and knowing naivete, Intermittent Signals rips through the sturdy punk facade to reveal a band in reflection, equally inspired and disillusioned by the arrival of the 'New Wave'. It's all just "the same shit playing on the radio" to these newly christened rock and roll vets. A string of both imposingly punchy and seductively catchy proto-pop-punk anthems, Signals burns a blazing trail through the cannon with such underground hymnals as Descending Shadows, Defiance and Nightmare. It is the silhouette of this artistically ingenious twosome and their undying contribution to their scene that thoroughly consumes my mental musical landscape of PDX. The originals for over 30 years!

Can this be?

Unlike tHe rAT$ sophomore, with its assaying of the airwaves, Wipers traverse more direct connections to your cerebral cosmos via a Sage's circulation of cyclic licks in cylindrical orbit to the grooves on your disk. Indeed one can hear echoes of Greg's mystical lead playing in the reverb drenched leads Cole plays on In The Graveyard and throughout much the rest of DM's catalogue. There is no question Youth of America is a fate-altering classic all the way from monolithic title track through to feedback infinity. If you are averse to doing acid you might as well drop this on your ears, it's the perhaps the only way your mind will be freed.

POWER

All you do is talk, you never act

Hyprocrite, and that's a fact

Visions of unity seem so nice

When I see a fight, I think twice

When I go to shows, see the stupidity

All I can think is "where's the unity?"

VIOLENCE

GET ON YOUR KNEES AND WORSHIP, WORSHIP, WORSHIP

Don't let some philosophizing USBM bull-shit artist sweet talk their way into your studded leathers with their false second-wave Scandinavian scholasticism. Don't be fooled when they expound about how their band's bloated drumming, ooey gooey choclate-chip guitar tone and cookie-cutter shrieks are really some existential distillation of "true Norwegian black metal". Don't let them get away with idiotically professing "De Mysteriis Dom Satanas is the best thing Attila ever did". Instead put this on and watch them cringe at the acoustic intros, the keyboard bridges and major-scale riffs played over top thrashing proto-blast gallops in fluctuating tempos. Then watch the stupid blank look they get when they ask "who is this?" and you tell them it's Tormentor, Attila's first band, and their 1988 debut Anno Domini. It is the only CD Mayhem sold on their 2007 North American tour when you had yourself entranced by the dark master himself, hypnotizing you with a noose from the stage and convincing you that any evil command he made of you, you would follow. Apparently Mayhem are on tour again. Go see them, if not for the aforementioned experience then at least to get yourself a physical copy of this under-praised masterpiece of first wave black metal. This is beyond transcendence, this is perfection.

Beyond

Canadian Metal Classics Pt. 3

Alright, so it would seem that much more metal is in order this month as we didn't get to cover that much in the past while and I'm sure many of you have catching up to do, especially when it comes to the underappreciated and essential contributions that my country made to the international scene in the '80s. Today we have a hacked up corpse of cross-genre mutilation a la Sacrifice and their 1985 debut Torment In Fire. This is probably one of the most porgressive releases of its day, managing to seamlessly weave together the unhinged chaos of later speed metal, the caveman destruction of early death metal and frenetic thrash metal riffing, all together with an HC-informed "we don't give a fuck" approach. Sacrifice's sheer disregard for metal's growing conformity to subgenre stereotypes at the time makes them indispensible in the carving of the jagged void from which later death metal and second wave black metal would spew forth. In many senses this is to me one of the very first Black/Thrash/Death records as it so liberally blurs it's wide range of influences. One facet that literally screams this are Urbinati's completely ludicrous vocals. Along with an audible Tom Araya in his raspy rapid-fire verse delivery, we can hear one of the first death growls developing in some songs (such as 'Burned at the Stake') while it is his high-pitched shreiks that clearly place Rob in a far darker universe from us. Perhaps the most provocatively morbid sounds suggested on this record are those of the cacophonous rhythm section who not only bring a scraping and frantic punk feel to the performances but also seem to foreshadow the militaristic rhythms found in later Canadian 'War metal' acts like Revenge and Conqueror. See the openings to songs such as "Homicidal Breath" and "Infernal Visions" or the bridge of "Necronomicon" for examples of this. While these are only suggestions of the blackened insanity that my country would unleash unto the world in the coming decades, you will see the aesthetic even further developed in a later post of this retrospective series. But for now, dim the lights, draw the pentagram in chalk on the floor, grab a beer and bang your head as you're possessed by this piece of killer-canuck carnage!
  

