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Ulaan Passerine - Ulaan Passerine [Brave Mysteries; 2013] Two admirable forces joining under the tri-insignia. Both masters at changing direction, masking their scents to stay ahead of the hunters. Those who are always hunted adapt, so it is of no surprise that after a meeting of such prey, they would team up to produce a ward more powerful and spellbinding than their enemies could conjure. Say hello to the latest Steven R. Smith pseudo, Ulaan Passerine. Throughout the span of two calculating tapes, Smith’s newest disguise (often borrowing from past disguises) mixes with the Brave Mysteries brand; that light at the end of the tunnel–just one more barricade, just one more baddie to allude. Ulaan Passerine seems to borrow the lone wolf mentality of Old Skete, though the eerie textures and ominous winds of past Brave Mysteries fair (think upon any Troy Shafer offering–the kindred spirit to Smith’s long-played naming runaround) creep in–and the addition of piano lends Ulaan Passerine a timeless element. Notes are plucked from the icy air, then cast like thorny arrows at would-be trappers. Hexes are thrown to attract and capture the most unruly spirits to fight against the blight of blackness. Like any Smith album, no matter its slight variation in sound and identity, it finds the light amid the dark. It’s an allegory as old as time, but so is Ulaan Passerine. This is ancient knowledge now needed in the fight against the foe of time. Glad to have Smith and Brave Mysteries on our side.

Ulaan Passerine - Ulaan Passerine [Brave Mysteries; 2013]

Two admirable forces joining under the tri-insignia. Both masters at changing direction, masking their scents to stay ahead of the hunters. Those who are always hunted adapt, so it is of no surprise that after a meeting of such prey, they would team up to produce a ward more powerful and spellbinding than their enemies could conjure. Say hello to the latest Steven R. Smith pseudo, Ulaan Passerine. Throughout the span of two calculating tapes, Smith’s newest disguise (often borrowing from past disguises) mixes with the Brave Mysteries brand; that light at the end of the tunnel–just one more barricade, just one more baddie to allude. Ulaan Passerine seems to borrow the lone wolf mentality of Old Skete, though the eerie textures and ominous winds of past Brave Mysteries fair (think upon any Troy Shafer offering–the kindred spirit to Smith’s long-played naming runaround) creep in–and the addition of piano lends Ulaan Passerine a timeless element. Notes are plucked from the icy air, then cast like thorny arrows at would-be trappers. Hexes are thrown to attract and capture the most unruly spirits to fight against the blight of blackness. Like any Smith album, no matter its slight variation in sound and identity, it finds the light amid the dark. It’s an allegory as old as time, but so is Ulaan Passerine. This is ancient knowledge now needed in the fight against the foe of time. Glad to have Smith and Brave Mysteries on our side.

1 week ago  5 notes

The Dead C/Rangda - split [Ba Da Bing; 2013] I remember that first step into the Sunset. I was invited to witness the emergence of Rangda; to bask in the beginning of something new. I stood in the middle of the club surrounded by Chasny and Corsano, only for Bishop to walk to the stage and the rest follow. Thus began the greatest night in the history of our sport. Of course, the same phenomenon occurred 20 years prior in a small New Zealand hamlet with The Dead C. History has a funny way of repeating itself, but this split from trans-global wunderkinds averts deja vu. Rangda’s half is a more meditative but nonetheless raucous jam, expanding the band’s False Flag transcendental melodies while stripping bare the rigidness of Formerly Extinct. The Dead C…well…each cut is different, a compass to the story of New Zealand experimentation as reinvented by the trio. And as familiar as any Dead C can be, it all feels very different from their lengthy catalog (expounded by “Eusa Kills,” a tip of the cap to the band’s 1989 LP) without losing the directional thread. There are garages and alleys to explore to find the sound needed to complete an idea. Fact of the matter is these two are linked by the bloody bond of restlessness, so sharing a piece of wax seems like the least messy manner in which to squish legends together. So much in common with each other and music’s rich history and yet, no desire to repeat any of it out of social grace. It should be noted that these 6 songs only whet the appetite for what we really want: a Rangda/Dead C super-duper group.

The Dead C/Rangda - split [Ba Da Bing; 2013]

I remember that first step into the Sunset. I was invited to witness the emergence of Rangda; to bask in the beginning of something new. I stood in the middle of the club surrounded by Chasny and Corsano, only for Bishop to walk to the stage and the rest follow. Thus began the greatest night in the history of our sport. Of course, the same phenomenon occurred 20 years prior in a small New Zealand hamlet with The Dead C. History has a funny way of repeating itself, but this split from trans-global wunderkinds averts deja vu. Rangda’s half is a more meditative but nonetheless raucous jam, expanding the band’s False Flag transcendental melodies while stripping bare the rigidness of Formerly Extinct. The Dead C…well…each cut is different, a compass to the story of New Zealand experimentation as reinvented by the trio. And as familiar as any Dead C can be, it all feels very different from their lengthy catalog (expounded by “Eusa Kills,” a tip of the cap to the band’s 1989 LP) without losing the directional thread. There are garages and alleys to explore to find the sound needed to complete an idea. Fact of the matter is these two are linked by the bloody bond of restlessness, so sharing a piece of wax seems like the least messy manner in which to squish legends together. So much in common with each other and music’s rich history and yet, no desire to repeat any of it out of social grace. It should be noted that these 6 songs only whet the appetite for what we really want: a Rangda/Dead C super-duper group.

1 week ago  1 note

Loren Connors - The Departing of a Dream [Family Vineyard; 2013] Connors is a master of silent manipulation. As much room as he gives his compositions, it’s the space in between those strokes—be they fragile or mangled—that defines his best work. There’s a museum quality in the air; the echoes of shoes and coughs in an expansive area that has but a few paintings on the wall. But those masters are the best the museum has to offer; even if it is a gallery few ever visit. Beauty in solitude is the essence of Connors, and it is no different with The Departing of a Dream. Reissued by Family Vineyard and expanding the album’s two-part tribute to New York post-9/11, it’s the overarching sentiment of Connors’ honoring Miles Davis that sticks. Mirroring the musical pioneer in which The Departing of a Dream is indebted, the juxtaposition of static and dynamic sound is what propels Connors’ work. What happens when a note is allowed to fade naturally; swallowed by the air in which is reverberates and rattles? It’s the stilted strokes of Monet meeting the elongated breaths of Davis behind a velvet rope, under an elegantly hung spotlight. Much like the masters in which he shares space, The Departing of a Dream is to be consumed as a whole. It’s not for plucking out one idea or sound, but allowing them to work as a wall’s worth of art to tell a complete story. It’s why Connors continues to create new fans in a world with diminished attention spans. Patience is rewarded with breathtaking craftsmanship without losing the fallibility of man. And, you know, it’s just good music bro.

Loren Connors - The Departing of a Dream [Family Vineyard; 2013]

Connors is a master of silent manipulation. As much room as he gives his compositions, it’s the space in between those strokes—be they fragile or mangled—that defines his best work. There’s a museum quality in the air; the echoes of shoes and coughs in an expansive area that has but a few paintings on the wall. But those masters are the best the museum has to offer; even if it is a gallery few ever visit.

Beauty in solitude is the essence of Connors, and it is no different with The Departing of a Dream. Reissued by Family Vineyard and expanding the album’s two-part tribute to New York post-9/11, it’s the overarching sentiment of Connors’ honoring Miles Davis that sticks. Mirroring the musical pioneer in which The Departing of a Dream is indebted, the juxtaposition of static and dynamic sound is what propels Connors’ work. What happens when a note is allowed to fade naturally; swallowed by the air in which is reverberates and rattles? It’s the stilted strokes of Monet meeting the elongated breaths of Davis behind a velvet rope, under an elegantly hung spotlight.

Much like the masters in which he shares space, The Departing of a Dream is to be consumed as a whole. It’s not for plucking out one idea or sound, but allowing them to work as a wall’s worth of art to tell a complete story. It’s why Connors continues to create new fans in a world with diminished attention spans. Patience is rewarded with breathtaking craftsmanship without losing the fallibility of man.

And, you know, it’s just good music bro.

1 week ago  1 note

Mike Adams at His Honest Weight - Not No More [Joyful Noise; 2013] Mike Adams is a nice guy. I mean really nice–and though I haven’t had the pleasure to face him like a man and shake his hand, there’s plenty of cut-outs and articles speaking to his philanthropic endeavors. Sadly, there’s not enough speaking praise of his musical endeavors (of which some are tied to his volunteerism, etc.). So let’s remedy that. Looks like Joyful Noise had the same thought, embracing their fellow Hoosier (much like St. Ives and Flannelgraph have). “Not So Much” is one slow roll of summery pop–this flexi series as a means of giving turntables a shot of hooch. But “Not So Much” is a good buzz, not a alcoholic downer. It’s for those days of mid-afternoon beer with friends on a patio or outside your favorite outdoor bar. It’s for casual conversations that turn to raucous laughter after two beers and a plate of wings has been had. Yes, there’s still a slice of Americana to have, whether imbibed in mason jars or shared via clear plastic wonders.

Mike Adams at His Honest Weight - Not No More [Joyful Noise; 2013]

Mike Adams is a nice guy. I mean really nice–and though I haven’t had the pleasure to face him like a man and shake his hand, there’s plenty of cut-outs and articles speaking to his philanthropic endeavors. Sadly, there’s not enough speaking praise of his musical endeavors (of which some are tied to his volunteerism, etc.). So let’s remedy that. Looks like Joyful Noise had the same thought, embracing their fellow Hoosier (much like St. Ives and Flannelgraph have). “Not So Much” is one slow roll of summery pop–this flexi series as a means of giving turntables a shot of hooch. But “Not So Much” is a good buzz, not a alcoholic downer. It’s for those days of mid-afternoon beer with friends on a patio or outside your favorite outdoor bar. It’s for casual conversations that turn to raucous laughter after two beers and a plate of wings has been had. Yes, there’s still a slice of Americana to have, whether imbibed in mason jars or shared via clear plastic wonders.

