What can I say, what can I sing

Don't go to sleep

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

Riot

The best burnout of the 20th century would have to come from the '60s wouldn't it? And it would of course have to come from Sly Stone, the number of drugs he used in the recording and production of this album likely being close to the amount of overdubs. This hazy trip into the socio-political mind of America's foremost popular Soul/R&B/Funk group at the time cast an inescapable shadow over the futures of hip-hop and electronic music movements alike. Tape hiss and a mix determined more by mechanical degradations than human ears convey the claustrophobic nature of Sly's creative process as well as his drug-induced paranoia perfectly. Here and there darkly tinged proto-electro-soul pop non sequitors emerge ("Runnin' Away"), freeing the listener enough to breath deep before revisiting one of the Family's anthems through Stone's murky disillusionment ("Thank You For Talking To Me Africa"). This is still avant and lo-fi by today's standards, let alone seethingly cynical and funky.

Africa is talking to you

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.



Back in '95

Mellow Out

"Now that's a HIT!"

 Brooklyn ZOO!



Just saw that I only had four posts for January and started feeling guilty. Well, what do these three disparately legendary recordings have in common? They are all OLD and DIRTY... and DIRTAY! Just as aesthetic similarities can be drawn from Eric's Trip and Ulver's 90s four-track masterpieces, Mainliner, GBV and ODB formed these seminal works through seemingly similar DIY approaches. While four-track tape portastudios are likely implicated in each of these records, it is a whole other common element to these artist's worlds that each manages to capture on disc: dirt. Grit, degradation, imperfection; the creative influence of the presence of such qualities in these musicians' artistic environs shape their output and are readily acknowledged and, in one way or another, transformed. For Mainliner, dirstortion, fuzz and minimalistic repetition are a direct route, through hynoptic sonic immersion, to obscure subconscious realms. GBV's Robert Pollard understands the importance of the spontaneous recording (and beer) to capturing great melodies and pop sensibility. For Dirty, existence in the world's underside is the longest and most intensive scholarly experience and yields knowledge that is tangible through its universal cultural applicablity. Get dirty.

  

Strangely fascinating

If there was a debut this year of an artist who came out guns blazing, it was this one. About as afraid of pretension as of being too rock 'n' roll, EMA's Past Life Martyred Saints delivers the kind of unforgiving and self-confident individuality its title suggests. While evoking a lineage of underground female rock icons too obvious to list, EMA stands out with her extremely bold and captivating songwriting which relies as much on its melodic simplicity as its stark arrangements and grainy production. Perhaps the most refreshing aspect of this record is its utter lack of gimmick or novelty. For as blatantly "hipster" as her visual aesthetic can be, these songs are impressively original in their composition and arrangement while the lyrics, at first sounding overbearing, have a great depth to them. Sexually grimy, simultaneously culturally void and rich mimicking the both passionate and understated monotone of her singing. She's almost Nico meets Thurston, really, which goes somewhat for the rest of her musical aesthetic. The production is tastily overdriven which, espeically in contrast to the acoustic sections, gives a warm, vaguely psychedelic murkiness to the atmosphere. Enjoy, with drugs.

The Gun 

A 90s Pair

Many apologies for my extreme tardiness with this blog I love so much. I promise more consistent posting once school starts and life takes on a little more structure. That said, if you're reading, PLEASE LEAVE COMMENTS. Now, with no further ado, I'm gonna try to win you back with the two birds, one post approach...

Tried and true, a Canadian classic. Forever Again is a collection of lo-fi atmospheres, unresolved and vague tales from the heart and hooky, minimal, bedroom dream punk anthems. Without totally evident conceptual continuity linking the songs, Eric's Trip managed to meld and define a radical new aesthetic with this record. In a decade that, like the 80s, has become known for excessive and tastelessly BIG production values, these mopey 20-somethings managed to capture their message in their medium. The intimacy and vulnerability of the lyrical content is reflected in the recording: the calm of almost inaudible field sounds, acoustic guitar and voice close miked in a soundproofed basement and drums distant and small in the mix. The subtle use of basic tape effects and reverb adds to the comforting claustrophobia and wintry effect the album has. Eric's Trip's career-long boycott of guitar compression sums up their sentiment towards the state of record production in their time: if wasn't broke when you put it to tape, why fix it?

Let Go 

Deeply destructive and strange, Nattens Madrigal (trans: Madrigal of the Night) is, for me, arguably the best Norwegian Black Metal release of the 90s. The no bullshit performance and necro production, the dense harmonic textures, virtuosic guitaring and a balance of acoustic folk and minimalist electronic interludes make for a thoroughly immersing sonic barrage. One must question the devotion of the extreme metal underground to harsh sound when seeing how mixed the reviews of an outright masterpiece as this are. The myth goes that the gnostic gents of Ulver spent their entire production budget on Gucci suits and substances and then recorded this on a four-track in a forest. While this little romance adds to the mystique of the record and is probably at least half true, a very professional mixing and mastering job is evident and most likely cost more money than is perceived to have been spent. However, it is the popular rumour that gets cited most as reasoning for a lack of appreciation for the sound of this album, even by Ulver fans. The reality is that much of the Black Metal community are completely unwilling to hear artists with original approaches to the aesthetic and dismiss these as ineffective outings. But even through the unrelenting aural attack the genius at work here is painfully audible.

Alone & lost 

The common denominator here is strong material presented in a DIY manner through user friendly four-track tape porta-studios, which were in abundance by the mid-90s. Both the artists here evaded the oppressive commercialization of sound engineering in their decade and crafted albums with impressively well-defined sonic personalities. I think Marshall McLuan would have appreciated these excellent records.