 TURN IN YOUR GRAVE

Rocktober's over: The Final Curtain Call

Here are the last three essential records turning 30 this year, not to say there aren't more but these are the ones that really matter to me at the moment. Feel free to complain in the comments section about my oversights. The first two of these I held off posting because I couldn't easily find download links, but then I thought you know what, everyone needs to own these. If you don't already know easily the most legendary hardcore release of the 80s or the most popular interpreter of Berlin-era Bowie/Iggy then you have plenty of research to do.
The Raincoats are a different case, what an underrated band! I had my first exposure to them at their POP Montreal performance this year which, while it only came close to blowing my mind but was undeniably badass and got me really excited to dive in to their back-catalogue. This record in particular is so far beyond most of the rest of the 'radical' music coming out of England at the time. For all those that assumed (like I did) the Raincoats to be another '77 retro punk outfit whose novelty was being composed of lady punkers you're way off. This record somehow manages to bridge the gaps between mid to late 70s avant-rock experimentalists like Fred Frith and Henry Cow with the progressive pop sensibilities of a Robert Wyatt and a dry, generally guitar-driven post-punk recording aesthetic. On top of it all these gals endow the performances here with effortless displays of 20th-century-classical training and involved knowledge of exotic idioms which gives an early world music edge to the compositions. Combined with the heart-on-their-record-sleeve politics, this album is one that requires far more championing than its got.

Odyshape

It's the witching hour...

Happy Hallowe'en

Your hallowe'en dance party

 

Needs this, every dance party does...

A morbid dedication

Terrify guests tonight with your spooky eclecticism (you're welcome, again). This is as about as uncomfortable as odes to serial killers get, probably a little more so. If you don't already know Whitehouse they are a great primer in the early power-electronics. Put this one on loud with a speaker to your window to keep families away tonight.

Sadist

Disclaimer: I shouldn't need to state that the politics that could be associated with the artists I post are not my own, in this case the extreme opposite. In posting such artists I am only forwarding their audio-politics, which should not immediately be equated to the kind we normally refer to when talking about problematic subject matter. It should also be observed that subject matter itself should not be interpreted as indicative of a musical artist's personal political agenda, while wariness of such agendas is encouraged. However, with this blog the intention is to cultivate awareness of politics in sound, 'audio-politics' as I called them a moment ago. With that in mind, this album is a great example of an artist utilizing subject matter that reflects the oppressive sounds he puts forward. Don't enjoy.

Come an' get it

Be careful when bobbing for apples tonight kids.

get it?

My life in this bush of posts

If you don't know this by now consider this a generous looking the other way from me while you educate yourself with your ears. Also, today is a day for ghosts.

A Dead Post

A Dead Link

Smells like Foetus

Frenetic frenzies fraught with funky frustrated fury. Bastardized bebop barrages, bleep-blasts, barked bitch bouts, bent & busted bass bursts. Crazed, cramped, crooked & crowded car-crash collage cut-ups. Gagged guttural grunts growled & garbled to gaggles of gluttonous gunk. Nightmarishly narrated nervous nods to naked knuckle-knocking neurosis. Dated daring, dismissive destruction, daunting dark derision, derivative derogatory danced damnation. DEAF!!      

...AND SOMEONE SAID FAIR WARNING LORD WILL STRIKE THAT POOR BOY DOWN TURNED FROM HUNTED INTO HUNTER WENT TO HUNT SOMEBODY DOWN...

Consider yourself WARNED