1 week ago 

Teenage Strange - Teenage Strange [GloryHole; 2013] Indiana’s Gloryhole makes no bones about its love of the dirty and hashed up masses of Fountain Square and beyond. The label has grown into a collective of like-minded individuals foaming at the mouth with anger at a stagnate music scene, eager and willing to shake it up at every turn. After two years of turning their neighborhood into a raucous host (including a day-long block party known as CATARACTS), the label seems to be turning its attention to bigger and better things without losing its grasp on down home and half-baked bands better than what your big cities are churning out. So meet Teenage Strange (which locals will be thankful to realize is the new charismatic vortex of ex-Kemps frontman Jared Birden), which amp up the Stuntman Mike/Snake Plissken rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle with the burst of a band free from the bondage of the bong. A-side “Eerie Energy” is reminiscent of your mother’s QOTSA; a song of driving riffs and broken drum heads. The essence of cool drips from each repetitive stroke of the pick, slicked back hair, awesome tats, and torn clothes out on Route 66. The flip, “Zeitgeist” is reminiscent of early Black Rebel Motorcycle club; dangerously close to running off the highway in a haze of black leather and white smoke. Wisely, the 7-inch glows in the dark, so you can see where your cigarette is to light it in the pitch black of the desert or the back allies of SoBro.

Teenage Strange - Teenage Strange [GloryHole; 2013]

Indiana’s Gloryhole makes no bones about its love of the dirty and hashed up masses of Fountain Square and beyond. The label has grown into a collective of like-minded individuals foaming at the mouth with anger at a stagnate music scene, eager and willing to shake it up at every turn. After two years of turning their neighborhood into a raucous host (including a day-long block party known as CATARACTS), the label seems to be turning its attention to bigger and better things without losing its grasp on down home and half-baked bands better than what your big cities are churning out. So meet Teenage Strange (which locals will be thankful to realize is the new charismatic vortex of ex-Kemps frontman Jared Birden), which amp up the Stuntman Mike/Snake Plissken rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle with the burst of a band free from the bondage of the bong. A-side “Eerie Energy” is reminiscent of your mother’s QOTSA; a song of driving riffs and broken drum heads. The essence of cool drips from each repetitive stroke of the pick, slicked back hair, awesome tats, and torn clothes out on Route 66. The flip, “Zeitgeist” is reminiscent of early Black Rebel Motorcycle club; dangerously close to running off the highway in a haze of black leather and white smoke. Wisely, the 7-inch glows in the dark, so you can see where your cigarette is to light it in the pitch black of the desert or the back allies of SoBro.

2 weeks ago  1 note

Mark Lanegan & Duke Garwood - Black Pudding [Ipecac; 2013] The voice of Mark Lanegan has painted a demur portrait; a gothic world clouded by smoke and heavy with forbidden sensuality. Throughout the days of grunge with oft-ignored foursome Screaming Tree through a bevy of solo and collaborative releases, that ebon-drenched larynx has belched forth a graveled croon that is as dark as it is uplifting. We are given a glimpse into history as it happened, not as the victors have scribbled. It’s this ability to tap into the primal–the sense to understand humanity at its most vulnerable–that attracts many to Lanegan’s point-of-view. His visceral descriptions of the physical world leave their mark, but rarely has the melody been more than a secondary emotion to the wrought-iron expositions of the master lyricist. Despite tempered pairings with Greg Dulli, Josh Homme and Isobel Campbell, it’s taken multi-instrumentalist Duke Garwood (a relative unknown to anyone who ignores inserts and booklets) to match the timbre of Lanegan’s soul in song. Black Pudding is thick with the bonds of brotherhood. Garwood’s darkness melds with Lanegan’s mysticism, the pall of forlorn guitars and spectral drones drenching the pair’s first outing in viscous tribulation. But anyone adept at tapping into the human psyche is equally skilled at capturing the hopefulness of despair; the noble pursuit of the silver lining, no matter how obscured. “Cold Molly” is the eye of the storm, a funk-soul-blues dirge disguised as an up-tempo blessing. Much like Dulli tried to conjure with Lanegan in The Gutter Twins, Garwood makes good with a fractured melody as hot New Orleans summer and as cool as a Mississippi delta strut. The western themed “Death Ride” is typical Lanegan imagery, but Garwood’s background din signals the danger approaching. It’s reminiscent of Screaming Trees’ “Gospel Plow,” but far more realistic in its depiction of death than Lanegan’s elder tune. It’s a trick played throughout the album at just the right moments. When the robotic tempo of “Mescalito” threatens to crumble the album’s first half, the ghostly buzz of “Sphinx” recaptures the mood. And though “Cold Molly” doesn’t disturb the story, it does disrupt the ride. But the ethereal “Shade of the Sun” reins both back. The funny thing about history is how often society forgets its implications. Much of the same can be said about Lanegan. Few speak of Screaming Trees in the same company of lesser but highly recognized alterna-acts. A string of deeply personal solo albums are glossed over for his prettier collaborations. Yet Black Pudding is distinctly Lanegan, even as it is accurately Garwood. These two are kin, bonded by context and possessed by valiance. With these men, the past rests in the hands of capable storytellers speaking in allegory and truth. But above all else, Black Pudding is an album of modern times. Doomsayers are well aware of the cliché, Lanegan and Garwood hell bent on not repeating the same mistakes.

Mark Lanegan & Duke Garwood - Black Pudding [Ipecac; 2013]

The voice of Mark Lanegan has painted a demur portrait; a gothic world clouded by smoke and heavy with forbidden sensuality. Throughout the days of grunge with oft-ignored foursome Screaming Tree through a bevy of solo and collaborative releases, that ebon-drenched larynx has belched forth a graveled croon that is as dark as it is uplifting. We are given a glimpse into history as it happened, not as the victors have scribbled.

It’s this ability to tap into the primal–the sense to understand humanity at its most vulnerable–that attracts many to Lanegan’s point-of-view. His visceral descriptions of the physical world leave their mark, but rarely has the melody been more than a secondary emotion to the wrought-iron expositions of the master lyricist.

Despite tempered pairings with Greg Dulli, Josh Homme and Isobel Campbell, it’s taken multi-instrumentalist Duke Garwood (a relative unknown to anyone who ignores inserts and booklets) to match the timbre of Lanegan’s soul in song. Black Pudding is thick with the bonds of brotherhood. Garwood’s darkness melds with Lanegan’s mysticism, the pall of forlorn guitars and spectral drones drenching the pair’s first outing in viscous tribulation.

But anyone adept at tapping into the human psyche is equally skilled at capturing the hopefulness of despair; the noble pursuit of the silver lining, no matter how obscured. “Cold Molly” is the eye of the storm, a funk-soul-blues dirge disguised as an up-tempo blessing. Much like Dulli tried to conjure with Lanegan in The Gutter Twins, Garwood makes good with a fractured melody as hot New Orleans summer and as cool as a Mississippi delta strut. The western themed “Death Ride” is typical Lanegan imagery, but Garwood’s background din signals the danger approaching. It’s reminiscent of Screaming Trees’ “Gospel Plow,” but far more realistic in its depiction of death than Lanegan’s elder tune.

It’s a trick played throughout the album at just the right moments. When the robotic tempo of “Mescalito” threatens to crumble the album’s first half, the ghostly buzz of “Sphinx” recaptures the mood. And though “Cold Molly” doesn’t disturb the story, it does disrupt the ride. But the ethereal “Shade of the Sun” reins both back.

The funny thing about history is how often society forgets its implications. Much of the same can be said about Lanegan. Few speak of Screaming Trees in the same company of lesser but highly recognized alterna-acts. A string of deeply personal solo albums are glossed over for his prettier collaborations. Yet Black Pudding is distinctly Lanegan, even as it is accurately Garwood. These two are kin, bonded by context and possessed by valiance. With these men, the past rests in the hands of capable storytellers speaking in allegory and truth. But above all else, Black Pudding is an album of modern times. Doomsayers are well aware of the cliché, Lanegan and Garwood hell bent on not repeating the same mistakes.

2 weeks ago  1 note

Love Chants - Love Chants EP [Quemada; 2013] My transformation to Aussie zeitgeist is almost complete, but in case my soul had any second guesses… Love Chants is made up of members of Mad Nanna and XxNoBBQxX. Must I repeat myself? What I shan’t repeat is this: Love Chants has little in common with either of their ancestors. This is careful guitar exploration, crafted by a trio (Anthony Guerra, Michael Zulicki, and Matt Earle) that is taking the Loren Connors graveyard isolation and putting it in a lo-fi basement as interpreted by a garage band. Whereas much of Australian garage rock is the sweaty underbelly of small city American rapture–kids carving out their own scenes separate from the blogosphere–Love Chants goes further into the kangaroo pouch by circumventing anything relevant of steady melody or musical thought. Sometimes sounding like beginners at their craft (“Small Jewels,” at least that’s what I can decipher through the chicken scratch), other times in complete control of their deconstructed pace (“Skirts of Rain”), Love Chants are now my everything; a reference point to those lonely hours plugging away in a single room until I got what was in my head just right.

Love Chants - Love Chants EP [Quemada; 2013]

My transformation to Aussie zeitgeist is almost complete, but in case my soul had any second guesses…

Love Chants is made up of members of Mad Nanna and XxNoBBQxX. Must I repeat myself? What I shan’t repeat is this: Love Chants has little in common with either of their ancestors. This is careful guitar exploration, crafted by a trio (Anthony Guerra, Michael Zulicki, and Matt Earle) that is taking the Loren Connors graveyard isolation and putting it in a lo-fi basement as interpreted by a garage band. Whereas much of Australian garage rock is the sweaty underbelly of small city American rapture–kids carving out their own scenes separate from the blogosphere–Love Chants goes further into the kangaroo pouch by circumventing anything relevant of steady melody or musical thought. Sometimes sounding like beginners at their craft (“Small Jewels,” at least that’s what I can decipher through the chicken scratch), other times in complete control of their deconstructed pace (“Skirts of Rain”), Love Chants are now my everything; a reference point to those lonely hours plugging away in a single room until I got what was in my head just right.

2 weeks ago 

Monotonix - Now [Joyful Noise; 2013] You forgot about Monotonix didn’t you? Who can blame you, the band is extinguished, gone, kaput for all intents and purposes. But time doesn’t forget and here, in the now–and oddly on “Now”–the band is giving a warmly received farewell. The minimal bursts of repetitive guitar and the rattling bass still feel energetic. There’s life behind this supposed hideaway, stashed until this particular moment because we need it “Now” more than ever. Yes, a pun. We need those too. And more shirtless hairy gentlemen who care not about coiffed hair and get-ups. We need the rock and Monotonix, even in the afterlife, deliver. And you can only hear it by griping the flexi by its bulbously skinny square–no digital on this series, just the sound produced by a whirling table and needle.

Monotonix - Now [Joyful Noise; 2013]

You forgot about Monotonix didn’t you? Who can blame you, the band is extinguished, gone, kaput for all intents and purposes. But time doesn’t forget and here, in the now–and oddly on “Now”–the band is giving a warmly received farewell. The minimal bursts of repetitive guitar and the rattling bass still feel energetic. There’s life behind this supposed hideaway, stashed until this particular moment because we need it “Now” more than ever. Yes, a pun. We need those too. And more shirtless hairy gentlemen who care not about coiffed hair and get-ups. We need the rock and Monotonix, even in the afterlife, deliver. And you can only hear it by griping the flexi by its bulbously skinny square–no digital on this series, just the sound produced by a whirling table and needle.

2 weeks ago  1 note

Owlfood - Destroyers of the Moon [Behind the Door; 2013] Can you remember the last time you witnessed something truly beautiful? Not in relation to a person or a place–those pock every Instagram and Facebook account from here to eternity–but an event, a happening, or a chance that took your breath away and made you reassess your values? It’s likely you have, and for that Owlfood have the soundtrack for it. Frozen in time, Destroyers of the Moon speaks to the weight demise of the satellite we most take for granted. If the celestial orb were to disappear (say from the CIA blowing it up to show America’s might), don’t focus on the ruined gravitational forces or tidal destruction but on the beauty that a moonlit night provides. That faint glimmer of hope turns to rubble, which turns to anger. These volatile mood shifts caused by such destruction are the same within Destroyers of the Moon. It’s brooding and plodding, but the moon’s removal from our nightly skies would be a gorgeous catastrophe in and of itself. And in those moments of loathsome solitude in the midst of pitch blackness, Owlfood is our new definition of vanity.

Owlfood - Destroyers of the Moon [Behind the Door; 2013]

Can you remember the last time you witnessed something truly beautiful? Not in relation to a person or a place–those pock every Instagram and Facebook account from here to eternity–but an event, a happening, or a chance that took your breath away and made you reassess your values? It’s likely you have, and for that Owlfood have the soundtrack for it. Frozen in time, Destroyers of the Moon speaks to the weight demise of the satellite we most take for granted. If the celestial orb were to disappear (say from the CIA blowing it up to show America’s might), don’t focus on the ruined gravitational forces or tidal destruction but on the beauty that a moonlit night provides. That faint glimmer of hope turns to rubble, which turns to anger. These volatile mood shifts caused by such destruction are the same within Destroyers of the Moon. It’s brooding and plodding, but the moon’s removal from our nightly skies would be a gorgeous catastrophe in and of itself. And in those moments of loathsome solitude in the midst of pitch blackness, Owlfood is our new definition of vanity.

3 weeks ago  1 note

Various Artists - Your Victorian Breasts [three:four, 2013] Compilations are often a trick of the senses. Much like those stacks of old mix tapes obscured by boxes brimming with the sundries of fad, the art of curating music to fit a motif, motive, or mood is often left to slap dashed playlists on digital devices or keenly attuned labels. This is the latter, three:four now a stalwart of pitting artists together on splits and comps with little worry that such arrangements will fail. Your Victorian Breasts does not disappoint due to the carefree attitude of its creation. Expanding upon the label’s four-year old Err on the Good Sidecompilation, this double vinyl beast double the prequel’s content and is just as weighty and significant in capturing tossed aside and forgotten gems from new and old. The one-two of Ignatz and Filipe Felizardo, both playfully deconstructing the guitar, all but dispels concerns in just a few moments of A-side bliss. But that doesn’t exclude multiple emerging styles. Side B explores the multitudes of drone, from Robert Hampson’s atmospherics to Robert Tellier-Craig’s spatial. Sides C and D relax their grip, showcasing the softer side of experimentation. The loudest point is Syracuse Ear (featuring drummer extraordinaire, Chris Corsano), but it’s lost at sea among the gentle fluctuations of Circuit Des Yeux and Raajmahal. Your Victorian Breasts proves that motif, motive, and mood can all be part of one compilation, but it’s a feat in daft pacing and maneuvered patience. The payoff is slow but steady, and with each turn of the long-player, a new discovery awaits.

Various Artists - Your Victorian Breasts [three:four, 2013]

Compilations are often a trick of the senses. Much like those stacks of old mix tapes obscured by boxes brimming with the sundries of fad, the art of curating music to fit a motif, motive, or mood is often left to slap dashed playlists on digital devices or keenly attuned labels.

This is the latter, three:four now a stalwart of pitting artists together on splits and comps with little worry that such arrangements will fail. Your Victorian Breasts does not disappoint due to the carefree attitude of its creation. Expanding upon the label’s four-year old Err on the Good Sidecompilation, this double vinyl beast double the prequel’s content and is just as weighty and significant in capturing tossed aside and forgotten gems from new and old. The one-two of Ignatz and Filipe Felizardo, both playfully deconstructing the guitar, all but dispels concerns in just a few moments of A-side bliss.

But that doesn’t exclude multiple emerging styles. Side B explores the multitudes of drone, from Robert Hampson’s atmospherics to Robert Tellier-Craig’s spatial. Sides C and D relax their grip, showcasing the softer side of experimentation. The loudest point is Syracuse Ear (featuring drummer extraordinaire, Chris Corsano), but it’s lost at sea among the gentle fluctuations of Circuit Des Yeux and Raajmahal.

Your Victorian Breasts proves that motif, motive, and mood can all be part of one compilation, but it’s a feat in daft pacing and maneuvered patience. The payoff is slow but steady, and with each turn of the long-player, a new discovery awaits.

3 weeks ago  3 notes

J Fernandez - No Luck [Lake Paradise; 2013] The clamor toward the genius of Jon Brion has quieted just as quickly as it rose, and though Brion’s talents are no less palpable, it does seem his star has diminished with his mainstream dalliances. So there are those who search out his worthy successor. And though I would not want to put that pressure on J. Fernandez, on the strength of the two lovely pop gems encompassed on this 7-inch, his ascension to those lofty heights and weekly showcases at a smoky, mythical lounge do not seem impossible markers. A string of small releases and some solid pub are the rage no matter the talent, but that Fernandez has an array of sound and flexible ideas easily demonstrated over just two low-key songs make him a must-watch. Like, moving to Chicago and stalking him. David O. Russell and Kanye will come calling! WHY DON’T YOU RETURN MY LETTERS? I CAN SEE YOU!

J Fernandez - No Luck [Lake Paradise; 2013]

The clamor toward the genius of Jon Brion has quieted just as quickly as it rose, and though Brion’s talents are no less palpable, it does seem his star has diminished with his mainstream dalliances. So there are those who search out his worthy successor. And though I would not want to put that pressure on J. Fernandez, on the strength of the two lovely pop gems encompassed on this 7-inch, his ascension to those lofty heights and weekly showcases at a smoky, mythical lounge do not seem impossible markers. A string of small releases and some solid pub are the rage no matter the talent, but that Fernandez has an array of sound and flexible ideas easily demonstrated over just two low-key songs make him a must-watch. Like, moving to Chicago and stalking him. David O. Russell and Kanye will come calling! WHY DON’T YOU RETURN MY LETTERS? I CAN SEE YOU!

3 weeks ago  1 note

Dream Worlds - Cold Black Ragas for Love of All Forms [Kimberly Dawn; 2013] As someone who uses a lot of words endlessly to describe sound for people who like to read such things, Dylan Simon has undercut me with the title of his latest. Cold Black Ragas for Love of All Forms gets to the heart of the matter. The two compositions are Middle Eastern-influenced, using but a vintage EML 101, hurdy gurdy, and farfisa. The vibe, again, is captured in the title. It’s a bleak, blustery world wherein meditation is to keep warm amid a barren world. It’s the quiet after the mushroom cloud, Simon contemplating the ends of the earth after they have been obliterated by a world too corrupt and fanatical to see what it’s doing to itself. But in this center–this eye of the mystical storm–there is hope despite the shroud. For in this dreary future, there is the rebirth of love. IT’S THERE IN THE TITLE! Dream Worlds may seem desolate but repeated listens find an enriching balance between zen drones and chilly isolation. Only in our center can we see the world for what it truly is, and sometimes it takes the most peaceful of us to slap the faces of power hungry fascists. Simon may be doing so from afar under the guise of “astral projection” but he’s really giving the finger to the plutocracy that would rather watch it burn that build it up.

Dream Worlds - Cold Black Ragas for Love of All Forms [Kimberly Dawn; 2013]

As someone who uses a lot of words endlessly to describe sound for people who like to read such things, Dylan Simon has undercut me with the title of his latest. Cold Black Ragas for Love of All Forms gets to the heart of the matter. The two compositions are Middle Eastern-influenced, using but a vintage EML 101, hurdy gurdy, and farfisa. The vibe, again, is captured in the title. It’s a bleak, blustery world wherein meditation is to keep warm amid a barren world. It’s the quiet after the mushroom cloud, Simon contemplating the ends of the earth after they have been obliterated by a world too corrupt and fanatical to see what it’s doing to itself. But in this center–this eye of the mystical storm–there is hope despite the shroud. For in this dreary future, there is the rebirth of love. IT’S THERE IN THE TITLE! Dream Worlds may seem desolate but repeated listens find an enriching balance between zen drones and chilly isolation. Only in our center can we see the world for what it truly is, and sometimes it takes the most peaceful of us to slap the faces of power hungry fascists. Simon may be doing so from afar under the guise of “astral projection” but he’s really giving the finger to the plutocracy that would rather watch it burn that build it up.

1 month ago  1 note

Ex Con - Ex Con [Bon Voyage; 2013] I miss the days of drugs and booze inching into lower class noise. The sound of people sleeping on sticky floors, pub crawling for a cigarette butt and day old dumpster dives. This is the world of Ex Con–three songs of wino wails from Joanna Nilson surround her in musical desperation. And that’s just “Cuda ‘82,” though the other two tracks fail to deviate from the same urgency. And for that, we should hail Ex Con as the fifth coming of brash trash. A band that is figuring out how to play as it tours the dirty circuit for bacchanal pleasure. Glory holes and acid washed glory all unfurled on life’s stage. Cozy up to Ex Con like your empty gin bottle. Hold it tight. Never let it go.

Ex Con - Ex Con [Bon Voyage; 2013]

I miss the days of drugs and booze inching into lower class noise. The sound of people sleeping on sticky floors, pub crawling for a cigarette butt and day old dumpster dives. This is the world of Ex Con–three songs of wino wails from Joanna Nilson surround her in musical desperation. And that’s just “Cuda ‘82,” though the other two tracks fail to deviate from the same urgency. And for that, we should hail Ex Con as the fifth coming of brash trash. A band that is figuring out how to play as it tours the dirty circuit for bacchanal pleasure. Glory holes and acid washed glory all unfurled on life’s stage. Cozy up to Ex Con like your empty gin bottle. Hold it tight. Never let it go.

1 month ago 

Shuggie Otis - Wings of Love [Epic/Legacy; 2013] Shadows cast long palls. We are often obscured by a singular event, a specific place and time, that comes to define us. Dwarfed by expectation and history, the weight of that moment becomes so burdensome that action must be taken. Some rise to the occasion, step outside of the dark umbra, and own their mark; others shrink further into the void, never to be heard from again. The latter seemed the history of Johnny Otis Jr. Known as Shuggie to anyone frequenting a blues hall, the guitar virtuoso rode side-by-side with his equally prestigious father. Shuggie defined musical expressionism at a young age, the hero in a string of underage fairy tales of sneaking into clubs so he could accompany his father’s band. As his reputation grew, so did his repertoire. As a member of Snatch And The Poontangs, Shuggie cemented his story by delving into the sexual revolution from its southern roadhouse traditions, bluesmen with no regard for morality plays, speaking to the truth of sex, love, and despair. Shortly after the detour into “adult blues,” Shuggie holed up in a studio to produce his first full-length, Here Comes Shuggie Otis. Lending much to the boogie blues and soul he played with his father’s ensembles, the album is a blues tour de force lost in the shadow of Clapton solos and Muddy Waters revivalism at the end of the swinging 60s. Follow-up Freedom Flight was far more forward, integrating funk and jazz into Shuggie’s bluesman wails. Its pop tendencies, including the iconic “Strawberry Letter 23,” proved a strong bridge between his past and his future. It would be nearly three years beforeInspiration Information came and went, and though its title track charted, the momentum and creativity generated by Shuggie’s talents — too slow for the mechanism of the music business — began to fade. He became a myth, spoken of quietly. He refused an invite from The Rolling Stones, ignored offerings from Quincy Jones, and shrunk back into the shadow of his father’s projects. As a resurrection project, Shuggie’s work began resurfacing at the turn of the century. Inspiration Information unleashed a new psychedelic soul on a landscape that was just reawakening to the spirit of 69 after a decade of grunge and bubblegum. “Strawberry Letter 23” became the property of Shuggie and not of the Brothers Johnson. The music was seemingly timeless, unattached to the circumstances from which it was spawned. Wings of Love, under the cover of Shuggie’s own shadow for nearly 30 years, suffers from lost time. Unlike the greatest movements of his previous albums,Wings of Love’s diversity is its greatest fault, as 14 tracks visit musical fads long forgotten and ill conceived. The 25 years of back catalog spanned by this collection hits the disparate Shuggie influences, but its curation neglects to account for the same nuances and spirit of his work. The faults are immediate. “Tryin’ to Get Close to You” is ripped from the mid-70s R&B playbook, a mélange of human soul and programmed beats that speaks more to a fad than an emerging trend. The title track is 80s FM pop, the production airy and the sentiment just as empty. “Give Me a Chance” finds Shuggie further appropriating the 80s formula into his work, toss-offs akin to the work of Peebles or The Jets rather than the experimental pop gems Shuggie crafted the previous decade. Where Shuggie once helped forward movements and break barriers, much of Wings of Love finds him directionless, clinging to established norms in an effort to rediscover his creative spark. But keep listening to Wings of Love and those glimpses of inspiration make themselves known in powerful bursts. “Fireball of Love” harkens back to Here Comes Shuggie Otis, unafraid of unfiltered blues riffs amid a sea of big-band melody and infectious beats. “Black Belt Sheriff” is a stripped-down, emotional tell-all with the same snap and electricity of Hendrix and Havens. “Fawn” and “Destination You” shimmer with the psychedelic funk of Inspiration Information, loud exclamations of uniqueness that were jammed in the back of the closet for far too long. Which is where Wings of Love proves most disappointing. Whatever reasons Shuggie Otis had for hiding from the public eye for so long, his music has suffered for it. What made Shuggie a compelling character in the midst of his 2000 revival was the romanticism of unconformity. Wings of Love is riddled with moments of doubt, and though those often produce thoughtful songs, for Shuggie, it was a time of self-doubt and rediscovery via flimsy capriciousness. His earlier albums had a disregard for what was fashionable, where much ofWings of Love is consumed by it. It’s wonderful to have Shuggie emerge from his own shadow, reinvigorated by his newfound cult fame, but Wings of Love is still trapped in its cast.

Shuggie Otis - Wings of Love [Epic/Legacy; 2013]

Shadows cast long palls. We are often obscured by a singular event, a specific place and time, that comes to define us. Dwarfed by expectation and history, the weight of that moment becomes so burdensome that action must be taken. Some rise to the occasion, step outside of the dark umbra, and own their mark; others shrink further into the void, never to be heard from again.

The latter seemed the history of Johnny Otis Jr. Known as Shuggie to anyone frequenting a blues hall, the guitar virtuoso rode side-by-side with his equally prestigious father. Shuggie defined musical expressionism at a young age, the hero in a string of underage fairy tales of sneaking into clubs so he could accompany his father’s band. As his reputation grew, so did his repertoire. As a member of Snatch And The Poontangs, Shuggie cemented his story by delving into the sexual revolution from its southern roadhouse traditions, bluesmen with no regard for morality plays, speaking to the truth of sex, love, and despair.

Shortly after the detour into “adult blues,” Shuggie holed up in a studio to produce his first full-length, Here Comes Shuggie Otis. Lending much to the boogie blues and soul he played with his father’s ensembles, the album is a blues tour de force lost in the shadow of Clapton solos and Muddy Waters revivalism at the end of the swinging 60s. Follow-up Freedom Flight was far more forward, integrating funk and jazz into Shuggie’s bluesman wails. Its pop tendencies, including the iconic “Strawberry Letter 23,” proved a strong bridge between his past and his future. It would be nearly three years beforeInspiration Information came and went, and though its title track charted, the momentum and creativity generated by Shuggie’s talents — too slow for the mechanism of the music business — began to fade. He became a myth, spoken of quietly. He refused an invite from The Rolling Stones, ignored offerings from Quincy Jones, and shrunk back into the shadow of his father’s projects.

As a resurrection project, Shuggie’s work began resurfacing at the turn of the century. Inspiration Information unleashed a new psychedelic soul on a landscape that was just reawakening to the spirit of 69 after a decade of grunge and bubblegum. “Strawberry Letter 23” became the property of Shuggie and not of the Brothers Johnson. The music was seemingly timeless, unattached to the circumstances from which it was spawned.

Wings of Love, under the cover of Shuggie’s own shadow for nearly 30 years, suffers from lost time. Unlike the greatest movements of his previous albums,Wings of Love’s diversity is its greatest fault, as 14 tracks visit musical fads long forgotten and ill conceived. The 25 years of back catalog spanned by this collection hits the disparate Shuggie influences, but its curation neglects to account for the same nuances and spirit of his work.

The faults are immediate. “Tryin’ to Get Close to You” is ripped from the mid-70s R&B playbook, a mélange of human soul and programmed beats that speaks more to a fad than an emerging trend. The title track is 80s FM pop, the production airy and the sentiment just as empty. “Give Me a Chance” finds Shuggie further appropriating the 80s formula into his work, toss-offs akin to the work of Peebles or The Jets rather than the experimental pop gems Shuggie crafted the previous decade. Where Shuggie once helped forward movements and break barriers, much of Wings of Love finds him directionless, clinging to established norms in an effort to rediscover his creative spark.

But keep listening to Wings of Love and those glimpses of inspiration make themselves known in powerful bursts. “Fireball of Love” harkens back to Here Comes Shuggie Otis, unafraid of unfiltered blues riffs amid a sea of big-band melody and infectious beats. “Black Belt Sheriff” is a stripped-down, emotional tell-all with the same snap and electricity of Hendrix and Havens. “Fawn” and “Destination You” shimmer with the psychedelic funk of Inspiration Information, loud exclamations of uniqueness that were jammed in the back of the closet for far too long.

Which is where Wings of Love proves most disappointing. Whatever reasons Shuggie Otis had for hiding from the public eye for so long, his music has suffered for it. What made Shuggie a compelling character in the midst of his 2000 revival was the romanticism of unconformity. Wings of Love is riddled with moments of doubt, and though those often produce thoughtful songs, for Shuggie, it was a time of self-doubt and rediscovery via flimsy capriciousness. His earlier albums had a disregard for what was fashionable, where much ofWings of Love is consumed by it. It’s wonderful to have Shuggie emerge from his own shadow, reinvigorated by his newfound cult fame, but Wings of Love is still trapped in its cast.

1 month ago  1 note

Ulaan Passerine - Ulaan Passerine [Brave Mysteries; 2013] Two admirable forces joining under the tri-insignia. Both masters at changing direction, masking their scents to stay ahead of the hunters. Those who are always hunted adapt, so it is of no surprise that after a meeting of such prey, they would team up to produce a ward more powerful and spellbinding than their enemies could conjure. Say hello to the latest Steven R. Smith pseudo, Ulaan Passerine. Throughout the span of two calculating tapes, Smith’s newest disguise (often borrowing from past disguises) mixes with the Brave Mysteries brand; that light at the end of the tunnel–just one more barricade, just one more baddie to allude. Ulaan Passerine seems to borrow the lone wolf mentality of Old Skete, though the eerie textures and ominous winds of past Brave Mysteries fair (think upon any Troy Shafer offering–the kindred spirit to Smith’s long-played naming runaround) creep in–and the addition of piano lends Ulaan Passerine a timeless element. Notes are plucked from the icy air, then cast like thorny arrows at would-be trappers. Hexes are thrown to attract and capture the most unruly spirits to fight against the blight of blackness. Like any Smith album, no matter its slight variation in sound and identity, it finds the light amid the dark. It’s an allegory as old as time, but so is Ulaan Passerine. This is ancient knowledge now needed in the fight against the foe of time. Glad to have Smith and Brave Mysteries on our side.

Ulaan Passerine - Ulaan Passerine [Brave Mysteries; 2013]

Two admirable forces joining under the tri-insignia. Both masters at changing direction, masking their scents to stay ahead of the hunters. Those who are always hunted adapt, so it is of no surprise that after a meeting of such prey, they would team up to produce a ward more powerful and spellbinding than their enemies could conjure. Say hello to the latest Steven R. Smith pseudo, Ulaan Passerine. Throughout the span of two calculating tapes, Smith’s newest disguise (often borrowing from past disguises) mixes with the Brave Mysteries brand; that light at the end of the tunnel–just one more barricade, just one more baddie to allude. Ulaan Passerine seems to borrow the lone wolf mentality of Old Skete, though the eerie textures and ominous winds of past Brave Mysteries fair (think upon any Troy Shafer offering–the kindred spirit to Smith’s long-played naming runaround) creep in–and the addition of piano lends Ulaan Passerine a timeless element. Notes are plucked from the icy air, then cast like thorny arrows at would-be trappers. Hexes are thrown to attract and capture the most unruly spirits to fight against the blight of blackness. Like any Smith album, no matter its slight variation in sound and identity, it finds the light amid the dark. It’s an allegory as old as time, but so is Ulaan Passerine. This is ancient knowledge now needed in the fight against the foe of time. Glad to have Smith and Brave Mysteries on our side.

The Dead C/Rangda - split [Ba Da Bing; 2013] I remember that first step into the Sunset. I was invited to witness the emergence of Rangda; to bask in the beginning of something new. I stood in the middle of the club surrounded by Chasny and Corsano, only for Bishop to walk to the stage and the rest follow. Thus began the greatest night in the history of our sport. Of course, the same phenomenon occurred 20 years prior in a small New Zealand hamlet with The Dead C. History has a funny way of repeating itself, but this split from trans-global wunderkinds averts deja vu. Rangda’s half is a more meditative but nonetheless raucous jam, expanding the band’s False Flag transcendental melodies while stripping bare the rigidness of Formerly Extinct. The Dead C…well…each cut is different, a compass to the story of New Zealand experimentation as reinvented by the trio. And as familiar as any Dead C can be, it all feels very different from their lengthy catalog (expounded by “Eusa Kills,” a tip of the cap to the band’s 1989 LP) without losing the directional thread. There are garages and alleys to explore to find the sound needed to complete an idea. Fact of the matter is these two are linked by the bloody bond of restlessness, so sharing a piece of wax seems like the least messy manner in which to squish legends together. So much in common with each other and music’s rich history and yet, no desire to repeat any of it out of social grace. It should be noted that these 6 songs only whet the appetite for what we really want: a Rangda/Dead C super-duper group.

The Dead C/Rangda - split [Ba Da Bing; 2013]

I remember that first step into the Sunset. I was invited to witness the emergence of Rangda; to bask in the beginning of something new. I stood in the middle of the club surrounded by Chasny and Corsano, only for Bishop to walk to the stage and the rest follow. Thus began the greatest night in the history of our sport. Of course, the same phenomenon occurred 20 years prior in a small New Zealand hamlet with The Dead C. History has a funny way of repeating itself, but this split from trans-global wunderkinds averts deja vu. Rangda’s half is a more meditative but nonetheless raucous jam, expanding the band’s False Flag transcendental melodies while stripping bare the rigidness of Formerly Extinct. The Dead C…well…each cut is different, a compass to the story of New Zealand experimentation as reinvented by the trio. And as familiar as any Dead C can be, it all feels very different from their lengthy catalog (expounded by “Eusa Kills,” a tip of the cap to the band’s 1989 LP) without losing the directional thread. There are garages and alleys to explore to find the sound needed to complete an idea. Fact of the matter is these two are linked by the bloody bond of restlessness, so sharing a piece of wax seems like the least messy manner in which to squish legends together. So much in common with each other and music’s rich history and yet, no desire to repeat any of it out of social grace. It should be noted that these 6 songs only whet the appetite for what we really want: a Rangda/Dead C super-duper group.

Loren Connors - The Departing of a Dream [Family Vineyard; 2013] Connors is a master of silent manipulation. As much room as he gives his compositions, it’s the space in between those strokes—be they fragile or mangled—that defines his best work. There’s a museum quality in the air; the echoes of shoes and coughs in an expansive area that has but a few paintings on the wall. But those masters are the best the museum has to offer; even if it is a gallery few ever visit. Beauty in solitude is the essence of Connors, and it is no different with The Departing of a Dream. Reissued by Family Vineyard and expanding the album’s two-part tribute to New York post-9/11, it’s the overarching sentiment of Connors’ honoring Miles Davis that sticks. Mirroring the musical pioneer in which The Departing of a Dream is indebted, the juxtaposition of static and dynamic sound is what propels Connors’ work. What happens when a note is allowed to fade naturally; swallowed by the air in which is reverberates and rattles? It’s the stilted strokes of Monet meeting the elongated breaths of Davis behind a velvet rope, under an elegantly hung spotlight. Much like the masters in which he shares space, The Departing of a Dream is to be consumed as a whole. It’s not for plucking out one idea or sound, but allowing them to work as a wall’s worth of art to tell a complete story. It’s why Connors continues to create new fans in a world with diminished attention spans. Patience is rewarded with breathtaking craftsmanship without losing the fallibility of man. And, you know, it’s just good music bro.

Loren Connors - The Departing of a Dream [Family Vineyard; 2013]

Connors is a master of silent manipulation. As much room as he gives his compositions, it’s the space in between those strokes—be they fragile or mangled—that defines his best work. There’s a museum quality in the air; the echoes of shoes and coughs in an expansive area that has but a few paintings on the wall. But those masters are the best the museum has to offer; even if it is a gallery few ever visit.

Beauty in solitude is the essence of Connors, and it is no different with The Departing of a Dream. Reissued by Family Vineyard and expanding the album’s two-part tribute to New York post-9/11, it’s the overarching sentiment of Connors’ honoring Miles Davis that sticks. Mirroring the musical pioneer in which The Departing of a Dream is indebted, the juxtaposition of static and dynamic sound is what propels Connors’ work. What happens when a note is allowed to fade naturally; swallowed by the air in which is reverberates and rattles? It’s the stilted strokes of Monet meeting the elongated breaths of Davis behind a velvet rope, under an elegantly hung spotlight.

Much like the masters in which he shares space, The Departing of a Dream is to be consumed as a whole. It’s not for plucking out one idea or sound, but allowing them to work as a wall’s worth of art to tell a complete story. It’s why Connors continues to create new fans in a world with diminished attention spans. Patience is rewarded with breathtaking craftsmanship without losing the fallibility of man.

And, you know, it’s just good music bro.

Mike Adams at His Honest Weight - Not No More [Joyful Noise; 2013] Mike Adams is a nice guy. I mean really nice–and though I haven’t had the pleasure to face him like a man and shake his hand, there’s plenty of cut-outs and articles speaking to his philanthropic endeavors. Sadly, there’s not enough speaking praise of his musical endeavors (of which some are tied to his volunteerism, etc.). So let’s remedy that. Looks like Joyful Noise had the same thought, embracing their fellow Hoosier (much like St. Ives and Flannelgraph have). “Not So Much” is one slow roll of summery pop–this flexi series as a means of giving turntables a shot of hooch. But “Not So Much” is a good buzz, not a alcoholic downer. It’s for those days of mid-afternoon beer with friends on a patio or outside your favorite outdoor bar. It’s for casual conversations that turn to raucous laughter after two beers and a plate of wings has been had. Yes, there’s still a slice of Americana to have, whether imbibed in mason jars or shared via clear plastic wonders.

Mike Adams at His Honest Weight - Not No More [Joyful Noise; 2013]

Mike Adams is a nice guy. I mean really nice–and though I haven’t had the pleasure to face him like a man and shake his hand, there’s plenty of cut-outs and articles speaking to his philanthropic endeavors. Sadly, there’s not enough speaking praise of his musical endeavors (of which some are tied to his volunteerism, etc.). So let’s remedy that. Looks like Joyful Noise had the same thought, embracing their fellow Hoosier (much like St. Ives and Flannelgraph have). “Not So Much” is one slow roll of summery pop–this flexi series as a means of giving turntables a shot of hooch. But “Not So Much” is a good buzz, not a alcoholic downer. It’s for those days of mid-afternoon beer with friends on a patio or outside your favorite outdoor bar. It’s for casual conversations that turn to raucous laughter after two beers and a plate of wings has been had. Yes, there’s still a slice of Americana to have, whether imbibed in mason jars or shared via clear plastic wonders.

Teenage Strange - Teenage Strange [GloryHole; 2013] Indiana’s Gloryhole makes no bones about its love of the dirty and hashed up masses of Fountain Square and beyond. The label has grown into a collective of like-minded individuals foaming at the mouth with anger at a stagnate music scene, eager and willing to shake it up at every turn. After two years of turning their neighborhood into a raucous host (including a day-long block party known as CATARACTS), the label seems to be turning its attention to bigger and better things without losing its grasp on down home and half-baked bands better than what your big cities are churning out. So meet Teenage Strange (which locals will be thankful to realize is the new charismatic vortex of ex-Kemps frontman Jared Birden), which amp up the Stuntman Mike/Snake Plissken rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle with the burst of a band free from the bondage of the bong. A-side “Eerie Energy” is reminiscent of your mother’s QOTSA; a song of driving riffs and broken drum heads. The essence of cool drips from each repetitive stroke of the pick, slicked back hair, awesome tats, and torn clothes out on Route 66. The flip, “Zeitgeist” is reminiscent of early Black Rebel Motorcycle club; dangerously close to running off the highway in a haze of black leather and white smoke. Wisely, the 7-inch glows in the dark, so you can see where your cigarette is to light it in the pitch black of the desert or the back allies of SoBro.

Teenage Strange - Teenage Strange [GloryHole; 2013]

Indiana’s Gloryhole makes no bones about its love of the dirty and hashed up masses of Fountain Square and beyond. The label has grown into a collective of like-minded individuals foaming at the mouth with anger at a stagnate music scene, eager and willing to shake it up at every turn. After two years of turning their neighborhood into a raucous host (including a day-long block party known as CATARACTS), the label seems to be turning its attention to bigger and better things without losing its grasp on down home and half-baked bands better than what your big cities are churning out. So meet Teenage Strange (which locals will be thankful to realize is the new charismatic vortex of ex-Kemps frontman Jared Birden), which amp up the Stuntman Mike/Snake Plissken rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle with the burst of a band free from the bondage of the bong. A-side “Eerie Energy” is reminiscent of your mother’s QOTSA; a song of driving riffs and broken drum heads. The essence of cool drips from each repetitive stroke of the pick, slicked back hair, awesome tats, and torn clothes out on Route 66. The flip, “Zeitgeist” is reminiscent of early Black Rebel Motorcycle club; dangerously close to running off the highway in a haze of black leather and white smoke. Wisely, the 7-inch glows in the dark, so you can see where your cigarette is to light it in the pitch black of the desert or the back allies of SoBro.

Mark Lanegan & Duke Garwood - Black Pudding [Ipecac; 2013] The voice of Mark Lanegan has painted a demur portrait; a gothic world clouded by smoke and heavy with forbidden sensuality. Throughout the days of grunge with oft-ignored foursome Screaming Tree through a bevy of solo and collaborative releases, that ebon-drenched larynx has belched forth a graveled croon that is as dark as it is uplifting. We are given a glimpse into history as it happened, not as the victors have scribbled. It’s this ability to tap into the primal–the sense to understand humanity at its most vulnerable–that attracts many to Lanegan’s point-of-view. His visceral descriptions of the physical world leave their mark, but rarely has the melody been more than a secondary emotion to the wrought-iron expositions of the master lyricist. Despite tempered pairings with Greg Dulli, Josh Homme and Isobel Campbell, it’s taken multi-instrumentalist Duke Garwood (a relative unknown to anyone who ignores inserts and booklets) to match the timbre of Lanegan’s soul in song. Black Pudding is thick with the bonds of brotherhood. Garwood’s darkness melds with Lanegan’s mysticism, the pall of forlorn guitars and spectral drones drenching the pair’s first outing in viscous tribulation. But anyone adept at tapping into the human psyche is equally skilled at capturing the hopefulness of despair; the noble pursuit of the silver lining, no matter how obscured. “Cold Molly” is the eye of the storm, a funk-soul-blues dirge disguised as an up-tempo blessing. Much like Dulli tried to conjure with Lanegan in The Gutter Twins, Garwood makes good with a fractured melody as hot New Orleans summer and as cool as a Mississippi delta strut. The western themed “Death Ride” is typical Lanegan imagery, but Garwood’s background din signals the danger approaching. It’s reminiscent of Screaming Trees’ “Gospel Plow,” but far more realistic in its depiction of death than Lanegan’s elder tune. It’s a trick played throughout the album at just the right moments. When the robotic tempo of “Mescalito” threatens to crumble the album’s first half, the ghostly buzz of “Sphinx” recaptures the mood. And though “Cold Molly” doesn’t disturb the story, it does disrupt the ride. But the ethereal “Shade of the Sun” reins both back. The funny thing about history is how often society forgets its implications. Much of the same can be said about Lanegan. Few speak of Screaming Trees in the same company of lesser but highly recognized alterna-acts. A string of deeply personal solo albums are glossed over for his prettier collaborations. Yet Black Pudding is distinctly Lanegan, even as it is accurately Garwood. These two are kin, bonded by context and possessed by valiance. With these men, the past rests in the hands of capable storytellers speaking in allegory and truth. But above all else, Black Pudding is an album of modern times. Doomsayers are well aware of the cliché, Lanegan and Garwood hell bent on not repeating the same mistakes.

Mark Lanegan & Duke Garwood - Black Pudding [Ipecac; 2013]

The voice of Mark Lanegan has painted a demur portrait; a gothic world clouded by smoke and heavy with forbidden sensuality. Throughout the days of grunge with oft-ignored foursome Screaming Tree through a bevy of solo and collaborative releases, that ebon-drenched larynx has belched forth a graveled croon that is as dark as it is uplifting. We are given a glimpse into history as it happened, not as the victors have scribbled.

It’s this ability to tap into the primal–the sense to understand humanity at its most vulnerable–that attracts many to Lanegan’s point-of-view. His visceral descriptions of the physical world leave their mark, but rarely has the melody been more than a secondary emotion to the wrought-iron expositions of the master lyricist.

Despite tempered pairings with Greg Dulli, Josh Homme and Isobel Campbell, it’s taken multi-instrumentalist Duke Garwood (a relative unknown to anyone who ignores inserts and booklets) to match the timbre of Lanegan’s soul in song. Black Pudding is thick with the bonds of brotherhood. Garwood’s darkness melds with Lanegan’s mysticism, the pall of forlorn guitars and spectral drones drenching the pair’s first outing in viscous tribulation.

But anyone adept at tapping into the human psyche is equally skilled at capturing the hopefulness of despair; the noble pursuit of the silver lining, no matter how obscured. “Cold Molly” is the eye of the storm, a funk-soul-blues dirge disguised as an up-tempo blessing. Much like Dulli tried to conjure with Lanegan in The Gutter Twins, Garwood makes good with a fractured melody as hot New Orleans summer and as cool as a Mississippi delta strut. The western themed “Death Ride” is typical Lanegan imagery, but Garwood’s background din signals the danger approaching. It’s reminiscent of Screaming Trees’ “Gospel Plow,” but far more realistic in its depiction of death than Lanegan’s elder tune.

It’s a trick played throughout the album at just the right moments. When the robotic tempo of “Mescalito” threatens to crumble the album’s first half, the ghostly buzz of “Sphinx” recaptures the mood. And though “Cold Molly” doesn’t disturb the story, it does disrupt the ride. But the ethereal “Shade of the Sun” reins both back.

The funny thing about history is how often society forgets its implications. Much of the same can be said about Lanegan. Few speak of Screaming Trees in the same company of lesser but highly recognized alterna-acts. A string of deeply personal solo albums are glossed over for his prettier collaborations. Yet Black Pudding is distinctly Lanegan, even as it is accurately Garwood. These two are kin, bonded by context and possessed by valiance. With these men, the past rests in the hands of capable storytellers speaking in allegory and truth. But above all else, Black Pudding is an album of modern times. Doomsayers are well aware of the cliché, Lanegan and Garwood hell bent on not repeating the same mistakes.

Love Chants - Love Chants EP [Quemada; 2013] My transformation to Aussie zeitgeist is almost complete, but in case my soul had any second guesses… Love Chants is made up of members of Mad Nanna and XxNoBBQxX. Must I repeat myself? What I shan’t repeat is this: Love Chants has little in common with either of their ancestors. This is careful guitar exploration, crafted by a trio (Anthony Guerra, Michael Zulicki, and Matt Earle) that is taking the Loren Connors graveyard isolation and putting it in a lo-fi basement as interpreted by a garage band. Whereas much of Australian garage rock is the sweaty underbelly of small city American rapture–kids carving out their own scenes separate from the blogosphere–Love Chants goes further into the kangaroo pouch by circumventing anything relevant of steady melody or musical thought. Sometimes sounding like beginners at their craft (“Small Jewels,” at least that’s what I can decipher through the chicken scratch), other times in complete control of their deconstructed pace (“Skirts of Rain”), Love Chants are now my everything; a reference point to those lonely hours plugging away in a single room until I got what was in my head just right.

Love Chants - Love Chants EP [Quemada; 2013]

My transformation to Aussie zeitgeist is almost complete, but in case my soul had any second guesses…

Love Chants is made up of members of Mad Nanna and XxNoBBQxX. Must I repeat myself? What I shan’t repeat is this: Love Chants has little in common with either of their ancestors. This is careful guitar exploration, crafted by a trio (Anthony Guerra, Michael Zulicki, and Matt Earle) that is taking the Loren Connors graveyard isolation and putting it in a lo-fi basement as interpreted by a garage band. Whereas much of Australian garage rock is the sweaty underbelly of small city American rapture–kids carving out their own scenes separate from the blogosphere–Love Chants goes further into the kangaroo pouch by circumventing anything relevant of steady melody or musical thought. Sometimes sounding like beginners at their craft (“Small Jewels,” at least that’s what I can decipher through the chicken scratch), other times in complete control of their deconstructed pace (“Skirts of Rain”), Love Chants are now my everything; a reference point to those lonely hours plugging away in a single room until I got what was in my head just right.

Monotonix - Now [Joyful Noise; 2013] You forgot about Monotonix didn’t you? Who can blame you, the band is extinguished, gone, kaput for all intents and purposes. But time doesn’t forget and here, in the now–and oddly on “Now”–the band is giving a warmly received farewell. The minimal bursts of repetitive guitar and the rattling bass still feel energetic. There’s life behind this supposed hideaway, stashed until this particular moment because we need it “Now” more than ever. Yes, a pun. We need those too. And more shirtless hairy gentlemen who care not about coiffed hair and get-ups. We need the rock and Monotonix, even in the afterlife, deliver. And you can only hear it by griping the flexi by its bulbously skinny square–no digital on this series, just the sound produced by a whirling table and needle.

Monotonix - Now [Joyful Noise; 2013]

You forgot about Monotonix didn’t you? Who can blame you, the band is extinguished, gone, kaput for all intents and purposes. But time doesn’t forget and here, in the now–and oddly on “Now”–the band is giving a warmly received farewell. The minimal bursts of repetitive guitar and the rattling bass still feel energetic. There’s life behind this supposed hideaway, stashed until this particular moment because we need it “Now” more than ever. Yes, a pun. We need those too. And more shirtless hairy gentlemen who care not about coiffed hair and get-ups. We need the rock and Monotonix, even in the afterlife, deliver. And you can only hear it by griping the flexi by its bulbously skinny square–no digital on this series, just the sound produced by a whirling table and needle.

Owlfood - Destroyers of the Moon [Behind the Door; 2013] Can you remember the last time you witnessed something truly beautiful? Not in relation to a person or a place–those pock every Instagram and Facebook account from here to eternity–but an event, a happening, or a chance that took your breath away and made you reassess your values? It’s likely you have, and for that Owlfood have the soundtrack for it. Frozen in time, Destroyers of the Moon speaks to the weight demise of the satellite we most take for granted. If the celestial orb were to disappear (say from the CIA blowing it up to show America’s might), don’t focus on the ruined gravitational forces or tidal destruction but on the beauty that a moonlit night provides. That faint glimmer of hope turns to rubble, which turns to anger. These volatile mood shifts caused by such destruction are the same within Destroyers of the Moon. It’s brooding and plodding, but the moon’s removal from our nightly skies would be a gorgeous catastrophe in and of itself. And in those moments of loathsome solitude in the midst of pitch blackness, Owlfood is our new definition of vanity.

Owlfood - Destroyers of the Moon [Behind the Door; 2013]

Can you remember the last time you witnessed something truly beautiful? Not in relation to a person or a place–those pock every Instagram and Facebook account from here to eternity–but an event, a happening, or a chance that took your breath away and made you reassess your values? It’s likely you have, and for that Owlfood have the soundtrack for it. Frozen in time, Destroyers of the Moon speaks to the weight demise of the satellite we most take for granted. If the celestial orb were to disappear (say from the CIA blowing it up to show America’s might), don’t focus on the ruined gravitational forces or tidal destruction but on the beauty that a moonlit night provides. That faint glimmer of hope turns to rubble, which turns to anger. These volatile mood shifts caused by such destruction are the same within Destroyers of the Moon. It’s brooding and plodding, but the moon’s removal from our nightly skies would be a gorgeous catastrophe in and of itself. And in those moments of loathsome solitude in the midst of pitch blackness, Owlfood is our new definition of vanity.

Various Artists - Your Victorian Breasts [three:four, 2013] Compilations are often a trick of the senses. Much like those stacks of old mix tapes obscured by boxes brimming with the sundries of fad, the art of curating music to fit a motif, motive, or mood is often left to slap dashed playlists on digital devices or keenly attuned labels. This is the latter, three:four now a stalwart of pitting artists together on splits and comps with little worry that such arrangements will fail. Your Victorian Breasts does not disappoint due to the carefree attitude of its creation. Expanding upon the label’s four-year old Err on the Good Sidecompilation, this double vinyl beast double the prequel’s content and is just as weighty and significant in capturing tossed aside and forgotten gems from new and old. The one-two of Ignatz and Filipe Felizardo, both playfully deconstructing the guitar, all but dispels concerns in just a few moments of A-side bliss. But that doesn’t exclude multiple emerging styles. Side B explores the multitudes of drone, from Robert Hampson’s atmospherics to Robert Tellier-Craig’s spatial. Sides C and D relax their grip, showcasing the softer side of experimentation. The loudest point is Syracuse Ear (featuring drummer extraordinaire, Chris Corsano), but it’s lost at sea among the gentle fluctuations of Circuit Des Yeux and Raajmahal. Your Victorian Breasts proves that motif, motive, and mood can all be part of one compilation, but it’s a feat in daft pacing and maneuvered patience. The payoff is slow but steady, and with each turn of the long-player, a new discovery awaits.

Various Artists - Your Victorian Breasts [three:four, 2013]

Compilations are often a trick of the senses. Much like those stacks of old mix tapes obscured by boxes brimming with the sundries of fad, the art of curating music to fit a motif, motive, or mood is often left to slap dashed playlists on digital devices or keenly attuned labels.

This is the latter, three:four now a stalwart of pitting artists together on splits and comps with little worry that such arrangements will fail. Your Victorian Breasts does not disappoint due to the carefree attitude of its creation. Expanding upon the label’s four-year old Err on the Good Sidecompilation, this double vinyl beast double the prequel’s content and is just as weighty and significant in capturing tossed aside and forgotten gems from new and old. The one-two of Ignatz and Filipe Felizardo, both playfully deconstructing the guitar, all but dispels concerns in just a few moments of A-side bliss.

But that doesn’t exclude multiple emerging styles. Side B explores the multitudes of drone, from Robert Hampson’s atmospherics to Robert Tellier-Craig’s spatial. Sides C and D relax their grip, showcasing the softer side of experimentation. The loudest point is Syracuse Ear (featuring drummer extraordinaire, Chris Corsano), but it’s lost at sea among the gentle fluctuations of Circuit Des Yeux and Raajmahal.

Your Victorian Breasts proves that motif, motive, and mood can all be part of one compilation, but it’s a feat in daft pacing and maneuvered patience. The payoff is slow but steady, and with each turn of the long-player, a new discovery awaits.

J Fernandez - No Luck [Lake Paradise; 2013] The clamor toward the genius of Jon Brion has quieted just as quickly as it rose, and though Brion’s talents are no less palpable, it does seem his star has diminished with his mainstream dalliances. So there are those who search out his worthy successor. And though I would not want to put that pressure on J. Fernandez, on the strength of the two lovely pop gems encompassed on this 7-inch, his ascension to those lofty heights and weekly showcases at a smoky, mythical lounge do not seem impossible markers. A string of small releases and some solid pub are the rage no matter the talent, but that Fernandez has an array of sound and flexible ideas easily demonstrated over just two low-key songs make him a must-watch. Like, moving to Chicago and stalking him. David O. Russell and Kanye will come calling! WHY DON’T YOU RETURN MY LETTERS? I CAN SEE YOU!

J Fernandez - No Luck [Lake Paradise; 2013]

The clamor toward the genius of Jon Brion has quieted just as quickly as it rose, and though Brion’s talents are no less palpable, it does seem his star has diminished with his mainstream dalliances. So there are those who search out his worthy successor. And though I would not want to put that pressure on J. Fernandez, on the strength of the two lovely pop gems encompassed on this 7-inch, his ascension to those lofty heights and weekly showcases at a smoky, mythical lounge do not seem impossible markers. A string of small releases and some solid pub are the rage no matter the talent, but that Fernandez has an array of sound and flexible ideas easily demonstrated over just two low-key songs make him a must-watch. Like, moving to Chicago and stalking him. David O. Russell and Kanye will come calling! WHY DON’T YOU RETURN MY LETTERS? I CAN SEE YOU!

Dream Worlds - Cold Black Ragas for Love of All Forms [Kimberly Dawn; 2013] As someone who uses a lot of words endlessly to describe sound for people who like to read such things, Dylan Simon has undercut me with the title of his latest. Cold Black Ragas for Love of All Forms gets to the heart of the matter. The two compositions are Middle Eastern-influenced, using but a vintage EML 101, hurdy gurdy, and farfisa. The vibe, again, is captured in the title. It’s a bleak, blustery world wherein meditation is to keep warm amid a barren world. It’s the quiet after the mushroom cloud, Simon contemplating the ends of the earth after they have been obliterated by a world too corrupt and fanatical to see what it’s doing to itself. But in this center–this eye of the mystical storm–there is hope despite the shroud. For in this dreary future, there is the rebirth of love. IT’S THERE IN THE TITLE! Dream Worlds may seem desolate but repeated listens find an enriching balance between zen drones and chilly isolation. Only in our center can we see the world for what it truly is, and sometimes it takes the most peaceful of us to slap the faces of power hungry fascists. Simon may be doing so from afar under the guise of “astral projection” but he’s really giving the finger to the plutocracy that would rather watch it burn that build it up.

Dream Worlds - Cold Black Ragas for Love of All Forms [Kimberly Dawn; 2013]

As someone who uses a lot of words endlessly to describe sound for people who like to read such things, Dylan Simon has undercut me with the title of his latest. Cold Black Ragas for Love of All Forms gets to the heart of the matter. The two compositions are Middle Eastern-influenced, using but a vintage EML 101, hurdy gurdy, and farfisa. The vibe, again, is captured in the title. It’s a bleak, blustery world wherein meditation is to keep warm amid a barren world. It’s the quiet after the mushroom cloud, Simon contemplating the ends of the earth after they have been obliterated by a world too corrupt and fanatical to see what it’s doing to itself. But in this center–this eye of the mystical storm–there is hope despite the shroud. For in this dreary future, there is the rebirth of love. IT’S THERE IN THE TITLE! Dream Worlds may seem desolate but repeated listens find an enriching balance between zen drones and chilly isolation. Only in our center can we see the world for what it truly is, and sometimes it takes the most peaceful of us to slap the faces of power hungry fascists. Simon may be doing so from afar under the guise of “astral projection” but he’s really giving the finger to the plutocracy that would rather watch it burn that build it up.

Ex Con - Ex Con [Bon Voyage; 2013] I miss the days of drugs and booze inching into lower class noise. The sound of people sleeping on sticky floors, pub crawling for a cigarette butt and day old dumpster dives. This is the world of Ex Con–three songs of wino wails from Joanna Nilson surround her in musical desperation. And that’s just “Cuda ‘82,” though the other two tracks fail to deviate from the same urgency. And for that, we should hail Ex Con as the fifth coming of brash trash. A band that is figuring out how to play as it tours the dirty circuit for bacchanal pleasure. Glory holes and acid washed glory all unfurled on life’s stage. Cozy up to Ex Con like your empty gin bottle. Hold it tight. Never let it go.

Ex Con - Ex Con [Bon Voyage; 2013]

I miss the days of drugs and booze inching into lower class noise. The sound of people sleeping on sticky floors, pub crawling for a cigarette butt and day old dumpster dives. This is the world of Ex Con–three songs of wino wails from Joanna Nilson surround her in musical desperation. And that’s just “Cuda ‘82,” though the other two tracks fail to deviate from the same urgency. And for that, we should hail Ex Con as the fifth coming of brash trash. A band that is figuring out how to play as it tours the dirty circuit for bacchanal pleasure. Glory holes and acid washed glory all unfurled on life’s stage. Cozy up to Ex Con like your empty gin bottle. Hold it tight. Never let it go.

Shuggie Otis - Wings of Love [Epic/Legacy; 2013] Shadows cast long palls. We are often obscured by a singular event, a specific place and time, that comes to define us. Dwarfed by expectation and history, the weight of that moment becomes so burdensome that action must be taken. Some rise to the occasion, step outside of the dark umbra, and own their mark; others shrink further into the void, never to be heard from again. The latter seemed the history of Johnny Otis Jr. Known as Shuggie to anyone frequenting a blues hall, the guitar virtuoso rode side-by-side with his equally prestigious father. Shuggie defined musical expressionism at a young age, the hero in a string of underage fairy tales of sneaking into clubs so he could accompany his father’s band. As his reputation grew, so did his repertoire. As a member of Snatch And The Poontangs, Shuggie cemented his story by delving into the sexual revolution from its southern roadhouse traditions, bluesmen with no regard for morality plays, speaking to the truth of sex, love, and despair. Shortly after the detour into “adult blues,” Shuggie holed up in a studio to produce his first full-length, Here Comes Shuggie Otis. Lending much to the boogie blues and soul he played with his father’s ensembles, the album is a blues tour de force lost in the shadow of Clapton solos and Muddy Waters revivalism at the end of the swinging 60s. Follow-up Freedom Flight was far more forward, integrating funk and jazz into Shuggie’s bluesman wails. Its pop tendencies, including the iconic “Strawberry Letter 23,” proved a strong bridge between his past and his future. It would be nearly three years beforeInspiration Information came and went, and though its title track charted, the momentum and creativity generated by Shuggie’s talents — too slow for the mechanism of the music business — began to fade. He became a myth, spoken of quietly. He refused an invite from The Rolling Stones, ignored offerings from Quincy Jones, and shrunk back into the shadow of his father’s projects. As a resurrection project, Shuggie’s work began resurfacing at the turn of the century. Inspiration Information unleashed a new psychedelic soul on a landscape that was just reawakening to the spirit of 69 after a decade of grunge and bubblegum. “Strawberry Letter 23” became the property of Shuggie and not of the Brothers Johnson. The music was seemingly timeless, unattached to the circumstances from which it was spawned. Wings of Love, under the cover of Shuggie’s own shadow for nearly 30 years, suffers from lost time. Unlike the greatest movements of his previous albums,Wings of Love’s diversity is its greatest fault, as 14 tracks visit musical fads long forgotten and ill conceived. The 25 years of back catalog spanned by this collection hits the disparate Shuggie influences, but its curation neglects to account for the same nuances and spirit of his work. The faults are immediate. “Tryin’ to Get Close to You” is ripped from the mid-70s R&B playbook, a mélange of human soul and programmed beats that speaks more to a fad than an emerging trend. The title track is 80s FM pop, the production airy and the sentiment just as empty. “Give Me a Chance” finds Shuggie further appropriating the 80s formula into his work, toss-offs akin to the work of Peebles or The Jets rather than the experimental pop gems Shuggie crafted the previous decade. Where Shuggie once helped forward movements and break barriers, much of Wings of Love finds him directionless, clinging to established norms in an effort to rediscover his creative spark. But keep listening to Wings of Love and those glimpses of inspiration make themselves known in powerful bursts. “Fireball of Love” harkens back to Here Comes Shuggie Otis, unafraid of unfiltered blues riffs amid a sea of big-band melody and infectious beats. “Black Belt Sheriff” is a stripped-down, emotional tell-all with the same snap and electricity of Hendrix and Havens. “Fawn” and “Destination You” shimmer with the psychedelic funk of Inspiration Information, loud exclamations of uniqueness that were jammed in the back of the closet for far too long. Which is where Wings of Love proves most disappointing. Whatever reasons Shuggie Otis had for hiding from the public eye for so long, his music has suffered for it. What made Shuggie a compelling character in the midst of his 2000 revival was the romanticism of unconformity. Wings of Love is riddled with moments of doubt, and though those often produce thoughtful songs, for Shuggie, it was a time of self-doubt and rediscovery via flimsy capriciousness. His earlier albums had a disregard for what was fashionable, where much ofWings of Love is consumed by it. It’s wonderful to have Shuggie emerge from his own shadow, reinvigorated by his newfound cult fame, but Wings of Love is still trapped in its cast.

Shuggie Otis - Wings of Love [Epic/Legacy; 2013]

Shadows cast long palls. We are often obscured by a singular event, a specific place and time, that comes to define us. Dwarfed by expectation and history, the weight of that moment becomes so burdensome that action must be taken. Some rise to the occasion, step outside of the dark umbra, and own their mark; others shrink further into the void, never to be heard from again.

The latter seemed the history of Johnny Otis Jr. Known as Shuggie to anyone frequenting a blues hall, the guitar virtuoso rode side-by-side with his equally prestigious father. Shuggie defined musical expressionism at a young age, the hero in a string of underage fairy tales of sneaking into clubs so he could accompany his father’s band. As his reputation grew, so did his repertoire. As a member of Snatch And The Poontangs, Shuggie cemented his story by delving into the sexual revolution from its southern roadhouse traditions, bluesmen with no regard for morality plays, speaking to the truth of sex, love, and despair.

Shortly after the detour into “adult blues,” Shuggie holed up in a studio to produce his first full-length, Here Comes Shuggie Otis. Lending much to the boogie blues and soul he played with his father’s ensembles, the album is a blues tour de force lost in the shadow of Clapton solos and Muddy Waters revivalism at the end of the swinging 60s. Follow-up Freedom Flight was far more forward, integrating funk and jazz into Shuggie’s bluesman wails. Its pop tendencies, including the iconic “Strawberry Letter 23,” proved a strong bridge between his past and his future. It would be nearly three years beforeInspiration Information came and went, and though its title track charted, the momentum and creativity generated by Shuggie’s talents — too slow for the mechanism of the music business — began to fade. He became a myth, spoken of quietly. He refused an invite from The Rolling Stones, ignored offerings from Quincy Jones, and shrunk back into the shadow of his father’s projects.

As a resurrection project, Shuggie’s work began resurfacing at the turn of the century. Inspiration Information unleashed a new psychedelic soul on a landscape that was just reawakening to the spirit of 69 after a decade of grunge and bubblegum. “Strawberry Letter 23” became the property of Shuggie and not of the Brothers Johnson. The music was seemingly timeless, unattached to the circumstances from which it was spawned.

Wings of Love, under the cover of Shuggie’s own shadow for nearly 30 years, suffers from lost time. Unlike the greatest movements of his previous albums,Wings of Love’s diversity is its greatest fault, as 14 tracks visit musical fads long forgotten and ill conceived. The 25 years of back catalog spanned by this collection hits the disparate Shuggie influences, but its curation neglects to account for the same nuances and spirit of his work.

The faults are immediate. “Tryin’ to Get Close to You” is ripped from the mid-70s R&B playbook, a mélange of human soul and programmed beats that speaks more to a fad than an emerging trend. The title track is 80s FM pop, the production airy and the sentiment just as empty. “Give Me a Chance” finds Shuggie further appropriating the 80s formula into his work, toss-offs akin to the work of Peebles or The Jets rather than the experimental pop gems Shuggie crafted the previous decade. Where Shuggie once helped forward movements and break barriers, much of Wings of Love finds him directionless, clinging to established norms in an effort to rediscover his creative spark.

But keep listening to Wings of Love and those glimpses of inspiration make themselves known in powerful bursts. “Fireball of Love” harkens back to Here Comes Shuggie Otis, unafraid of unfiltered blues riffs amid a sea of big-band melody and infectious beats. “Black Belt Sheriff” is a stripped-down, emotional tell-all with the same snap and electricity of Hendrix and Havens. “Fawn” and “Destination You” shimmer with the psychedelic funk of Inspiration Information, loud exclamations of uniqueness that were jammed in the back of the closet for far too long.

Which is where Wings of Love proves most disappointing. Whatever reasons Shuggie Otis had for hiding from the public eye for so long, his music has suffered for it. What made Shuggie a compelling character in the midst of his 2000 revival was the romanticism of unconformity. Wings of Love is riddled with moments of doubt, and though those often produce thoughtful songs, for Shuggie, it was a time of self-doubt and rediscovery via flimsy capriciousness. His earlier albums had a disregard for what was fashionable, where much ofWings of Love is consumed by it. It’s wonderful to have Shuggie emerge from his own shadow, reinvigorated by his newfound cult fame, but Wings of Love is still trapped in its cast.

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